Some of his blows got home, but these provoked only sardonic laughter.

Wild with rage and pain he bored in. He had but one chance--to get this

shadow in his gorilla-like arms. He lacked mental flexibility. An idea,

getting into his head, stuck; it was not adjustable. Like an arrow sped

from the bowstring, it had to fulfill its destiny. It never occurred to

him to take to his heels, to get space between himself and this enemy he

had so woefully underestimated. Ten feet, and he might have been able to

whirl, draw his pistol, and end the affair.

The coup de grace came suddenly: a blow that caught Quasimodo full on

the point of the jaw. He sagged and went sprawling upon his face. The

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victor turned him over and raised a heel.... No! He was neither Prussian

nor Sudanese black. He was white; and white men did not stamp in the

faces of fallen enemies.

But there was one thing a white man might do in such a case without

disturbing the ethical, and he proceeded about it forthwith: Draw the

devil's fangs; render him impotent for a few hours. He deliberately

knelt on one of the outspread arms and calmly emptied the insensible

man's pockets. He took everything--watch, money, passport, letters,

pistol, keys--rose and dropped them into the river. He overlooked

Quasimodo's belt, however. The Anglo-Saxon idea was top hole. His fists

had saved his life.




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