"The pig bleeds," said Acton, cheerfully. "You have him now, Bourne; he's
too sick to have an ounce of fight left in him. Time!"

The next round wasn't a round really; it was a procession, with Bourne,
as fresh as paint from his success, following up the other blubbing with
rage, pain, and sickness. Before Acton called, the fellow dropped to the
ground and howled dismally.

"Get your coat, Jack, and then come here. He's done. Stand back, you
others."

Jack came back.

"Now, you pig, get up and apologize to this gentleman for having knocked
him into the snow-heap. I suppose your pig's eyes couldn't see he was
only half your size." Acton got hold of the fellow by the collar and
jerked him to his feet. "Apologize."

The fellow would not understand; he snivelled obstinately, and struggled
aimlessly in Acton's grasp.

"Apologize."

"I wown't."

"Good," said Acton, grimly. With his flat hand he gave the fellow a
thundering cuff which sent him sprawling. Acton then caught him by the
scruff of his neck and threw him headlong into the snow-heap.

"Come along, Bourne," he said, with a smile. "You have fought a good