They were both barefooted. Evidently the Thomahlians fought in the old, classic manner. The stone under Watson's feet was cool and invigorating. He could sense anew that quiver of magnetism and strength. It sent a thrill through his whole body, like the subtle quickening of life. He felt vital, joyous, confident. The Senestro was smiling, his eyes flashing with anticipation. His muscled body was a network of soft movement. His step was catlike. “What will it be?” inquired Watson. “Name your choice of destruction.” But the Bar shook his head. “Not so, Sir Phantom. You shall choose the manner of your death, not I. Particular I am not, nor selfish.” “Make it wrestling, then,” in his most off-hand manner. He was a good wrestler, and scientific. “Good. Are you ready?” “Quite.” “Very well, Sir Phantom. I shall walk to the edge of the Spot and turn around. I would take no unfair advantage. Now!” Chick turned at the same moment and strode to his edge. He turned, and it happened; just what, Chick never knew. He remembered seeing his opponent turn slowly about, and in the next split second he was spinning in the clutch of a tiger. Even before they struck the stone, Chick could feel the Senestro reaching for a death-hold. And in that one second Watson knew that he was in the grip of his master. His mind functioned like lightning. His legs and arms flashed for the counterhold that would save him. They struck the Spot and rolled over and over. Chick caught his hold, but the Senestro broke it almost instantly. Yet it had saved him; for a minute they spun around like a pair of whirligigs. Watson kept on the defensive. He had not the speed and skill of the other. It was no mere test to touch his shoulders; it was a fight to the death; he was at a disadvantage. He worked desperately. When a man fights for his life he becomes superhuman. Watson was put to something more than his skill; the sheer spirit of the Bar broke hold after hold; he was like lightning, panther-like, subtle, vicious. Time after time he spun Chick out of his defense and bore him down into a hold of death. And each time Chick somehow wriggled out, and saved himself by a new hold. The struggle became a blur--muscle, legs, the lust for killing--and hatred. Twice Watson essayed the offensive; first he got a hammer lock, and then a half-Nelson. The Bar broke both holds immediately. Whatever Chick knew of wrestling, the Senestro knew just a bit more. It was a whirling mass of legs and bodies in continuous convulsion, silent except for the terrible panting of the men, and the low, stifled exclamations of the onlookers. And then-- Watson grew weak. He tried once more. They spun to their feet. But before he could act the Senestro had caught him in the same flying rush as in the beginning, and had whirled him off his feet. And when he came down the Bar had an unbreakable hold.