cular stars. His
great brown shoulders, his barreled chest, his upper arms like a man's
leg, his packed forearms, his neck like a bull's, his shaven head. All
seemed superhuman, and then came his shy embarrassed smile, his troubled
eyes. One felt he hated to do this....

He dropped suddenly, easily, into his wrestler's crouch. His shoulders
swayed lightly. He pawed like a bear.

Campbell stood easily, left foot forward, like a boxer. His left arm
shot out suddenly. The heel of his hand stopped, jolted, Ahmet on the
chin. The Syrian shook his head. Pawed again. Campbell slapped him on
the forearms, jolted him again on the chin, broke away easily to the
right. Ahmet's brown forehead frowned. "Don't be childish," he seemed to
chide Campbell. The crowd pressed. The French soldiers rapped them back
with the scabbard of their sidearms. _En arriere, les puants, en
arriere!_ "Back, sons of polecats, get back." The scabbards clacked like
slapsticks.

Ahmet Ali stood up straighter. He wanted to get away from that annoying
hand on his chin. His forearms moved faster now, like brown pistons.
There was a slight frown on his face. He was becoming impatient. Shane
broke again to the right. Ahmet followed, his immense hands poised.
Campbell feinted for the chin again with his left hand. The wrestler's
smile flickered. His right arm went out in guard. Campbell shifted,
caught the brown wrist in his right hand, his left hand shot forward to
the chin again. He brought forward all his forces to twisting that
gigantic arm. He held the Syrian locked. The right arm began to give. If
he could only shift his feet, get some sort of leverage. But how in
God's name, how? How could he get behind. With an immense wrench of
shoulders Ahmet got free. He stood for an instant, nursing his numbed
wrist. He nodded and grinned. "That wasn't bad," he seemed to say. The
lean bilious Turk on the edge of the crowd began talking viciously. The
saturnine French corporal turned and smacked him terribly across the
nose with the edge of the scabbard of his bayonet. "_Et-ta soeur!_" He
had the air of a schoolmaster reproving a refractory pupil. But his
language was obscene and his blow broke the man's nose.... He vouchsafed
no further interest in the Turk, but turned to watch the wrestling,
twirling an oiled mustache....

The Syrian closed his mouth, breathed heavily through his nostrils. His
brow corrugated. His eyes became pinpoints. He was a workman out to do