of Thurg, as, with another ferocious bellow, he launched himself toward the author of his old hurt.
Thandar met the charge with his short stick of pointed hard wood—his “sword” he called it. It entered the fleshy part of Thurg’s breast, calling forth a howl of pain and a trickling stream of crimson.
Thurg retreated. This was no way to fight. He was scandalized.
For several minutes he stood glaring at his foe, screaming hideous threats and insults at him. Then once more he charged.
Again the painful point entered his body, but this time he pressed in clutching madly at the goad and for a hold upon Thandar’s body.
The latter held Thurg at arm’s length, prodding him with the fire-hardened point of his wooden sword.
The cave man’s little brain wondered at the skill and prowess of this stranger who had struck him a single blow with a cudgel many moons before and then run like a rabbit to escape his wrath.
Why was it that he did not run now? What strange change had taken place in him? He had expected an easy victim when he finally had recognized his foe; but instead he had met with brawn and ferocity equal to his own and with a strange
