But he was slashing away with his knife in a frenzy of despair, and,
apparently, was doing some execution, for every time he struck the wolf
let out a little whine of angry pain.
But the wolf had all the best of it now, and as Ted's foot slipped on
some pieces of dry grass he went down with the heavy brute on top of
him.
He could feel it nuzzling at his neck for a toothhold on his throat, but
he kept his chin pressed close to his neck, and, although the wolf
chewed his shirt to pieces, it had found no room to get its teeth into
the boy's flesh.
Ted had no time now to play with the knife. It was not up to him to
conquer the wolf now, but to keep it from taking his life.
Had his revolver been with him he could have ended the fight with a
couple of shots, even if the brute seemed to have a dozen lives, for he
knew that had any one of the knife thrusts which he had planted in the
wolf's body been given to an ordinary specimen of the species the fight
would have been over long since.
The wolf was standing on him, and its weight crushed him.
All he could do in self-defense was to try to get the wolf by the throat
with his bare hands and to choke it.
But the hair about its throat was a thick, almost impenetrable mass of
heavy, thick-growing bristles, on which Ted's hands had apparently no
effect at all.
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