d and into his face, pecking away at
it until it seemed to be cut to ribbons.

Voices came from somewhere in the banking room, voices raised in
altercation. Neither of the two men, raging around the rear room, heard
them--they had become insensate savages oblivious of their surroundings,
drunken with passion, with the blood-mania gripping their brains.

Trevison had brought the last ounce of his remaining strength into play
and had landed a crushing blow on Corrigan's chin. The big man was
wabbling crazily about in the general direction of Trevison, swinging
his arms wildly, Trevison evading him, snapping home blows that landed
smackingly without doing much damage. They served merely to keep
Corrigan in the semi-comatose state in which Trevison's last hard blow
had left him. And that last blow had sapped Trevison's strength; his
spirit alone had survived the drunken orgy of rage and hatred. As the
tumult around him increased--the tramp of many feet, scuffling; harsh,
discordant voices, curses, yells of protest, threats--not a sound of which
he heard, so intent was he with his work of battering his adversary, he
ceased to retreat from Corrigan, and as the latter shuffled toward him
he stiffened and drove his right fist into the big man's face. Corrigan
cursed and grunted, but lunged forward again. They swung at the same
instant--Trevison's right just grazing Corrigan's jaw; Corrigan's blow,
full and sweeping, thudding against Trevison's left ear. Trevison's
head rolled, his chin sagged to his chest, and his knees doubled like
hinges. Corrigan smirked malevolently and drove forward again. But he
was too eager, and his blows missed the reeling target that, with arms
hanging wearily at his sides, still instinctively kept to his feet,
the taunting smile, now becoming bitterly contemptuous, still on his
face. It meant that though exhausted, his arm broken, he felt only
scorn for Corrigan's prowess as a fighter.

Fighting off the weariness he lunged forward again, swinging the now
deadened right arm at the blur Corrigan made in front of him. Something
collided with him--a human form--and thinking it was Corrigan, clinching
with him, he grasped it. The momentum of the object, and his own weakness,
carried him back and down, and with the object in his grasp he fell,
underneath, to the floor. He saw a face close to his--Braman's--and
remembering that the banker had tripped him, he began to work his right
fist into the other's f