Ducking swiftly under a fourth blow, he essayed to fling his arms round the American's waist. As the mighty arms shot out for the deadly embrace, the Bucking Bronco's knee flew up with terrific force, to smash the face so temptingly passed above it. Like a flash the face swerved to the left, the knee missed it, and the American's leg was instantly seized as in a vice.
The spectators held their breath. Was this the end? Rivoli had him! Could there be any hope for him?
There could. This was "rough-housin'"—and at "rough-housin'" the Bucking Bronco had had few equals. He suddenly thought of one of the fights of his life—at 'Frisco, with the bucko mate of a hell-ship on which he had made a trip as fo'c's'le-hand, from the Klondyke. The mate had done his best to kill him at sea, and the Bucking Bronco had "laid for him" ashore as the mate quitted the ship. It had been "some" fight and the mate had collared his leg in just the same way. He would try the method that had then been successful.… He seized the Italian's neck with both huge hands, and, with all his strength, started to throttle him—his thumbs on the back of his opponent's neck, his fingers crushing relentlessly into his throat. Of course Rivoli would throw him—that was to be expected—but that would not free Rivoli's throat. Not by any manner of means. With a fair and square two-handed hold on the skunk's throat, it would be no small thing to get that throat free again while there was any life left in its proprietor.…
With a heave and a thrust, the Italian threw the Bucking Bronco heavily and fell heavily upon him.
