When the strange old recluse who lived up the hill challenged Johnson to a fight, he agreed, even though he smelled a trap. Johnson was the best bare-knuckle boxer for miles around, and his honor would be mortally wounded if he refused to fight a man two decades older and a foot shorter than himself.
As expected, the challenger requested a substitution, and Johnson assented. He’d whip the old man’s nephew or whomever he found to take his place.
It wasn’t until the squid-like automaton squared up on a bunch of pneumatic hoses that Johnson suspected he was in trouble.

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