I believe I should have whipped the cadaverous
boy. I had suffered his foul kicks and borne him to the ground; in a
second I should have planted him fairly on his back, but his brother,
like him a lank, wiry lad and singly more than my match, ran at me. My
head swam beneath his blows, and I released my almost vanquished enemy
to face the new foe with upraised fists. Then Tim came. A black head
shot between me and my towering assailant. It caught him full in the
middle; he doubled like a staple and with a cry of pain toppled into
the snow. This gave me a brief respite to compel my fallen enemy to
capitulate, and when I turned from him, his brother was still
staggering about in drunken fashion, gasping and crying, "Foul!" Tim
did not know what he meant, but was standing alert, with head lowered,
ready to charge again at the first sign of renewed attack. He knew
neither "fight foul" nor "fight fair"; he knew only a brother in
trouble, and he had come to him in his best might.
That was the real Tim!
"I guess me and you can whip most anybody, Mark," he said, as he looked
up at me from his silly spelling-book that day.
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