He couldn't stand up to that weight, he realized; and, sucking for breath, he backed and side-stepped into the front end of the car, his neck hurting and his head banged half dizzy. "But I got to him, too!" Gregg told himself; and, waiting till Russell was sure he was backing to the end, he sprang forward, hooked his right to Russell's face, got hit on the head, but also he got by and escaped to the side and backed off before Russell down the car.
Reason clamored to Gregg that he was beaten; Russell already had him running away in an enclosure, chosen by himself, in which he could not successfully run. But Russell didn't press him; Russell could not believe the fight was meant to be fair; what confused Russell was his certainty of a trick. He followed Gregg down the car as far as the open door beside which Gregg had dropped his coats; then, feinting a rush, Russell suddenly stooped and snatched up the coat which, he supposed, held the revolver. In that second, Gregg saw his chance and was on him, right and left to Russell's head; Russell shook, crouched, tried to dodge and then took it, right and left pounding him again. "Worth it," Russell undoubtedly was figuring, to get his gun again.
Gregg couldn't tell whether Russell discovered the revolver wasn't in the pocket or whether he wouldn't stand the battering any longer; anyway, Russell dropped the coat, lunged at Gregg, rushed him and, not trying to strike, he grabbed at Gregg's arms; got one, the right; grabbed it hard, twisting and, at the same second, swinging himself and swinging Gregg to hurl him against the side of the car.
But Gregg pulled upon him, clenched and was clenched; so they went down, arms winding each other,
