The one who was going through his victims' pockets straightened up, caught Hector's fist with his open left palm, and called to two of the others:
“'Ere, Bill—'Enery! Lend us a 'and!”
And the three went for Hector, employing tactics quite unknown to the late lamented Marquis of Queensberry, and it looked desperate for Hector Wade.
He dodged and danced and grappled. His breath came in short, staccato bursts. At one and the same time he was trying to land blow, to parry blow, to sidestep kicking feet and crashing elbows, and to gain the side of the man and the girl, and the odds were against him; a rough knuckle caught him on the left temple, an open palm hit the point of his chin, the man called 'Enery dodged within the very crook of Hector's powerful right arm, and grappled, the others closing in the next moment like hounds pulling down a stag. Hector felt himself seized about the chest under the armpits by a bearlike grasp. For a second he felt as if his ribs were crushing in his lungs. A sickening smell of gin and sweat and rank tobacco rose to his nostrils. His temples throbbed. The roof of his mouth felt parched.
Grappling, straining, cursing, he fell to the ground, 'Enery on top of him. Bill booting him in the ribs, the third man dancing about, watching his chance for a knockout blow. He shot his fist to Hector's jaw, bending down; but the latter jerked his head back in the nick of time; and, the next second, with a sudden, hard bunching of muscles, he pinioned 'Enery's arms to his sides, spread his strong legs, and tried desperately
