ails that dug
deep from the corner of his eyelid and brought the blood. As he shifted
his hold she wrenched loose, leaving strands of brown hair in his
fingers, and jumped for the door. In her spring she saw, too late, the
pistol on the table. She drew the bolt, half opening the door before he
caught her and dragged her back again.

"You wildcat," he panted. "I'll fix you."

Like a panther Molly fought, matching her young muscles against his,
striking, clawing, biting. Her riding coat ripped, the neck of her waist
was torn away. Maddened at her resistance he struck back. Once he got
her about the throat, but her fingers were at his face, tearing at his
eyes and he had to beat her off. The girl fought with all the sublimated
despair of attacked womanhood, the man like a gorilla. The struggle was
unequal, with more than forty pounds in favor of Plimsoll though, if
Molly had possessed the puniest of weapons, she might have won. He held
her at last, close to him, one arm wrapped about her, his right hand
forcing the heel of the palm under her tucked-in chin, slowly,
inexorably forcing it back while his bleeding, distorted face lowered.
This time her arms were locked in, bent double, useless. Her kicks were
futile, she had only her teeth left and she was going to try those. But
she knew her strength sapped, knew in another moment or two she would be
at the mercy of this brute who did not know the meaning of the word.

A shadow barred the half-open door, low down. A pointed head appeared
with blazing eyes, with a neck-ruff flaring high. White teeth showed as
red gums bared in hate and, forgetting the wounded leg that had held him
back, Grit hurled himself in a staggering but magnificent leap. He could
not reach Plimsoll's throat, he had lost much of his momentum through
the damaged leg, he lacked power from loss of blood, but fury gave him
strength for the spring that brought his teeth within reach of
Plimsoll's right wrist, exposed; the cuff half-way up the forearm.
Grit's teeth slashed like chisels, ripping through flesh, tendon and
artery, sending jets of blood spurting before Plimsoll, with a yell of
surprise and consternation, flung Molly into a corner, dazed and weak,
and threw up his left forearm to guard against the dog's second leap.

It fell short. Plimsoll's right hand, scattering blood, groped blindly
for the gun on the table behind him. He found the barrel and brought the
heavy butt down with a crash on Grit's