How this man should have suddenly
appeared in Paris, why he came there, and what he was going to do,
whether he was alone, or with his band concealed in the neighboring
doorways, Mok did not trouble his mind to consider. He held in his brazen
grip a creature whom he considered worse than the most devilish of
African devils, a villain who had been going to kill Cheditafa.
Every nerve under his black skin, every muscle that covered his bones,
and the two glasses of beer, sung out to him that the Rackbird could not
get away from him, and that the great hour of vengeance had arrived.
Banker had a pistol, but he had no chance to draw it. The arms of the
wild man were around him. His feet slipped from under him, and instantly
the two were rolling on the wet pavement. But only for an instant. Banker
was quick and light and strong to such a degree that no man but a
man-chimpanzee could have overpowered him in a struggle like that. Both
were on their feet almost as quickly as they went down, but do what he
would, Banker could not get out his pistol.
Those long black arms, one of them now bared to the shoulder, were about
him ever. He pulled, and tugged, and swerved. He half threw him one
instant, half lifted the next, but never could loosen the grasp of that
fierce creature, whose whole body seemed as tough and elastic as the
shoes he wore.
Together they fell, together they rolled in the dirty slime, together
they rose as if they had been shot up by a spring, and together they went
down again, rolling over each other, pulling, tearing, striking, gasping,
and panting.
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