"Do you mean this?" he asked.
"Ah shohly do. Are you afraid o' me?"
That, of course, settled matters. The thing was not a joke, and
Englishman or nigger--black, green, white, or gray--the plot must
be licked forthwith and in accordance with the rules.
Crothers spat into his hands, while Joe Byng folded up his blouse
and knelt on it. He eyed his antagonist for at least a minute, summing
him up and ignoring none of the woolly-headed one's physical advantages
in weight and strength, in height and reach, in being used to the
climate and the glare, the odds were all with Hassan Ah. Then he
sized up the moral odds; and though a biased audience might be at
first supposed to weigh against him too, the sight of all those Arabs
waiting to see him beaten roused his fighting dander.
"Do you represent the bloke that spat on us two men?" asked Crothers.
"Ah represent maself! Ah'm English! Ah fight English, and Ah'll
prove it!"
"Aw, wade into him!" advised Joe Byng. "London Prize Rules--no
time called until a man's down. Go on, Curley--lead!"
"Do you agree?" asked Crothers.
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