"Do you know the game?"

"A little."

"Worry him and wait till he loses his head--remember, now."

"All right," said Crittenden, cheerfully, and turned and faced Reynolds,
smiling.

"Gawd," said Abe Long. "He's one o' the fellows that laugh when they're
fightin'. They're worse than the cryin' sort--a sight worse."

The prophecy in the soldier's tone soon came true. The smile never left
Crittenden's face, even when it was so bruised up that smiling was
difficult; but the onlookers knew that the spirit of the smile was still
there. Blackford himself was smiling now. Crittenden struck but for one
place at first--Reynolds's nose, which was naturally large and red,
because he could reach it every time he led out. The nose swelled and
still reddened, and Reynolds's small black eyes narrowed and flamed with
a wicked light. He fought with his skill at first, but those maddening
taps on his nose made him lose his head altogether in the sixth round,
and he senselessly rushed at Crittenden with lowered head, like a sheep.
Crittenden took him sidewise on his jaw as he came, and stepped aside.
Reynolds pitched to the ground heavily, and Crittenden bent over him.

"You let that boy alone," he said, in a low voice, and then aloud and
calmly:

"I don't like this, but it's in deference to your customs. I don't call