# When Titans Drive/Chapter 5

pp. 9–11.
CHAPTER IV.
FIGHTING FOUL.
HALF stunned though he was, Bob still had the wit to fling himself swiftly to one side, and he did so with such quick, intuitive agility that the long, sharp spikes of Schaeffer’s shoe barely grazed the flesh of his thigh.
Bob Bainbridge’s brain was cleared with the thoroughness and rapidity of an electric shock. He leaped to his feet just as the foreman tripped over Joe Moose’s deftly extended foot, and crashed headlong to the ground.
“Get up, you cur!” cried Bainbridge, as he jerked off the encumbering Mackinaw and tossed it from him. “Get up and take what’s coming to you!”
He was filled with the sudden, fierce, elemental joy of physical combat. For what seemed an eternity he had been holding himself in check by sheer will power, and now the relief of handling with bare fists this fellow who had played such a contemptible trick upon him was indescribable.
Schaeffer was on his feet like a cat, and came at Bainbridge with a rush. Bob side-stepped, swinging with his right at the drive boss’ ribs. To his astonishment the blow was blocked with the cleverness of a professional. An instant later Schaeffer whirled like a Dervish, and again his opponent felt the tearing of those spikes in the flesh of his left leg as he went staggering to both knees.
The surprise of discovering that Schaeffer could box scientifically was undoubtedly what checked Bob, and gave the fellow a chance to get in that second foul kick. The touch of those spikes, the realization that a man who could fight fairly and squarely was low enough to resort to such disgraceful tactics, made Bainbridge see red. Whether the Indian interfered again in his behalf he could not tell. He only knew that he was on his feet once more, fighting instinctively, and fairly overwhelming his opponent with a series of rushes which there was no withstanding. Schaeffer blocked them as best he could, depending a lot on clever footwork, and waited for his chance. It seemed certain that Bainbridge would soon let up and take things easier, and then it would be possible for the tricky riverman to use some of the other fouls of which he seemed to be a master.
The moment Bob came to his senses he did cut down his steam considerably. No human being could keep up that speed for any length of time and hope for victory, and Bainbridge meant to be victorious in this struggle. Even though Schaeffer possessed the skill of a champion, he must be beaten in some way, for the thought of succumbing to a treacherous cur like this was intolerable.
The fight which followed was a strange one. Bainbridge had never known anything like it in all his varied experience as a boxer. His opponent possessed exceptional skill in the art; he would, in fact, have been a hard man to defeat in the conventional ring. Add to this a knowledge of fouling which was simply extraordinary, and it will be seen what sort of an antagonist he was.
The mere mental strain involved was exhausting. Not only had Bob the thousand legitimate devices of the ring to look out for, but he never knew when to expect a vicious jab below the belt, or a nasty butt from the head. And always in the back of his mind was a fear that those murderous spikes might at any moment strike deeply, maimingly at the vital spot for which they had been aimed twice before.
By this time, of course, every “river hog” within sight had raced up, and the combatants were surrounded by a ring of eager spectators, several deep, which swayed and moved and billowed out elastically as the fight progressed. A number of them were evidently in sympathy with Schaeffer, and kept urging him to go in and win, but the majority remained silent save for occasional muttered ejaculations when a particularly clever or vicious blow struck home. Moose, his small black eyes glistening, but otherwise as stolid and unmoved as ever, managed constantly to retain his position in the front row.
For a long time Bainbridge kept his opponent in hand. Always the strain of waiting, expecting, planning to meet the unknown foul, was uppermost in his mind, to the exclusion of almost everything else. He knew in an intuitive sort of way that he was fighting well. He had landed several blows which staggered the man, and the fellow’s face, from which Bob never for an instant withdrew his eyes, was cut and bleeding. That proved little, however. He was evidently the sort that could take any amount of punishment, and come up for more. His wind seemed to be quite as good as Bob’s, and at length the latter was conscious of a single flash of doubt regarding the issue.
What if he should not win, as he had determined in the beginning? What if Schaeffer should, by fair means or foul, manage to knock him out? It would not be like an ordinary knock-out—simply the end of a fairly fought contest to decide which of two men is the better scrapper. He would be helpless for a space, and in the power of this cur who had thus far stopped at nothing. Moose could accomplish little on his behalf when opposed by the crowd of spectators, all of whom seemed, from what Bainbridge had caught of their comments, to be on Schaeffer’s side.
The thought of what might happen was not a pleasant one, and possibly it was that which led to Bainbridge’s undoing. He had so far instinctively avoided clinches as being favorable to fouls, but now, with his mind for a second partially distracted, after delivering a left-hand jab he did not spring back as swiftly as he might have done. The riverman took instant advantage of the chance, and leaped forward, gripping Bob’s wrist. In an instant Bainbridge had wrenched it away, but not too soon to prevent that close contact which he felt to be so dangerous.
“He’ll try something dirty now,” flashed through Bob’s brain. “I knew it! No, you don’t—now.”
Just in time he saw Schaeffer’s left knee suddenly jerked up and forward. Like a flash he leaped to one side, his whole mind intent on thwarting the intended trick, and so he fell for a move which would never ordinarily have bothered him.
A clenched fist, hard and compact almost as a stone, thudded solidly on the very point of his jaw. Bainbridge went suddenly limp, slipping noiselessly to the ground.