swing, which Brice drove whizzing into the jaw's point.

The brace of blows rocked the giant, so that he reeled
drunkenly under their dynamic force. The average man must
have been floored and even knocked senseless by such
well-directed smashes to so vital a spot. But the
beach-comber merely staggered back, seeking instinctively to
guard his battered face, and to regain his balance.

In at the reeling foe tore Gavin Brice, showering him with
systematic punches to every vulnerable spot above the belt
line. It was merciless punishment, and it was delivered with
rare deftness.

Yet, the iron-bodied man on whom it was inflicted merely
grunted again and, under the avalanche of blows, managed to
regain his balance and plunge back to the assault. A born
fighter, he was now obsessed with but one idea, namely, to
destroy this smaller and faster opponent who was hurting him
so outrageously. As far as the beach comber was concerned: it
was a murder-battle now, with no question of mercy asked or
given.

The collie had been viewing this astounding scene in eager
interest. Never before, in his short life, had he seen two
humans fight. And, even now, he was not at all certain that
it was a fight and not some intensely thrilling game. Thus
had he watched two boys wrestle and box, in his own puppyhood.
And, for venturing to jump into that jolly fracas, he had been
scolded and sent back to his kennel.