The other car just barely skinned by the rear, the pinqui fired a parting shot, and Cabot’s kerkool was off for the open country again. The ant-man at his side turned out to be only stunned, which probably accounts for his not letting go the levers and wrecking the car when he was shot. He was rapidly recovering, and Cabot was unarmed, having dropped his revolver when he had sprung to seize the controls. * * * * * The rifle of the ant was lying beneath the ant’s body. Cabot stopped the kerkool as quickly as possible, and pondered for a moment on what course to take next. Escape from the ant would be easy; but if he fled, his whole brilliant scheme for obtaining possession of a kerkool would have gone for naught. To attempt to wrench the rifle from beneath the rapidly recuperating beast would probably bring the latter fully to his senses. Therefore, the only thing to do appeared to be to grapple with the Formian at once; and by taking him by surprise, try to get a strangle hold on him in his present comatose condition. Imagine tackling single-handed an ant with the brain of a man, the size of a horse, with razor-sharp mandibles! But it was Cabot’s only hope. If he could get the better of the Formian before the latter fully came to his senses, Myles had a bare chance of victory. As bad luck would have it, the ant man came to his senses before Cabot did get the better of him. But not before Cabot had placed both hands under the edge of the ant’s head, preparatory to twisting his neck, which is the weakest and most vulnerable spot on a Formian, the spot always sought in their frequent duels. A moment more of leeway, and this plan would have succeeded. But as it was, Myles was just too late. A sweep of the ant’s leg and Cabot’s right hand was dislodged and held down to the floor. The ant’s jaw clicked savagely, as he turned and faced his opponent; but still the man’s left hand held him off. This could not last long. Cabot’s left arm was gradually weakening. Nearer and nearer came the ant’s jaws to his throat. The fingers of his right hand twitched convulsively as he strove to release that arm. And then those fingers touched something familiar. With one last supreme effort, he moved his hand sufficiently to grasp his lost revolver. A shot severed the leg which was holding him, and in an instant he had thrust the smoking weapon squarely between the horrid jaws and fired again. The battle was over. It was Cabot’s last cartridge, but the battle was over.