"As you say," replied the father, and for the next five minutes Barry
had no reason to complain of soft work, for his father went after him
with all the fight that was in him, so that in spite of a vigorous
defence the son was forced to take refuge in a runaway game.

"Now you're going!" shouted the son, making a fierce counter with his
right to a hard driven left, which he side-stepped. It was a fatal
exposure. Like the dart of a snake the right hand hook got him below the
jaw, and he was hurled breathless on the couch at the side of the room.

"Got you now!" said his father.

"Not quite yet," cried Barry. Like a cat he was on his feet, breathing
deep breaths, dodging about, fighting for time.

"Enough!" cried his father, putting down his hands.

"Play up!" shouted Barry, who was rapidly recovering his wind. "No soft
work. Watch out!"

Again the father was on guard, while Barry, who seemed to have drawn
upon some secret source of strength, came at him with a whirlwind
attack, feinting, jabbing, swinging, hooking, till finally he landed a
short half arm on the jaw, which staggered his father against the wall.

"Pax!" cried the young man. "I have all I want."

"Great!" said his father. "I believe you could fight, boy, if you were
forced to."