GRIMALKIN THE CAT 149 
he partially missed his hold, and fastening into 
the shoulder instead, clung there like a leech. 
Grimalkin felt the hot blood trickle down, and, 
wild with fear and wrath, he smote and bit des- 
perately at the clinging death which hung upon 
his neck. He had never encountered an enemy 
who fought after this fashion. His claws ripped 
the stoat's flank. With a squeak, Keen shifted his 
hold from the shoulder to the throat, half throttling 
Grimalkin. The combat raged to and fro, the cat 
striking, spitting, writhing, and the stoat battered, 
torn, flung this way and that, but all the while 
burying his fangs deeper in his victim's flesh. The 
death which Keen deals is slow but very sure. 
The dog worries, and the cat tears his prey, but 
the stoat silently sucks the life-blood, until the 
quarry, struggle as he may, succumbs at last, with 
only four tiny wounds in the throat to show how his 
strength was drained away. 
A battle on these terms could not last. Already 
the great cat was tiring weakened by loss of blood 
and the weight on his neck. He rolled over ex- 
hausted, and although his claws tore feebly at his 
enemy, his eyes were half closed and his tongue 
lolled out. Keen knew that his time had come. 
He loosened his hold for an instant, instinctively 
seeking a fresh grip upon the great blood-vessels 
