The Professor met him half-way. One wrist in either hand he seized before Cockney could dodge. Cockney's right, clasped in the Professor's left, went up. The other the Professor wrenched downward, and the pain of it made Cockney's face twist. Thus, face to face they stood for seconds, muscle pressing against muscle, Cockney straining to tear his wrists from the bands of steel that gripped them. Their heads fell over each other's shoulders. For one moment of dizziness Mary Aikens thought her husband's bared teeth would sink into his opponent's back.
Slowly Cockney's left hand bent behind his back. He began to struggle with his whole body, wrenching, fighting. He read the Professor's purpose. It was body to body now. The Professor's left hand was having its way with Cockney's right. Cockney saw defeat, horrible defeat, staring him in the face. He let his left yield and concentrated on his right. And inch by inch the Professor's left fell back before it. Another inch and his grip would be broken.
Mary Aikens gasped.
The Professor heard it. His teeth bared like Cockney's, the lips drawn thin and bloodless. He, too, became the beast fighting for his life. His shoulders heaved a little, as if new vigour had entered them—and his left began to win back what it had lost. Up and up it moved, and straight above their shoulders the arms halted.
To Mary Aikens they seemed to stand thus for hours, neither yielding an inch. It was endurance as well as strength now, and surely there the hardened rancher would win. But almost imperceptibly over Cockney's back the arms began to move. Cockney stiffened his body against it, and with failure his back bent. With the fury of insanity he writhed, but the hold on him now was more relentless than ever.
With a groan that was as much shriek he sank suddenly to his knees, blank incredulity distorting his crimson face.
Instantly the Professor's hands fell from him. Perspiration dripped from both swollen faces. Cockney leaped back, dropped his head, and charged with a bellow. Foam was dripping from his mouth.
The Professor met the lowered head with his knee, stooped over Cockney's back and encircled his waist, and tossed him in a somersault over his head. The high riding heels crashed into the ceiling as they went over, bringing down a shower of plaster and dust, but the falling man landed on his feet against the stove. It fell with a clatter, and the pipes went with it.
The Professor's teeth were still bared. He saw nothing now but the enemy before him, the death that waited for either one of them. With a heave he sent the table slithering into the wall. Crouching, circling, glaring, he moved on Cockney. It was to the death now.
Mary Aikens could stand it no longer.