"Come on,
now!"
The temptation was more than Simmons could resist, for the Corporal in his
white clothes offered a perfect mark.
"Don't misname me," shouted Simmons, firing as he spoke. The shot missed, and
the shooter, blind with rage, threw his rifle down and rushed at Slane from
the protection of the well. Within striking distance, he kicked savagely at
Slane's stomach, but the weedy Corporal knew something of Simmons's weakness,
and knew, too, the deadly guard for that kick. Bowing forward and drawing up
his right leg till the heel of the right foot was set some three inches above
the inside of the left knee-cap, he met the blow standing on one leg--exactly
as Gonds stand when they meditate--and ready for the fall that would follow.
There was an oath, the Corporal fell over his own left as shinbone met
shinbone, and the Private collapsed, his right leg broken an inch above the
ankle.
"'Pity you don't know that guard, Sim," said Slane, spitting out the dust as
he rose. Then raising his voice, "Come an' take him orf. I've bruk 'is leg."
This was not strictly true, for the Private had accomplished his own downfall,
since it is the special merit of that leg-guard that the harder the kick the
greater the kicker's discomfiture.
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