In a moment the sticks were clattering merrily together, the lad
hesitating not a whit, for he felt sure that he was at least a match
for the other. George Fairburn had ever been an adept at all school
games, and had spent many a leisure hour at singlestick. In vain did
Bill endeavour to bring down his stick with furious whack upon the
youngster's scalp; his blow was unfailingly parried. It was soon
evident to the man that the boy was playing with him, and when twice
or thrice he received a rap on his shoulder, his arm, his knuckles
even, his fury got quite beyond his control, and he struck out blindly
and viciously, forcing the lad backwards towards the edge of the
wharf.

But Fairburn was not to be taken in that style. Slipping agilely out
of the way, he planted another blow, this time on his opponent's head.
In a trice Bill threw down his cudgel and, raising his heavy boot,
endeavoured to administer a vicious kick. It was time to take to more
effective tactics, and while the man's leg was poised in the air,
George put in a thwack that made his skull resound, and threw him
quite off his already unstable balance. Bill fell to the ground and
lay there stunned, a roar of laughter hailing the exploit, with shouts
of, "Thrashed by a lad; that's a grand come off for Bill Hutchinson!"

George now had time to look about him. He found that the enemy,
whoever they might be, had been beaten off, and the crew of the
Fairburn brig was in possession of the landing-stage.

"What is it all about, Jack?" he inquired of the man to whose rescue
he had come.