The wolf was standing on him, and its weight crushed him.
All he could do in self-defense was to try to get the wolf by the throat with his bare hands and to choke it.
But the hair about its throat was a thick, almost impenetrable mass of heavy, thick-growing bristles, on which Ted's hands had apparently no effect at all.
Ted was in a pretty tight place, and he fully realized it.
The wolf was working hard to get at his windpipe, and the teeth were getting closer and closer to the vital spot.
Ted's arm, where he tried in vain to get it between himself and the wolf, was gashed in a dozen places, and the blood was all over him. His clothes had long since been torn into shreds.
The wolf was getting tired also, as well it might, for, probably it had been running all night, and had been long without food, so that it was no discredit to its enormous strength that it was weak and weary.
But neither was Ted as strong as usual, for the ball which had creased his rib had cost him lots of blood.
In the hearts of both of them, however, there was strength enough, and it was that which kept them fighting long after both of them were tired and winded.
The wolf knew, as well as did Ted, that if it ever got to his throat there would be strength enough for it; the strength that comes from blood.