The Rules of the Game

by Stewart Edward White

  XVI

  Roaring Dick had not been brought up in the knowledge of protocols orultimatums. Scarcely had Bob uttered the last words of his brief speechbefore he was hit twice in the face, good smashing blows that sent himstaggering. The blows were followed by a savage rush. Roaring Dick wason his man with the quickness and ferocity of a wildcat. He hit, kicked,wrestled, even bit. Bob was whirled back by the very impetuosity of theattack. Before he could collect his wits he was badly punished anddazed. He tripped and Roaring Dick, with a bellow of satisfaction, beganto kick at his body even before he reached the ground.

  But strangely enough this fall served to clear Bob's head. Thousands oftimes he had gone down just like this on the football field, and hadthen been called upon to struggle on with the ball as far as he wasable. A slight hint of the accustomed will sometimes steady us in themost difficult positions. The mind, bumping aimlessly, falls into itsgroove, and instinctively shoots forward with tremendous velocity. Bobhit the ground, half turned on his shoulder, rolled over twice with therapid, vigorous twist second-nature to a seasoned halfback, and boundedto his feet. He met Roaring Dick half way with a straight blow. Itfailed to stop, or even to shake the little riverman. The next instantthe men were wrestling fiercely.

  Bob found himself surprisingly opposed. Beneath his loose, soft clothingthe riverman seemed to be made of steel. Suddenly Bob was called upon toexert every ounce of strength in his body, and to summon all hisacquired skill to prevent himself from being ignominiously overpowered.The ferocity of the rush, and the purposeful rapidity of Roaring Dick'sattack, as well as the unexpected variety thereof, kept him fullyoccupied in defending himself. With the exception of the single blowdelivered when he had regained his feet, he had been unable even toattempt aggression. It was as though he had touched a button to releasean astonishing and bewildering erratic energy.

  Bob had done a great deal of boxing and considerable wrestling. Duringhis boyhood and youth he had even become involved in several fisticuffs.They had always been with the boys or young men of his own ideas. Thoughconducted in anger they retained still a certain remnant of convention.No matter how much you wanted to "do" the other fellow, you tried toaccomplish that result by hitting cleanly, or by wrestling him to apoint where you could "punch his face in." The object was to hurt youropponent until he had had enough, until he was willing to quit, until hehad been thoroughly impressed with the fact that he was punished. Butthis result was to be accomplished with the fists. If your opponentseized a club, or a stone, or tried to kick, that very act indicated hisdefeat. He had had enough, and that was one way of acknowledging yoursuperiority. So strongly ingrained had this instinct of thefight-convention become that even now Bob unconsciously was playingaccording to the rules of the game.

  Roaring Dick, on the contrary, was out solely for results. He foughtwith every resource at his command. Bob was slow to realize this, slowto arouse himself beyond the point of calculated defence. His wholetraining on the field inclined him to keep cool and to play, whateverthe game, from a reasoning standpoint. He was young, strong andpractised; but he was not roused above the normal. And, as many rivermenhad good reason to know, the normal man availed little against RoaringDick's maniacal rushes.

  The men were close-locked, and tugging and straining for an advantage.Bob crouched lower and lower with a well-defined notion of getting atwist on his opponent. For an instant he partially freed one side. Likelightning Roaring Dick delivered a fierce straight kick at his groin.The blow missed its aim, but Bob felt the long, sharp spikes tearing theflesh of his thigh. Sheer surprise relaxed his muscles for the fractionof an instant. Roaring Dick lowered his head, rammed it into Bob's chin,and at the same time reached for the young man's gullet with both hands.Bob tore his head out of reach in the nick of time. As they closed againRoaring Dick's right hand was free. Bob felt the riverman's thumbfumbling for his eyeball.

  "Why, he wants to cripple me, to kill me!" the young man cried tohimself. So vivid was the astonishment of this revelation to hissportsman's soul that he believed he had said it aloud. This was no merefight, it was a combat. In modern civilized conditions combats arenotably few and far between. It is difficult for the average man to cometo a realization that he must in any circumstances depend on himself forthe preservation of his life. Even to the last moment the victim of thereal melodrama that occasionally breaks out in the most unlikely placesis likely to be more concerned with his outraged dignity than with hisperil. That thumb, feeling eagerly for his eye-socket, woke Bob to a newworld. A swift anger rushed over him like a hot wave.

  This man was trying to injure him. Either the kick or the gouge wouldhave left him maimed for life. A sudden fierce desire to beat hisopponent into the earth seized Bob. With a single effort he wrenched hisarms free.

  Now this fact has been noted again and again: mere size has often littleto do with a man's physical prowess. The list of anecdotes wherein thelittle fellow "puts it all over" the big bully is exceptionally long.Nor are more than a bare majority of the anecdotes baseless. In our ownlumber woods a one-hundred-and-thirty-pound man with no other weaponthan his two hands once nearly killed a two-hundred-pound blacksmith forpushing him off a bench. This phenomenon arises from the fact that thelittle man seems capable often of releasing at will a greater flood ofdynamic energy than a big man. We express this by saying that it is thespirit that counts. As a matter of truth the big man may have as muchcourage as the little man. It is simply that he cannot, at will, tap asquickly the vast reservoir of nervous energy that lies beneath all humaneffort of any kind whatsoever. He cannot arouse himself as can thelittle man.

  It was for the foregoing reason that Roaring Dick had acquired hisascendancy. He possessed the temperament that fuses. When he fought, hefought with the ferocity and concentration of a wild beast. Thisconcentration, this power of fusing to white heat all the powers of aman's being down to the uttermost, this instinctive ability to tap theextra-human stores of dynamics is what constitutes the temperament ofgenius, whether it be applied to invention, to artistic creation, toruling, to finance, or merely to beating down personal opposition bybeating in the opponent's face. Unfortunately for him, Bob Orde happenedalso to possess the temperament of genius. The two foul blows arousedhim. All at once he became blind to everything but an unreasoning desireto hurt this man who had tried to hurt him. On the side of dynamics thecombat suddenly equalized. It became a question merely of relativepower, and Bob was the bigger man.

  Bob threw his man from him by main strength. Roaring Dick staggeredback, only to carrom against a tree. A dozen swift, straight blows inthe face drove him by the sheer force of them. He was smothered,overwhelmed, by the young man's superior size. Bob fell upon himsavagely. In less than a minute the fight was over as far as RoaringDick was concerned. Blinded, utterly winded, his whiskey-drivenenergies drained away, he fell like a log. Bob, still blazing, foundhimself without an opponent.

  He glared about him. The rivermen were gathered in a silent ring. Justbeyond stood a side-bar buggy in which a burly, sodden red-faced manstood up the better to see. Bob recognized him as one of the saloonkeepers at Twin Falls, and his white-hot brain jumped to the correctconclusion that Roaring Dick, driven by some vague conscience-stirringin regard to his work, had insisted on going down river; and that thisdive-keeper, loth to lose a profitable customer in the dull season, hadoffered transportation in the hopeful probability that he could inducethe riverman to return with him. Bob stooped, lifted his unconsciousopponent, strode to the side-bar buggy and unceremoniously dumped hisburden therein.

  "Now," said he roughly, "get out of here! When this man comes to, youtell him he's fired! He's not to show his face on this river again!"

  The saloon-keeper demurred, blustering slightly after the time-triedmanner of his sort.

  "Look here, young fellow, you can't talk that way to me."

  "Can't I!" snapped Bob; "well, you turn around and get out of here."

  The man met full the blaze of the extra-n
ormal powers not yet fallenbelow the barrier in the young fellow's personality. He gathered up thereins and drove away.

  Bob watched him out of sight, his chest rising and falling with thereceding waves of his passion. He was a strange young figure with historn garments, his tossed hair, the streak of blood beneath his eye, andthe inner fading glow of his face. At last he drew a long, shudderingbreath, and turned to the expectant and silent group of rivermen.

  "Boys," said he pleasantly, "I don't know one damn thing aboutriver-driving, but I do know when a man's doing his best work. I shallexpect you fellows to get in and rustle down those logs. Any man whothinks he's going to soldier on me is going to get fooled, and he'sgoing to get his time handed out to him on the spot. As near as I canmake out, unless we get an everlasting wiggle on us--every one ofus--this drive'll hang up; and I'd just as soon hang it by laying offthose who try to shirk as by letting you hang it by not working yourbest. So get busy. If anybody wants to quit, let 'em step up right now.Any remarks?" He looked from one to another.

  "Nary remark," said one man at last.

  "All right. Now get your backs into this. It's _team work_ that counts.You've each got your choice; either you can lie like the devil to hidethe fact that you were a member of the Cedar Branch crew in 1899, or youcan go away and brag about it. It's up to you. Get busy."