Whoop! begorry, it's the grane above the red!" There was a dull noise of a heavily struck blow.

A pair of short legs, waving frantically, traversed a complete semicircle, coming down with a crash at the edge of the bushes.

Through a rapidly swelling and badly damaged optic the pessimistic O'Brien gazed up in dazed bewilderment at the man already astride of his prostrate body.

It was a regenerated Norseman, the fierce battle-lust of the Vikings glowing in his blue eyes.

With fingers like steel claws he gripped the Irishman's shirt collar, driving his head back against the earth with every mad utterance.
"Ay ban Nels Swanson!" he exploded defiantly.