"Go to hell, you pock-marked son-of-a-scut! Where'd _you_ steal your
whiskey?"
For five seconds Kennedy thought he was dreaming. Then, convinced that
he was awake, an Irishman scorned and insulted, he dashed in to the
attack. Both fists shot out from the brawny shoulders; both missed the
agile dodger; then off went the blanket, and with two lean, red, sinewy
arms the Sioux had "locked his foeman round," and the two were straining
and swaying in a magnificent grapple. At arms' length Pat could easily
have had the best of it, for the Indian never boxes; but, in a bear hug
and a wrestle, all chances favored the Sioux. Cursing and straining,
honors even on both for a while, Connaught and wild Wyoming strove for
the mastery. Whiskey is a wonderful starter but a mighty poor stayer of
a fight. Kennedy loosed his grip from time to time to batter wildly with
his clinched fists at such sections of Sioux anatomy as he could reach;
but, at range so close, his blows lacked both swing and steam, and fell
harmless on sinewy back and lean, muscular flanks. Then he tried a
Galway hitch and trip, but his lithe antagonist knew a trick worth ten
of that. Kennedy tried many a time next day to satisfactorily account
for it, but never with success.
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