“Wait,” he said. “You don't want to knock your jaw off. I'll show you. A quarter of an inch will do.”
And at a distance of a quarter of an inch from her chin he administered the slightest flick of a tap.
On the instant Saxon's brain snapped with a white flash of light, while her whole body relaxed, numb and weak, volitionless, sad her vision reeled and blurred. The next instant she was herself again, in her eyes terror and understanding.
“And it was at a foot that you struck him,” she murmured in a voice of awe.
“Yes, and with the weight of my shoulders behind it,” Billy laughed. “Oh, that's nothing.—Here, let me show you something else.”
He searched out her solar plexus, and did no more than snap his middle finger against it. This time she experienced a simple paralysis, accompanied by a stoppage of breath, but with a brain and vision that remained perfectly clear. In a moment, however, all the unwonted sensations were gone.
“Solar Plexus,” Billy elucidated. “Imagine what it's like when the other fellow lifts a wallop to it all the way from his knees. That's the punch that won the championship of the world for Bob Fitzsimmons.”
Saxon shuddered, then resigned herself to Billy's playful demonstration of the weak points in the human anatomy. He pressed the tip of a finger into the middle of her forearm, and she knew excruciating agony. On either side of her neck, at the base, he dented gently with his thumbs, and she felt herself quickly growing unconscious.
“That's one of the death touches of the Japs,” he told her, and went on, accompanying grips and holds with a running exposition. “Here's the toe-hold that Notch defeated Hackenschmidt with. I learned it from Farmer Burns.—An' here's a half-Nelson.—An' here's you makin' roughhouse at a dance, an' I 'm the floor manager, an' I gotta put you out.”
One hand grasped her wrist, the other hand passed around and under her forearm and grasped his own wrist. And at the first hint of pressure she felt that her arm was a pipe-stem about to break.