For answer the man launched his huge body forward, with fierce swinging
fists.

What happened thereafter was at once brutish, terrible, Homeric; the
fellow's reserves of strength seemed immense; sheer animal rage drove
him; he ran amuck with lust to kill. He beat, rushed, strove to close.
His opponent's lithe body evaded a clutch that might have ended the
contest. John Steele fought without sign of anger, like a machine,
wonderfully trained; missing no point, regardless of punishment. He knew
that if he went down once, all rules of battle would be discarded; a
powerful blow sent him staggering to the wall; he leaned against it an
instant; waited, with the strong, impelling look people had noticed on
his face when he was fighting in a different way, in the courts.

The other came at him, muttering; the mill had unduly prolonged itself;
he would end it. His fist struck at that face so elusive; but crashed
against the wall; like a flash Steele's arm lifted. The great form
staggered, fell.

Quickly, however, it rose and the battle was resumed. Now, despite John
Steele's vigilance, the two came together. Tom Rogers' arm wound round
him with suffocating power; strove, strained, to hurl him to earth. But
the other's perfect training, his orderly living, saved him at that
crucial moment; his strength of endurance lasted; with a great effort he
managed to tear himself loose and at the same time with a powerful upper
stroke to send Rogers once more to the floor. Again, however, he got to
his feet; John Steele's every muscle ached; his shoulder was bleeding
anew. The need for acting quickly, if he should hope to conquer, pressed
on him; fortunately Rogers in his blind rage was fighting wildly. John