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Show toe he drew a circle which conformed to his concept of a "ring" for formal fighting. Like a referee he instructed us: no low blows or punches in the face or eye-gouging. He swore us not to tell our parents, and a bloody nose or black eye would give us away. I couldn't see how a case of vandalism should lead to his manner of reaching a just decision. But at eleven years and in righteous wrath I wanted to get at Bill more than anything else. We squared away and started punching. With a fierce rush I drove my opponent out of the circle. Bill fought back. Referee Lance rode herd on us, shoving us back into the ring. With no tactics of defense we pounded each other as if we were punching bags. There were no rounds. How long we pummeled each other I can't guess. We must have been evenly matched because there were no knockdowns. Something was, however, wrong. From stories I'd read in THE AMERICAN BOY, Bill should have fought villainously, low blows, rabbit punches, kicks, toe-stompings. He did not. Fighting in a good cause I should have felt the strength of ten flood my arteries and glands. I did not. I was hard pressed, and he was no larger or older than I. He also fought as though armed with righteous wrath. We struggled until dead tired. Finally we simply stood there panting, glaring at each other, our arms hanging as though with a weight on every finger. No reserve to summon for one last rally. With shame I confess it: I was relieved when Lance declared the bout a draw-all demands of honor satisfied. At any rate Lance was pleased. For days I was bruised and sorej with a "crocked" thumb that bothered me for weeks. All the distinction I can claim is that I never told anyone. But I was in conflict between schoolboy loyalty and my desire to help |