Then swinging on a heel, P. Sybarite met a second onset made more dangerous by the cooler calculations of a more sophisticated antagonist. Nevertheless, deftly blocking a rain of blows, he closed in as if eager to escape punishment, and planted a lifted knee in the large of the detective's stomach so neatly that he, too, collapsed like a punctured presidential boom and lay him down at rest.
Success so egregious momentarily stupefied even P. Sybarite. Gazing down upon those two still shapes, so mighty and formidable when sentient, he caught his breath in sharp amazement.
"Great Heavens! Is it possible I did that?" he cried aloud—and the next moment, spurred by alert discretion, was scaling the fence with the readiness of an alley-cat.
Instantaneously, as he poised above the abyss of Stygian blackness on the other side, not a little daunted by its imperturbable mystery, a quick backward glance showed him figures moving in the basement hallway of the gambling house; and easing over, he dropped.
Hard flags received him with native impassivity: stumbling, he lost balance and sat down with an emphasis that drove the breath from him in one mighty "Ooof!"
There was a simultaneous confusion of new, strange voices on the other side of the fence; cries of surprise, recognition, excitement:
"Feeny, by all that's holy!"
"Mike Grogan, or I'm a liar!"
"What hit the two av urn?"
"Gawd knows!"