In at the reeling foe tore Gavin Brice, showering him with systematic punches to every vulnerable spot above the belt line.  It was merciless punishment, and it was delivered with rare deftness.

Yet, the iron-bodied man on whom it was inflicted merely grunted again and, under the avalanche of blows, managed to regain his balance and plunge back to the assault.  A born fighter, he was now obsessed with but one idea, namely, to destroy this smaller and faster opponent who was hurting him so outrageously.  As far as the beach comber was concerned:  it was a murder-battle now, with no question of mercy asked or given.

The collie had been viewing this astounding scene in eager interest.  Never before, in his short life, had he seen two humans fight.  And, even now, he was not at all certain that it was a fight and not some intensely thrilling game.  Thus had he watched two boys wrestle and box, in his own puppyhood.  And, for venturing to jump into that jolly fracas, he had been scolded and sent back to his kennel.

Yet, there was something about this clash, between the giant who had mistreated him and the softer-voiced man who had rescued him, which spoke of mad excitement, and which stirred the collie’s own excitable temperament to the very depths.  Dancingly, he pattered around the fighters, tulip ears cocked, deep-set eyes aglow, his fanfare of barks echoing far back through the silent woods.

The beach comber, rallying from the dual jaw-bombardment, bored back at his foe, taking the heaviest and most scientific punishment, in a raging attempt to gather Brice once more into the trap of his terrible arms.  But Gavin kept just out of reach, moving with an almost insolent carelessness, and ever flashing some painful blow to face or to body as he retreated.

Then, as the other charged, Gavin sidestepped with perfect ease, and, when the beach-comber wheeled clumsily to face him, threw one foot forward and at the same time pushed the larger man’s shoulder violently with his open palm.  It was a repetition of the “leverage theory” Gavin had so recently been expounding to his antagonist.  It caught the lunging giant at precisely the right non-balance angle, as he was turning about.  And, for the second time, the beach-comber sat down on the trampled sand, with unexpected suddenness and force.

Gavin Brice laughed aloud, with boyish mischief, and stood back, waiting for the cursing madman to scramble to his feet again.  But, as the beach comber leaped up—­and before he could get fairly balanced on his legs—­another foot-and-palm maneuver sent him sprawling.

This time the puffing and foaming and insanely-badgered man did not try at once to rise.  Instead, his hand whipped back to his thigh.

“My clumsy friend,” Brice was saying, pleasantly, “I’m afraid you’ll never win that watch.  Shall we call it a day and quit?  Or—­”

He broke off with an exclamation of genuine wrath.  For, with astonishing swiftness, the big hand had flown to the hip of the ragged trousers, had plucked a short-bladed fishing knife from its sheath, and had hurled it, dexterously, with the strength of a catapult, straight at his smiling adversary’s throat.