wrist, opening her fingers to a clutch. The men recognized the challenge and applauded.
"Bet she kin put you down, Hollister! You ain't game to try!"
Hollister scowled but he could not avoid the test. Mary Burrows looked a trifle anxious but Thora's blood was up. And there was a method back of the sport she proposed.
Hollister was not wearing a coat. He rolled up his sleeve from his hairy, corded arm, displaying muscles that might be a little flabby from drink and lack of exercise but which showed powerfully. The little frown on the girl's face deepened and Sheridan felt apprehensive that Thora might go down to defeat. A small thing might turn the tide. To pass the affair off without disturbance was the prime thing. Hollister, triumphant, might prove difficult to handle with gloves.
But he gasped when Thora rolled back the sleeve of her sweater. Her skin was startlingly fair above the sunburn of the wrist. It did not have the pearly quality of Mary Burrows'; it was like the arm of a marble statue brought to life. It had symmetry denied a man's but there were few men who would not have been proud of the packs of muscle that swelled and rippled in smooth sheathes as she flexed and unflexed them.
"You must not lift up from the table," she warned, as Hollister adjusted himself in his chair and then set his brown, furry forearm up against hers in vivid contrast, elbow to elbow, thumb locking thumb, four fingers clasped over four. He set out all his
