When two men fight who don't know how to use their hands,
they stand a show of knocking each other about a lot.
I got some awful thumps, but mostly on the body. Jimmy Nowlett
began to get excited and jump round -- he was an excitable little fellow.

`Fight! you ----!' he yelled. `Why don't you fight? That ain't fightin'.
Fight, and don't try to murder each other. Use your crimson hands or, by God,
I'll chip you! Fight, or I'll blanky well bullock-whip the pair of you;'
then his language got awful. They said we went like windmills,
and that nearly every one of the blows we made was enough to kill a bullock
if it had got home. Jimmy stopped us once, but they held him back.

Presently I went down pretty flat, but the blow was well up on the head and
didn't matter much -- I had a good thick skull. And I had one good eye yet.

`For God's sake, hit him!' whispered Jack -- he was trembling like a leaf.
`Don't mind what I told you. I wish I was fighting him myself!
Get a blow home, for God's sake! Make a good show this round
and I'll stop the fight.'

That showed how little even Jack, my old mate, understood me.

I had the Bushman up in me now, and wasn't going to be beaten
while I could think. I was wonderfully cool, and learning to fight.
There's nothing like a fight to teach a man. I was thinking fast,
and learning more in three seconds than Jack's sparring could have taught me
in three weeks. People think that blows hurt in a fight, but they don't --
not till afterwards. I fancy that a fighting man, if he isn't altogether
an animal, suffers more mentally than he does physically.