When a man fights for his life he becomes superhuman. Watson was
put to something more than his skill; the sheer spirit of the Bar
broke hold after hold; he was like lightning, panther-like,
subtle, vicious. Time after time he spun Chick out of his defense
and bore him down into a hold of death. And each time Chick
somehow wriggled out, and saved himself by a new hold. The
struggle became a blur--muscle, legs, the lust for killing--and
hatred. Twice Watson essayed the offensive; first he got a hammer
lock, and then a half-Nelson. The Bar broke both holds
immediately.
Whatever Chick knew of wrestling, the Senestro knew just a bit
more. It was a whirling mass of legs and bodies in continuous
convulsion, silent except for the terrible panting of the men, and
the low, stifled exclamations of the onlookers.
And then--
Watson grew weak. He tried once more. They spun to their feet. But
before he could act the Senestro had caught him in the same flying
rush as in the beginning, and had whirled him off his feet. And
when he came down the Bar had an unbreakable hold.
Chick struggled in vain. The Bar tightened his grip. A spasm of
pain shot through Chick's torso; he could feel his bones giving
way. His strength was gone; he could see death. Another moment
would have been the end.
But something happened. The Senestro miraculously let go his hold.
Chick felt something soft brush against his cheek.
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