The young stranger’s face grew a shade more disdainful as he noted the action.  He himself removed coat, waistcoat, and collar, all of which he handed to the farmer who had offered to assist him in making good his escape.

“Just look after these for a minute!” he said.

“You’re a cool hand,” said the other man admiringly.  “I’ll see you don’t get bullied anyhow.”

The young man nodded his thanks.  He looked down at his hands and slowly clenched and opened them again.

“Oh, I shan’t be bullied,” he said, in a tone of grim conviction.

And then the fight began.

It was obvious from the outset that it could not be a very prolonged one.  Samson attacked with furious zest.  He evidently expected to find his opponent very speedily at his mercy, and he made no attempt to husband his strength.  But his blows went wide.  The English lad avoided them with an agility that kept him practically unscathed.  Had he been a hard hitter, he might have got in several blows himself, but he only landed one or two.  His face was set and white as a marble mask in which only the eyes lived—­eyes that watched with darting intensity for the chance to close.  And when that chance came he took it so suddenly and so unexpectedly that not one of the hard-breathing, silent crowd around him saw exactly how he gained his hold.  One moment he was avoiding a smashing, right-handed blow; the next he had his adversary locked in a grip of iron, the while he bent and strained for the mastery.

From then onwards an element that was terrible became apparent in the conflict.  From a simple fisticuff it developed into a deadly struggle between skilled strength and strength that was merely brutal.  Silently, with heaving, convulsive movements, the two struggling figures swayed to and fro.  One of Samson’s arms was imprisoned in that unyielding clutch.  The other rained blows upon his adversary’s head and shoulders that produced no further effect than if they had been bestowed upon cast-iron.

The grip of the boy’s arms only grew tighter and tighter with snake-like force, while a dreadful smile came into the young face and became stamped there, engraved in rigid lines.  His lower lip was caught between his teeth, and a thin stream of blood ran from it over the smooth, clean-cut chin.  It was the only sign he gave that he was putting forth the whole of his strength.

A murmur of surprise that had in it a note of uneasiness began to run through the ring of onlookers.  They had seen many a fight before, but never a fight like this.  Samson’s face had gone from red to purple.  His eyes had begun to start.  Quite plainly he also was taken by surprise.  Desperately, with a streaming forehead, he changed his tactics.  He had no skill.  Until that day he had relied upon superior strength and weight to bring him victorious through every casual fray; and it had never before failed him.  But that merciless, suffocating hold compelled him to abandon offensive measures to effect his escape.  He stopped his wild and futile hammering and with his one free hand he grasped the back of his opponent’s neck.