"I am Jan Thoreau!" he shrieked. "I am Jan Thoreau--Jan Thoreau--come
to keel you!" He dropped his club, and was upon the man's chest, his
slender fingers tightening like steel wire about the thick throat of
his enemy. "I keel you slow--slow!" he cried, as the missioner
struggled weakly.
The great thick body heaved under him, and he put all his strength
into his hands. Something struck him in the face. Something struck him
again and again, but he felt neither the pain nor the force of it, and
his voice sobbed out his triumph as he choked. The man's hands reached
up and tore at his hair; but Jan saw only the missioner's mottled face
growing more mottled, and his eyes staring in greater agony up into
his own.
"I am Jan Thoreau," he panted again and again. "I am Jan Thoreau, an'
I keel you--keel you!"
The blood poured from his face. It blinded him until he could no
longer see the one from which he was choking life. He bent down his
head to escape the blows. The man's body heaved more and more; it
turned until he was half under it; but still he hung to the thick
throat, as the weasel hangs in tenacious death to the jugular of its
prey.
The missioner's weight was upon him in crushing force now. His huge
hands struck and tore at the boy's head and face, and then they had
fastened themselves at his neck.
Pages:
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76