The fury of a thousand conflicts--and the exultation.
For the glory of such moments it is well worth dying. One minute
flying through the air--the old catapult tackle--and the next a
crashing of bone and sinew. We rolled over, head on, and across
the floor. Curses and execrations; the deep bass voice of Hobart:
"Hold him, Harry! Hold him! That's the way! Hold him! Hold him!"
We went crashing about the room. He was the slipperiest thing I
had ever laid hold of. But he was bone--bone and sinew; he was a
man! I remember the wild thrill of exultation at the discovery. It
was battle! And death! The table went over, we went spinning
against the wall, a crash of falling bookcases, books and broken
glass, a scurry and a flying heap of legs and arms. He was
wonderfully strong and active, like a panther. Each time I held
him he would twist out like a cat, straighten, and throw me out of
hold. I clung on, fighting, striving for a grip, working for the
throat. He was a man--a man! I remembered that he must never get
away. He must account for Watson.
In the first rush I was a madman. The mere force of my onslaught
had borne him down. But in a moment he had recovered and was
fighting systematically. As much as he could he kept over on one
side of me, always forcing me toward the inner room where Watson
had disappeared. In spite of my fury he eluded every effort that I
made for a vital part.
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