murmured Garcia in delight. And Ernestine, leaning far
out from her table, cried breathlessly:

"George! If you love me . . ."

George glanced at her, a slow smile upon his battered lips. He ran the
back of his hand across his mouth and again moved forward, slowly. And
again Drennen snarling, awaited him.

This time George crouched a little as he made his attack, and as he
drew closer he moved more swiftly, bunching his big muscles, fairly
hurling his great body as he leaped and struck, reckless of what blows
might find him, determined by his superior weight alone to carry the
other back and down. And as though Drennen had read the purpose in the
smouldering eyes he too leaped forward so that the two big bodies met
in mid air. Like one blow came the sounds of the two blows given and
taken as the impact of the two bodies gave out its soft thud. And as
one man the two went down together, fighting, beating brutally at each
other, all rules of the game forgotten save that one alone which says,
"He wins who wins!"

For a little they clenched and rolled upon the floor like two great,
grim cats. Through the sound of scuffling came the noise of
short-armed jabs, the deep throated curses of Kootanie George and once
. . . his first vocal utterance . . . one of Dave Drennen's laughs. It
was when he had again driven his fist against George's mouth, drawing
blood from both lips and hand cut by breaking teeth.

Kootanie George's left arm was flung about the neck of the man at whose
body his white knuckled fist was driving like a piston; the American
had craned his neck and in order to protect his face held it pressed
close to George's breast. Drennen's right arm was about George's body,
caught against the floor as they fell, Drennen's left hand with thumb
sunken deep was already at the Canadian's throat. The snarl upon
Drennen's face was the more marked now, more filled with menace and
hate as his body experienced the torture of the other's regular blows.

For a little they were strangely silent, Kootanie having given over his
ripping oaths, strangely quiet as they lay with no movement apparent
beyond the ceaseless rhythmic striking of George's arm. Even those
blows ceased in a moment as George's hand went hurriedly to the wrist
at his breast. The thumb at his throat had sunk until the place where
it crooked at the joint was lost; George's face from red had gone to
white, then to a hectic purple. Now they strove f