The _sop! sop!_ of the punishing blows as they got home and the steady
circling of Hopalong in avoiding the dangerous attacks, went on minute
after minute. Slowly the captain's strength was giving out, and he
resorted to trickery as his last chance. Retreating, he half raised his
arms and lowered them as if weary, ready as a cat to strike with all
his weight if the other gave an opening. It ought to have worked--it had
worked before--but Hopalong was there to win, and without the momentary
hesitation of the suspicious fighter he followed the retreat and his
hard hand flashed in over the captain's guard a fraction of a second
sooner than that surprised gentleman anticipated. The ferocious frown
gave way to placid peace and the captain reclined at the feet of the
battered victor, who stood waiting for him to get up and fight. The
captain lay without a sign of movement and as Hopalong wondered, Hogan
was the first to speak.
"Fer the love av hiven, let him be! Ye needn't wait--he's done; I know
by the sound av it!" he exclaimed, stepping forward. "'T was a purty
blow, an' 't was a gr-rand foight ye put up, sor! A gr-rand foight, but
any more av that is murder! 'T is an Irishman's game, sor, an' ye did
yersilf proud. But now let him be--no man, least av all a Dootchman,
iver tuk more than that an' lived!"
Hopalong looked at him and slowly replied between swollen lips, "Yo're
right, Hogan; we're square now, I reckon.
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