Spurlock, flinging aside his
helmet. That he was hot and breathless was of no matter; in that
moment he would have faced a dozen Samsons.

"She was mine before you ever saw her." The Wastrel tried to reach
Ruth's lips.

"You lie!"

Head down, fists doubled, Spurlock rushed: only to be met with a
kick which was intended for the groin but which struck the thigh
instead. Even then it sent Spurlock spinning backward, to crash
against the wall. He felt no pain from this cowardly kick. That
would come later. Again he rushed. He dodged the boot this time,
and smashed his left upon the Wastrel's lips, leaving them bloody
pulp.

The Wastrel did not relish this. He flung Ruth aside, careless
whether she fell or not. There was only one idea in his head now--to
batter and bruise and crush this weakling, then cast him at the feet
of his love-lorn wife. He brought into service all his Oriental
bar-room tricks. Time after time he sent Spurlock into this corner
or that; but always the boy regained his feet before the murderous
boot could reach the mark. From all angles he was at a disadvantage--in
weight, skill, endurance. But Ruth was his woman, and he had sworn to
God to defend her.

"One of us has got to die," he panted. "You've got to kill me to
get out of here alive."

The Wastrel rushed. Spurlock dove headlong at the other's legs,
toppling the man. In this moment he could have stamped upon the
Wastrel's face, and ended the affair; but all that was clean in
him, chivalrous, revolted at the thought. Not even for Ruth could
he do such a beastly thing. So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent
but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up.

The unequal battle went on. It came to Spurlock suddenly that if
something did not react in his favour inside of five minutes, he
was done. In a side-glance--for the floor was variously encumbered
with overturned objects--he saw one of his paper weights, a
coloured glass ball such as McClintock used in trade. As the
Wastrel rushed, Spurlock sidestepped, swept the ball into his hand,
set himself and threw it. If the Wastrel had not turned the instant
he did, the ball would have missed him; as it was he turned
directly into its path. It struck his forehead, splitting it, and
brought him to his knees.

Luck. Spurlock understood that his vantage would be temporary; the
Wastrel had been knocked down, not out. Still, the respite was
sufficient for Spurlock to look about for some weap