was sure he could beat so stringy an opponent as himself. Once he got the
grip on him that he wanted the big gambler would crush him by sheer
strength. So, though the youngster had to get close, he dared not clinch.
His judgment was that his best bet was his fists.

He jabbed at the big white face, ducked, and jabbed again. Now he was in
the shine of the moon; now he was in darkness. A red streak came out on
the white face opposite, and he knew he had drawn blood. Miller roared
like a bull and flailed away at him. More than one heavy blow jarred him,
sent a bolt of pain shooting through him. The only thing he saw was that
shining face. He pecked away at it with swift jabs, taking what
punishment he must and dodging the rest.

Miller was furious. He had intended to clean up this bantam in about a
minute. He rushed again, broke through Dave's defense, and closed with
him. His great arms crushed into the ribs of his lean opponent. As they
swung round and round, Dave gasped for breath. He twisted and squirmed,
trying to escape that deadly hug. Somehow he succeeded in tripping his
huge foe.

They went down locked together, Dave underneath. The puncher knew that if
he had room Miller would hammer his face to a pulp. He drew himself close
to the barrel body, arms and legs wound tight like hoops.

Miller gave a yell of pain. Instinctively Dave moved his legs higher and
clamped them tighter. The yell rose again, became a scream of agony.

"Lemme loose!" shrieked the man on top. "My Gawd, you're killin' me!"

Dave had not the least idea what was disturbing Miller's peace of mind,