Thank God the boy had the under-grip. His arms protected him. Else he must have burst.
A groan was squeezed out of him.
"Quittez donc!" in his ear.
"Jamais," faintly.
He pressed and pressed. The man hugged and hugged. One must give. Which should it be? Not he, not he, not he, though he fainted. Piper had been sure.
A warm gush spouted out upon his fingers, and trickled down his fore- arm.
It was horrible. He felt it to be murder, not war. Yet that python- embrace was squeezing the heart out of his mouth.
Great heavens!—was the man made of iron?—would he never have enough?
Then he felt a prick in his own flesh. Perforce he stayed his hand.
Well, he had done his best. And even at that moment, his brain swimming to a death-swoon, his humour flashed out of the darkness to his succour.