“Well?” said I.
He said nothing.
Now I was young, and none too well disciplined, heated by contest, and very angry at having been so unexpectedly attacked at the beginning. I was quite willing to hurt him a little. Slowly and steadily, and, I am ashamed to say, with considerable satisfaction, I pressed the arm upward. The pain must have been intense. I could feel the man’s body quiver between my knees, and saw the sweat break out afresh. Still he made no sign, but dug his forehead into the floor. “I can stand this as long as you can,” said I to myself grimly.
But at last I reached the point where I knew that another inch, another pound, would break the bone.
“Do you give up?” I demanded.
“No!” he gasped explosively.
“I’ll break your arm!” I snarled at him.
He made no reply.
The blood was running into my eyes from a small scrape on my forehead. It was nothing, but it annoyed me. I was bruised and heated and mad. Every bit of antagonism 16 in me was aroused. As far as I was concerned, it was a very real fight.
“All right,” I growled, “I’ll keep you there then, damn you!”