It was hand-to-hand, the silent
struggle for mastery between two men not unevenly matched, men asking
and receiving no mercy. The revolver of one lay on the floor, the
other still reposed on the open desk, and neither could be reached. It
was a battle to be fought out with bare hands. Twice Westcott struck,
his clenched fist bringing blood, but Lacy clung to him, one hand
twisted in his neck-band, the other viciously forcing back his head.
Unable to release the grip, Westcott gave back, bending until his
adversary was beyond balance; then, suddenly straightening, hurled the
fellow sidewise. But by now Beaton, dazed and confused, was upon his
feet. With the bellow of a wild bull he flung himself on the
struggling men, forcing Lacy aside, and smashing into Westcott with all
the strength of his body. The impetus sent all three crashing to the
floor.
Excited voices sounded without; then blows resounded against the wood
of the locked door, but the three men were oblivious to all but their
own struggle. Like so many wild beasts they clutched and struck,
unable to disentangle themselves.
Pages:
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251