Drawing the neckerchief from his pocket, Ravenslee crossed over and
tapped M'Ginnis on the arm, who, turning about, stared into a pallid
face within a foot of his own.
"What th' hell--" he began, but Ravenslee cut him short.
"You left this behind you," said he, thrusting forward the neckerchief,
"so I've brought it to twist around that foul throat of yours. Now,
M'Ginnis--fight!"
Thrusting the neckerchief into his pocket, Ravenslee clenched his fists,
and, saying no more, they closed and fought--not as men, but rather as
brute beasts eager to maim and rend.
M'Ginnis's companions, dumbfounded by the sudden ferocity of it all,
stood awhile inactive, staring at those two forms that lurched and
swayed, that strove and panted, grimly speechless. Then, closing in,
they waited an opportunity to smite down M'Ginnis's foe from behind. But
the Spider was watching, and, before either of them could kick or
strike, his fists thudded home--twice--hard blows aimed with scientific
precision; after which, having dragged the fallen away from those
fierce-trampling feet, he stood, quivering and tense, to watch that
desperate encounter.
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