indomitable. There was something of the ancient Roman about the whole
cast of his face which, combined with that high British bearing, made him
undeniably remarkable. Those who looked at him once generally turned to
look again.

One of the spectators--a burly Australian farmer--pushed forward from the
throng and touched his arm. "Look here, my son!" he said in an undertone.
"You've no business here, and no call to fight whatever. Clear out of
it--quick! Savvy? I'll cover your tracks."

The boy drew himself up with a haughty movement. Plainly for the moment
he resented the advice. But the next very suddenly he smiled.

"Thanks! Don't trouble! I can hold my own and a bit over. There's no
great difficulty in downing a drunken brute like that."

"Don't you be too cock-sure!" the farmer warned him. "He's a heavy
weight, and he's licked bigger men than you when he's been in just the
state he's in now."

But the English boy only laughed, and turned to follow his adversary.

Every man present pressed after him. A well-sustained fight, though an
event of no uncommon occurrence, was a form of entertainment that never
failed to attract. They crowded out to the back premises in a body,
unhindered by any in authority.

A dingy backyard behind the house furnished ground for the fray. Here the
spectators gathered in a ring around an arc of light thrown by a
stable-lamp over the door, and the man they called Samson proceeded with