"Face the other way."
The operative obeyed. The manacled hands rose above the unprotected head and the gun-butt came crashing down. The operative slumped to the floor. The blond man's subsequent actions bespoke his thoroughness in handling this kind of an affair. He sought the handkerchiefs, wet them, and tied the operatives' hands behind their backs. Few fabrics are tougher than wet linen. The man he had hit was either dead or insensible; so he paid no more attention to this unfortunate. His interest was in the operative who was now slowly getting air into his lungs. The blond man threw him on his face, sat on him, then rifled the pockets for the manacle key. He found it and freed his wrists. He ran to the bathroom again and returned with a wet towel which he wound about the half-strangled man's head. Next he calmly pocketed his belongings which lay on the bureau-top.
He was reasonably certain that he could not escape by any of the hotel entrances. There was only one chance. A window on the first floor, from which he would have to risk a drop of twelve or fourteen feet to the sidewalk.
Malachi was climbing up to his swing and clambering down to his perch.
The blond man, the automatic ready, opened the door ... and Mathison stepped in! The advantage of surprise was in this instance on Mathison's side. A fighting-man of the first order, he struck first. He brought his fist down hammer-wise upon the pistol, at the same time sending the toe of his boot to the enemy's knee-cap. Instinctive actions, but both blows went home. The blond man was forced to give back in order to set himself.
There began, then, in that small room, one of those contests which the Blind Poet loved to recount and which we nowadays call Homeric. Mathison was lighter than his opponent by thirty pounds, but he gave battle with a singing heart. This was as it should be, man to man. No tedious affair of the courts; cold, formal justice. Hot blood and bare hands!... An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth!
The blond man, as he looked into Mathison's eyes, sensed that he was about to fight for his life; thus he became endowed with a frenzy which doubled his strength. His one blind endeavor was to get his gorilla arms around this Yankee swine who had tricked and beaten him. He lunged, head down. Mathison jabbed him, and with lightning speed shut the door with a backward kick.
He met the blond man at every point; boxed him, used his boots, employed the science of the Jap wrestler, threw obstacles, laughed, taunted sailor fashion; in fact, fought with the primordial savagery of the Stone Age, scorning the niceties of sportsmanship. He knew what his antagonist was—a Prussian, or one who had been Prussianized. And with devilish cunning and foresight he carried the Prussian idea to this blond giant.... To kill him with his bare hands!
The blond man's desperate swings landed frequently; for with his eye upon a single point, Mathison was often compelled to expose his face. That throat! To reach it with that Japanese side-cut, a blow that saps and blinds.