wounds like the truth. To Helen, however, it was part of his "platform," an amusingly, over-emphasized article of political faith. She did not know, she could not be expected to know, that it was a deliberate offering of battle to the most potent evil in the life of the time. It was David vs. Goliath. The primitive sling and pebbles had hardly a chance, but David was upheld by the divine courage of youth and by a pure cause.
Already he was in the arena. He could feel the horrid breath of the monster on his face. One flick he had had of a grisly paw, just one little flick below the belt—there were no Queensberry rules for the U. P.—and he was nearly out. He was nearly out even before the game had really started.
Gasping in an agony that seemed hardly less than mortal, he realized now the nature of the odds. The force of that first playful little tap had almost killed him. However, he must rise from the tan. If he didn't look out, those cloven hoofs would be pressing out his life.
There was no time to rest, even for a little while. Let him get up, keep going somehow. He must fight on.
