Before they had fairly touched ground Clive was on his feet, the centre of a surprised but bellicose swirl of opponents who were nothing loath to change their plan of baiting a well-dressed girl into the more thrilling pastime of beating a well-dressed candidate.
As the score of toughs rushed him, Clive had barely time to get his back into the shallow angle between the bulging outer bases of the two proscenium boxes. Then the rush was upon him.
Hitting clean and straight, and with the speed and unerring deadliness of the trained heavyweight boxer, Clive for the moment held his own. There was no question of guarding. He relied rather for protection on the unusual length of his arms.
Nor could a blow be planned beforehand. It was hit, hit, and keep on hitting. Fully twenty youths and men surged forward at him, and at nearly every blow one went down among the pushing throng. But for each who fell there were always two more to take his place. The impact and crash of blows sounded above the yells and shuffle of feet. This was not boxing. It was butchery.
Only his semi-sheltered position and the self-confusing hurry and numbers of his assailants kept Clive on his feet and allowed him to hold his own.
Yet, as he dimly realized even through the wild lust of battle that gripped and intoxicated him, the fight was but a question of moments. Soon someone, running in, must grapple or trip him, or a kick would reach and disable him. And once down, in that bedlam of stamping, kicking feet, his life would not be worth a scrap of paper.
While it lasted, though, it was glorious. The veneered shell of civilization had been battered away. He was primitive man, gigantic, furious, terrible; battling against hopeless odds. Yet battling (as had those ancestors from whom his yellow hair, great shoulders and bulldog jaw were inherited) all the more gladly and doughtily because of those very odds.
He was aware of a man who, running along the box rail from the stage, had dropped to his side and stood swinging a gilded, blue-cushioned box-chair about his head. This apparition and the whizzing sweep of his odd weapon caused the toughs to give back for an instant.
“Good old Ansel!” panted Clive.
“Save your breath!” grunted Karl. “You’ll need it.”