Gordon was in his element. His physical condition had never been more perfect, and, provided that clinch was prevented, nothing on earth could save his man. The blood was already streaming from Slosson's cheek, and an ugly split disfigured his lower lip.
Now he came in with his head down—a favorite bull rush of the "rough-and-tumble." Gordon saw it coming and waited. He side-stepped, and smashed a terrific blow behind the left ear. The man stumbled, but saved himself. With an inarticulate attempt at an oath he was at the boxer again. Another rush, but it checked half-way, and a violent kick was aimed at Gordon's middle. It missed its mark, but caught him on the side of the knee. The pain of the blow for a moment robbed the younger man of his caution. He responded with a smashing left and right. They both landed, but in the rush his loose coat was caught and held as the agent fell.
Slosson clung to the coat as a terrier will cling to a stick. In spite of the rain of blows battering his head he held on. It was the first hold he needed. The second came a moment later. His other arm crooked about Gordon's right knee. The next moment they were on the ground in the throes of a wild, demoniacal "rough-and-tumble."
The science of the boxer could serve Gordon no longer. He knew it. He knew also that the fight was more than leveled up. The struggle had degenerated into an inhuman aim for those vital parts which would leave the victim blind or maimed for life.
By the luck of Providence he fell uppermost. His hands being free and his strength at its greatest, also possessing nothing of the degraded mind of the rough-and-tumble fighter, he went for his opponent's throat, and got his grip just as he felt the other's teeth clip, in a savage snap, at his right ear. It was a happy miss, or he knew he would have spent the rest of his life with only one ear, and possibly part of the other.
But there were other things to avoid. He crushed the man's head upon the ground, while his great hands tightened their grip upon his throat. But Slosson's hands were not idle. They struggled up, and Gordon felt that they were groping for his throat. His own pressure increased.
"Squeal, you swine!" he roared. "Squeal, or I'll choke the life out of you!"
The man was unable to squeal under the terrible throat-hold. His breath was coming in gasps. All of a sudden those groping hands made a lunge at Gordon's eyes. One finger even struck his left eye with intent to gouge it out. Gordon threw back his head, but dared not release his hold. His only other defense was an instinctive one. He opened his mouth and made a wolfish snap at the hand that had sought to blind him. He bit three of its fingers to the bone. There was a cry from the man under his hands, and the straining body beneath him ceased to struggle.
Gordon released his hold and stood up. He aimed one violent kick of disgust at the man's ribs and turned away.