savage energy to strip to the waist.

The young stranger's face grew a shade more disdainful as he noted the
action. He himself removed coat, waistcoat, and collar, all of which
he handed to the farmer who had offered to assist him in making good
his escape.

"Just look after these for a minute!" he said.

"You're a cool hand," said the other man admiringly. "I'll see you don't
get bullied anyhow."

The young man nodded his thanks. He looked down at his hands and slowly
clenched and opened them again.

"Oh, I shan't be bullied," he said, in a tone of grim conviction.

And then the fight began.

It was obvious from the outset that it could not be a very prolonged one.
Samson attacked with furious zest. He evidently expected to find his
opponent very speedily at his mercy, and he made no attempt to husband
his strength. But his blows went wide. The English lad avoided them with
an agility that kept him practically unscathed. Had he been a hard
hitter, he might have got in several blows himself, but he only landed
one or two. His face was set and white as a marble mask in which only the
eyes lived--eyes that watched with darting intensity for the chance to
close. And when that chance came he took it so suddenly and so
unexpectedly that not one of the hard-breathing, silent crowd around him
saw exactly how he gained his hold. One moment he was avoiding a