n' you 'fraid to fight ME, who ees
greates' fightin' man in all dees countree! Sapristi! Why you no hit
Concombre Bateese, m'sieu? Why you no hit ze greates' fightin' man w'at
ees--"

David did not hear the rest. The opportunity was too tempting. He
swung, and with a huge grunt the gorilla-like body of Concombre Bateese
rolled over that of the chief of the Boulains. This time Carrigan did
not wait, but followed up so closely that the half-breed had scarcely
gathered the crook out of his knees when another blow on the jaw sent
him into the sand again. Three times he tried the experiment of
regaining his feet, and three times he was knocked down. After the last
blow he raised himself groggily to a sitting posture, and there he
remained, blinking like a stunned pig, with his big hands clutching in
the sand. He stared up unseeingly at Carrigan, who waited over him, and
then stupidly at the transfixed cordon of men, whose eyes were bulging
and who were holding their breath in the astonishment of this miracle
which had descended upon them. They heard Bateese muttering something
incoherent as his head wobbled, and St. Pierre himself seemed to hear
it, for he stirred and raised himself slowly, until he also was sitting
in the sand, staring at Bateese.

Carrigan picked up his shirt, and the riverman who had brought him from
the bateau returned with him to the canoe. There was no demonstration
behind them. To David himself the whole thing had been an amazing
surprise, and he was not at all reluctant to leave as quickly as his
dignity would permit, before some other of St. Pierre's people offered
to put a further test upon his prowess. He wanted to laugh. He wanted
to thank God at the top of his voice for the absurd run of luck that
had made his triumph not only easy but utterly complete. He had
expected to win, but he had also expected a terrific fight before the
last blow was struck. And there had been no fight! He was returning to
the bateau without a scratch, his hair scarcely ruffled, and he had
defeated not only St. Pierre, but the giant half-breed as well! It was
inconceivable--and yet it had happened; a veritable burlesque, an
opera-bouffe affair that might turn quickly into a tragedy if either
St. Pierre or Concombre Bateese guessed the truth of it. For in that
event he might have to face them again, with the god of luck playing
fairly, and he was honest enough with himself to confess that the idea
no longer held either