A man threw a long knife at me out of a sling. Instinctively I
caught the weapon as if it had been a ball hot off the bat. In doing
so I dropped my sabre and was cut across the fingers. He came at
me fiercely, clubbing his gun - a raw-boned, swarthy giant, broad
as a barn door. I caught the barrel as it came down. He tried to
wrench it away, but I held firmly. Then he began to push up to me.
I let him come, and in a moment we were grappling hip and thigh.
He was a powerful man, but that was my kind of warfare. It gave
me comfort when I felt the grip of his hands. I let him tug a jiffy,
and then caught him with the old hiplock, and he went under me
so hard I could hear the crack of his bones. Our support came then.
We made him prisoner, with some two hundred other men.
Reserves came also and took away the captured guns. My
comrades gathered about me, cheering, but I had no suspicion of
what they meant. I thought it a tribute to my wrestling. Men lay
thick there back of the guns - some dead, some calling faintly for
help.
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