As Brayley charged for a second blow, Conniston stepped aside swiftly
and swung with his right arm, collecting every ounce of his strength
and putting it into the blow. Brayley tried to lift his arm to protect
himself, but the fraction of a second too late. Conniston's fist
landed squarely upon the corner of the foreman's jaw, just below the
ear. Brayley's arms flew out, and with a groan driven from between his
clenched teeth he went down in a heap.
For a moment he lay unable to rise, the black dizziness showing in his
swimming eyes. A month ago Conniston could not have struck such a
blow by many pounds. Already the range had done much, very much, for
him. But before a man could count five both the pain and astonishment
had gone from Brayley's eyes, giving place to the red anger which
surged back. And with the return of clamoring rage Brayley's dizziness
passed and he sprang to his feet. Again was Conniston ready, again
telling himself that he had a promise to keep, and that now or never
was the time to make good his word. He was over the man whom he had
set out to whip, and as Brayley struggled to his feet it was only to
receive Conniston's fist full in the face again, only to be hurled
back to the ground with cut, bleeding lips.
Again bellowing curses which ran into one another like one long,
vicious word, Brayley got to his feet.
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