It died in another sort of cry. From
where he had dropped Philip was up like a shot. His club swung
through the air and before the amazed hooded creature could dart
either to one side or the other it had fallen with crushing force.
That one blow must have smashed his shoulder to a pulp. As the
body lurched downward another blow caught the hooded head squarely
and the beginning of a second cry ended in a sickening grunt. The
force of the blow carried Philip half off his feet, and before he
could recover himself two other figures had rushed upon him from
out of the gloom. Their cries as they came at him were like the
cries of beasts. Philip had no time to use his club. From his
unbalanced position he flung himself upward and at the nearest of
his enemies, saving himself from the upraised javelin by
clinching. His fist shot out and caught the Eskimo squarely in the
mouth. He struck again--and the javelin dropped from the
Kogmollock's hand. In that moment, every vein in his body pounding
with the rage and excitement of battle, Philip let out a yell.
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