THE CAT'S HOLIDAY
Thus, for the first time in his life, and against all expectation, Scarlett found himself a "principal" in a ring. He was too eager and angry to care, though his heart thumped curiously. Opposite him, Cutts, crouching already, and hunching upward one of his Atlantean shoulders, stretched out arms tattooed from wrist to deltoid in red and blue patterns on a satin skin,—arms heavy, long as a gorilla's, and rippling with tense muscles. Their padded hands clinched once, lightly, in formal salute. Then, as if stung by an electric contact, the two men sprang apart. The sailor,—his lips curled in a set, ominous smile, and his tattooed arms slowly working—crouched and shifted warily, like a bull-dog stealing in for his under-hold. Through a long, indelible moment, Scarlett noted the light scuff of their feet, a tinkle of the cat's bells in the hush, the heavy sweetness of incense, and smothered thunder
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