Sometimes this white-faced, laughing devil ducked under his arms.

Sometimes a sidestep made his blows miss by the slightest fraction of an inch.
And for every blow he struck four rained home against him.

It was impossible! It could not be! Silent telling himself that he dreamed, and those dancing fists crashed into his face and body like sledgehammers.

There was no science in the thing which faced him.

Had there been trained skill the second blow would have knocked Silent unconscious, and he knew it, but Dan made no effort to strike a vulnerable spot.