There was no space for maneuvering or for wriggling free.
Clear from the ground Brice's feet were swung. The breath was
squeezed out of him. His elastic strength was cramped and
made useless. His lungs seemed bursting. The pressure on his
ribs was unbearable. Like many a better man he was paying the
price for a single instant of overconfidence.

One arm was caught against his side. The other was impeded
and robbed of all efficient hitting power, being pinioned
athwart his breast. And steadily the awful pressure was
increased. There was no apparent limit to the beach comber's
powers of constriction. The blood beat into Brice's eyes.
His tongue began to protrude from a swollen throat.

Then, all at once, he ceased to struggle, and lay limp and
moveless in the conqueror's grasp. Perceiving which, the
beach comber relaxed the pressure, to let his conquered enemy
slide, broken, to the ground.

This, to his blank amaze, Gavin Brice neglected to do. The
old ruse of apparent collapse had served its turn, for perhaps
the millionth time. The beach-comber was aware of a
lightning-quick tensing of the slumped muscles. Belatedly, he
knew what had happened, and he renewed his vise-grip. But he
was too late. Eel-like, Gavin had slithered out of the
imprisoning arms. And, as these arms came together once more,
in the bear-hug, Brice shot over a burning left-hander to the
beach-comber's unguarded jaw. Up flew the big arms in belated
parry, but not soon enough to block a deliberately-aimed right