Again and again, with all his
strength he tried to throw the other from him. Around and around the
room they staggered and lurched--and around and around them followed the
wizened, twisted form of old Jake, like a hovering hawk, darting in at
every opportunity for a blow, shrieking, yelling, cursing with
infuriated abandon. And then from below, a greater peril still, came the
opening and shutting of doors, voices calling--the tenement, at the
racket, like a hive of hornets disturbed, was beginning to stir into
life. If they caught him there! If they caught the Gray Seal there! It
brought a desperate strength to Jimmie Dale. He had heard too often that
slogan of the underworld--_death to the Gray Seal_!
He tore one of Thorold's arms free from his neck--they were cheek to
cheek--Thorold was snarling out a torrent of blasphemy with gasping
breath--he wrenched himself free still--and then, their two hands
outstretched and clasped together as though in some grim devil's waltz,
they reeled toward the bed at the far end of the room, and smashed into
a chair. And, as they lost their balance, Jimmie Dale, gathering all his
strength for the one supreme effort, hurled the other from him.
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