You damned rascal," raved Freckles, "be fighting before I forget the laws of a gintlemin's game and split your dirty head with me stick!" Wessner backed away, mumbling, "But I don't want to hurt you, Freckles!" "Oh, don't you!" raged the boy, now fairly frothing.

"Well, you ain't resembling me none, for I'm itching like death to git me fingers in the face of you." He danced up, and as Wessner lunged in self-defense, ducked under his arm as a bantam and punched him in the pit of the stomach so that he doubled with a groan.

Before Wessner could straighten himself, Freckles was on him, fighting like the wildest fury that ever left the beautiful island.

The Dutchman dealt thundering blows that sometimes landed and sent Freckles reeling, and sometimes missed, while he went plunging into the swale with the impetus of them.

Freckles could not strike with half Wessner's force, but he could land three blows to the Dutchman's one.
It was here that the boy's days of alert watching on the line, the perpetual swinging of the heavy cudgel, and the endurance of all weather stood him in good stead; for he was tough, and agile.