CHRISTOPHER IN HIS SPORTING JACKET 



wheeled waggons with the high canvas roofs, as the 

 might of Teeger prevailed, and the indomitable Fro 

 seemed to be on his last legs beneath a grip of the 

 jugular, and then stretched motionless and passive 

 — in defeat or death. A mere 7-use to recover wind. 

 Like unshorn Samson starting from his sleep, and 

 snapping like fired flax the vain bands of the Philis- 

 tines, Fro whawmled Teeger off", and twisting round 

 his head in spite of the grip on the jugular, the skin 

 stretching and giving way in a ghastly but unfelt 

 wound, he suddenly seized with all his tusks his an- 

 tagonist's eye, and bit it clean out of the socket. A 

 yowl of unendurable pain — spouting of blood — sick- 

 ness — swooning — tumbling over — and death. His last 

 fight is over! His remaining eye glazed — his pro- 

 truded tongue bitten in anguish by his own grinding 

 teeth — his massy hind legs stretched out with a kick 

 like a horse — his short tail stiffens — he is laid out a 

 grim corpse — flung into a cart tied behind the wag- 

 gon — and off to the tan-yard. 



No shouts of victory — but stern, sullen, half- 

 ashamed silence — as of guilty things after the per- 

 petration of a misdeed. Still glaring savagely, ere yet 

 the wrath of fight has subsided in his heart, and 

 going and returning to the bloody place, uncertain 

 whether or not his enemy were about to return. Fro 

 finally lies down at some distance, and with bloody 

 [78] 



