him. Sooner or later he would
accomplish his purpose, get the grip that would win the battle. In the
meantime, he accepted all the punishment the other could deal him. His
tufts of ears had become tassels, his neck and shoulders were slashed in
a score of places, and his very lips were cut and bleeding--all from
these lightning snaps that were beyond his foreseeing and guarding.

Time and again White Fang had attempted to knock Cherokee off his feet;
but the difference in their height was too great. Cherokee was too
squat, too close to the ground. White Fang tried the trick once too
often. The chance came in one of his quick doublings and
counter-circlings. He caught Cherokee with head turned away as he
whirled more slowly. His shoulder was exposed. White Fang drove in upon
it: but his own shoulder was high above, while he struck with such force
that his momentum carried him on across over the other's body. For the
first time in his fighting history, men saw White Fang lose his footing.
His body turned a half-somersault in the air, and he would have landed on
his back had he not twisted, catlike, still in the air, in the effort to
bring his feet to the earth. As it was, he struck heavily on his side.
The next instant he was on his feet, but in that instant Cherokee's teeth
closed on his throat.

It was not a good grip, being too low down toward the chest; but Cherokee
held on. White Fang sprang to his feet and tore wildly around, trying to
shake off the bull-dog's body. It made him frantic, this clinging,
dragging weight. It bound his movements, restricted his freedom. It was
like the trap, and all his instinct resented it and revolted against it.
It was a mad revolt. For several minutes he was to all intents insane.
The basic life that was in him took charge of him. The will to exist of
his body surged over him. He was dominated by this mere flesh-love of
life. All intelligence was gone. It was as though he had no brain. His
reason was unseated by the blind yearning of the flesh to exist and move,
at all hazards to move, to continue to move, for movement was the
expression of its existence.

Round and round he went, whirling and turning and reversing, trying to
shake off the fifty-pound weight that dragged at his throat. The bull-
dog did little but keep his grip. Sometimes, and rarely, he managed to
get his feet to the earth and for a moment to brace himself against White
Fang. But the next