* * * * * The Dropper found himself in the grip of a situation not exactly to his liking. He backed from Fay. He crashed over the screen. He turned, thrust Emily aside, and shelved forward his shoulders in an aggressive posture. His brows worked up and down. The scar on his cheek grew livid. “Hol’ on,” he started to protest. Fay stepped swiftly forward, whipped over a lightning uppercut, and jabbed with his left fist toward the brute’s stomach. Both blows had force enough to land the Dropper against the card-table. He went down like a pole-axed bullock. He rose in his might and rage. His bellowing could have been heard a block away. He came at Fay unskillfully--thrown off balance by the sudden attack. The clean life of a supercrook stood Fay in good stead. His weight was less than half that of the Dropper’s. But he more than made up for this by the swiftness of his blows. He tormented the brute by jabs, hooks and side-stepping. The Dropper was no novice at boxing. Once, years before, he had been Honest Abe’s chief bouncer. He had broken men’s heads and hurled derelicts from barrooms. He knew the rudiments of wrestling. Slowly his thick brain came into action. He covered his jaw with a shelving shoulder. He put down his bulletlike head and started to bore through the rain of blows. With wild swings he forced Fay against the poker-table. It went over and rolled to the wall near where Emily crouched. The cracksman glided around the Dropper and shadow-tormented him. He struck straight from the shoulder. He was two-fisted and agile. Each flash of his eye was marked by a stinging blow. A crescendo of effort, all to the brute’s purple face, had its effect. The Dropper started gasping. He lowered his fists. He breathed, waiting. He grunted as he followed Fay--blindly, grossly. A red gleam showed where his lids were puffing. * * * * * Fay felt his own strength waning. He called on all his latent nerve-force. He became a tiger. He leaped, drove a smashing fist between the Dropper’s gorilla-like brows, stepped back, dodged a swing, then repeated the blow. He played for this mark. The fury of his assault was like an air-hammer on a rivet. It deadened the brute’s brain. It made him all animal. A bull’s roar filled the room. Goaded to an open defense, the Dropper abandoned science. He tried to grasp his tormentor. His huge hands groped through the air. He stumbled and searched. He fell over a chair. He rose to his knees. Fay waited, hooked a short, elbow-jab between the eyes. He followed with his left. His arm snapped in its sting. He backed, side-stepped, and started around the Dropper, delivering blows like a cooper finishing a barrel. A red rage came to the cracksman that was terrible in its ferocity. He forgot Emily. He saw only the swollen thing before him. He wanted to kill. He sought for the opening.