“He seems uppish about it,” the giant grinned. “Very well, I shall kill him with these great bare hands! I have said. It shall be an open fight, and no favors.”
He threw off a long robe, and dropped to the ground. Epworth was surprised to see that he was clothed in tights, and that his massive chest swelled out like a steam engine expansion.
The colonists gave a wild cheer. It was plain that they liked a spectacular scrimmage.
“Bring in the girl and set her on the table,” Toplinsky cried, “and then put fighting clothes on this Lilliputian.”
Joan was seated on the table in great state while the guards with rare good humor took Epworth into the hangar and forced him to don tights. When the young American came back to the arena and confronted Toplinsky it was in reality a contest between a Lilliputian and a giant, although Epworth’s figure was beautifully shaped, symmetrical, smooth, and well muscled for his age.
When the American prisoners saw the difference in weight they groaned. Joan heard the groan and paled. If Epworth was defeated she would take the first possible chance to commit suicide. Life with the giant monster was nauseating, horrifying. She thought that she preferred death a hundred times. When Epworth passed in front of the table on which she was seated as if on a throne her heart went cold. The hairy giant would crush him with ease, and there would be no help for him. Those mighty hands would clench around the boy’s neck, and he would never utter a sound until choked to death.
Toplinsky meant to kill him. She did not have to be told. Intuitively she recognized the fact that beneath the giant’s sarcastic talk and extravagant boasting there was a great hatred of Epworth. True she had not seen the big scientist before this but he had kept her picture for a year; had thumb-marked it until it was black with grime and dirt. She groaned inwardly. This came of too much publicity. How she hated herself for letting that reporter get her picture in his magazine. Vanity—how she hated her vanity now that it was going to cost her the life of the only companion she could trust.
“Ah, he is a bantam, a mere child!” There was a smirk of satisfaction on Toplinsky’s face. “Yet he has the temerity to stand up in front of me—the great Toplinsky. Friends, comrades,” he made a grandiloquent flourish with his hand, “it is not often that I diverge but when I do it becomes great sport. And this young lady—now hear me. I want her badly but if this bantam wins he shall have her. What I have said I have said. The great Toplinsky never goes back on his word. So shall it be. Herloff, announce the approach.”
A bugle sounded, a drum beat musically, a guard jabbered in a strange language; then in broken English he turned to the American prisoners.
“When this fight is over,” he said coldly, “this young American will be dead.”