THE ‘FIGHTER FROM FIGHTERSVILLE. 155 
already doubled up like a bow; needs, there- 
fore, but to straighten—snap !—like a spring, 
and he jumped almost an inch. The spider 
landed upon a beetle that wasn’t there, so to 
speak ; but next fraction of a second he was 
there—on her back—his jaws buried in the 
base of her head—and she was dead. It had 
lasted only two seconds, that fight—that ’s all— 
but it was pretty crowded while it did last. 
Later that evening, when the bats were 
flickering about the sky, and the moon bathed 
all things in white light, the beetle might have 
been seen droning away down the garden, his 
wing-shields stretched out like ‘flying-jibs,’ 
his wings unfurled and vibrating like a minia- 
ture Gnome engine, his legs gathered together 
under him. 
He hit a man in the face, cannoned off to a 
wall, ran into a moth—which he slew—whirring 
along in the opposite direction, narrowly missed 
being slain in his turn by a swooping bat, and 
rising clear, his wings whirring louder and 
louder, beat away up into the summer night 
sky, away, away to the dim, black, brooding 
mystery of the woods, his home, 
