It seemed
that Westerfelt's only chance now was to throw his assailant down, but
his strength had left him, Wambush's claws had sunk into his neck like
prongs of steel. He could not breathe.
"Hit 'im in the bread-basket, John!" cried Luke Bradley.
It was a happy suggestion. Westerfelt struck Wambush in the stomach.
With a gasp and an oath, Wambush doubled up and released Westerfelt's
throat. The two men now clinched breast to breast, and, with arms
round each other's bodies, each began to try to throw the other down.
They swung back and forth and from side to side, but they were well
mated.
Westerfelt suddenly threw his left leg behind Wambush's heels and began
to force him backward. In an instant Wambush would have gone down, but
seeing his danger he wriggled out of Westerfelt's grasp, drew something
from his coat pocket, and sprang towards him.
"Knife! knife! knife!" cried Luke Bradley in alarm. "Part 'em!"
"Yes, part 'em!" echoed the bar-keeper with an oath, as if the edge of
his pleasure had been taken off by the more serious turn of affairs.
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