“Hello, Cameron!” drawled Perkins. “Did you see our cows? I thought I heard some of them down the line.”
For answer Cameron launched himself at him like a bolt from a bow. There was a single sharp crack and Perkins was literally lifted clear off his feet and hurled back upon the road, where he lay still. Fiercely Cameron faced round to the next man, but he gave back quickly. A third sprang to throw himself upon Cameron, but once more Cameron's hand shot forward and his assailant was hurled back heavily into the arms of his friends. Before Cameron could strike again a young giant, known as Sam Sailor, flung his arms about him, crying—
“Tut-tut, young fellow, this won't do, you know. Can't you take a bit of fun?”
For answer Cameron clinched him savagely, gripping him by the throat and planting two heavy blows upon his ribs.
“Here—boys,” gasped the young fellow, “he's—chokin'—the—life—out—of me.”
From all sides they threw themselves upon him and, striking, kicking, fighting furiously, Cameron went down under the struggling mass, his hand still gripping the throat it had seized.
“Say! He's a regular bull-dog,” cried one. “Git hold of his legs and yank him off,” which, with shouts and laughter, they proceeded to do and piled themselves upon him, chanting the refrain—“More beef! More beef!”
A few minutes more of frantic struggling and a wild agonised scream rose from beneath the mass of men.
“Git off, boys! Git off!” roared the young giant. “I'm afraid he's hurt.”
Flinging them off on either side, he stood up and waited for their victim to rise. But Cameron lay on his face, moaning and writhing, on the ground.