At the first
rushing impact I shouted to Harry: "Keep your back to the wall,"
and for response I got a high, ringing laugh that breathed the
joy of battle.
The thing was sickening. Harry is a natural fighting man; I am
not. Without the wall at our backs we would have been overpowered
in thirty seconds; as it was, we were forced to handle half a
dozen of them at once, while the others surged in from behind.
They had no weapons, but they had the advantage of being able to
see us.
They clutched my throat, my arms, my legs, my body; there was no
room to strike; I pushed the knife home. They fastened themselves
to my legs and feet and tried to bring me down from beneath;
once, in slashing at the head of one whose teeth were set in my
calf, I cut myself on the knee. It was difficult to stand in the
wet, slippery pool that formed at my feet.
Suddenly I heard a sound that I understood too well--the curious,
rattling sound of a man who is trying to call out when he is
being strangled.
"Harry!" I cried, and I fought like a wild man to get to him,
with knife, feet, hands, teeth. I reached his coat, his arm; it
was dangerous to strike so near him in the dark, but I felt him
sinking to the ground.
Pages:
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121