of trees, savagely contending for the mastery. That he was a trained athlete, acquainted with every wrestler's trick, I knew in a moment, yet this gave me little fear—for this was to be a fight, no wrestling game. Strong, quick, agile as the man was, I never doubted I was his match, and, as I felt strength come back into my numbed hand, and realized that I could clinch it again, I felt coldly confident. Once, twice, I drove my knuckles into his exposed face, compelling him to loosen grip, and throw up his hands in protection. And then I had him; not that he was devoid of skill as a boxer—sooth he possessed tricks of defense unknown to me—but his was the professional knowledge of the West Point gym, while I had graduated from the rough school of the camp; where he had trained for points, for fancy milling, I had fought to win against desperate opponents. The difference told, for I beat him down, caring nothing for what blows reached me, so that I smashed in through his guard, and landed. Again and again I feinted with my right, and drove my left straight to the exposed jaws. I gave him no time to cry out, to even catch a full breath. There was no sound to be heard a hundred feet away. I became a machine, grimly determined, a desire to punish throbbing in my veins. He fought cat-like and foul, but I only laughed, and angered him. I drove
