286
THE HAND OF PERIL
against a wall of high-piled lemon-crates. That tottering pillar of uneven units swayed outward, imparted its unsteadiness to other columns, and then came tumbling down in an ever-increasing avalanche of bales, half-burying the two figures under their weight, adding to the clamour and noise and confusion at the core of which those two madly threshing bodies still contended.
Not once did Kestner loosen his clutch. Not once did he give up. Not once did he relieve that cruel pressure. He knew that this movement was final, that with it he must lose or win, for all time. And he had suffered certain indignities, in the past, which did not leave him over-tender of heart. It was a fight to a finish; and this was the finish.
