smashing, right-handed blow; the next he had his adversary locked in a
grip of iron, the while he bent and strained for the mastery.

From then onwards an element that was terrible became apparent in the
conflict. From a simple fisticuff it developed into a deadly struggle
between skilled strength and strength that was merely brutal. Silently,
with heaving, convulsive movements, the two struggling figures swayed to
and fro. One of Samson's arms was imprisoned in that unyielding clutch.
The other rained blows upon his adversary's head and shoulders that
produced no further effect than if they had been bestowed upon cast-iron.

The grip of the boy's arms only grew tighter and tighter with snake-like
force, while a dreadful smile came into the young face and became stamped
there, engraved in rigid lines. His lower lip was caught between his
teeth, and a thin stream of blood ran from it over the smooth, clean-cut
chin. It was the only sign he gave that he was putting forth the whole of
his strength.

A murmur of surprise that had in it a note of uneasiness began to run
through the ring of onlookers. They had seen many a fight before, but
never a fight like this. Samson's face had gone from red to purple. His
eyes had begun to start. Quite plainly he also was taken by surprise.
Desperately, with a streaming forehead, he changed his tactics. He had
no skill. Until that day he had relied upon superior strength and weight
to bring him victorious through every casual fray; and it had never
before failed him. But that merciless, suffocating hold compelled him to
abandon offensive measures to effect his escape. He stopped his wild and
futile hammering and with his one free hand he grasped the back of his
opponent's neck.