The result was that he was slowly throttling White Fang. The
latter's breath was drawn with greater and greater difficulty as the
moments went by.
It began to look as though the battle were over. The backers of Cherokee
waxed jubilant and offered ridiculous odds. White Fang's backers were
correspondingly depressed, and refused bets of ten to one and twenty to
one, though one man was rash enough to close a wager of fifty to one.
This man was Beauty Smith. He took a step into the ring and pointed his
finger at White Fang. Then he began to laugh derisively and scornfully.
This produced the desired effect. White Fang went wild with rage. He
called up his reserves of strength, and gained his feet. As he struggled
around the ring, the fifty pounds of his foe ever dragging on his throat,
his anger passed on into panic. The basic life of him dominated him
again, and his intelligence fled before the will of his flesh to live.
Round and round and back again, stumbling and falling and rising, even
uprearing at times on his hind-legs and lifting his foe clear of the
earth, he struggled vainly to shake off the clinging death.
At last he fell, toppling backward, exhausted; and the bull-dog promptly
shifted his grip, getting in closer, mangling more and more of the fur-
folded flesh, throttling White Fang more severely than ever.
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