Tom Reade next schemed to land a hard kick against the negro's shins. Ere
he had his foot well lifted, however, the watchful Sambo seemed to divine
the intent. He gave a quick twist at the coat collar that made Reade's
head swim. It was some time before the young engineer's head recovered
from that sudden confusion and blackness.
"Am' yo' gwine beliebe dat yo' kain't wish no kind oh a trick ober on me?"
demanded the black man in an injured tone. "Ah nebber seen no odder w'ite
man dat had such a ha'd time beliebing w'at Ah done tole him!"
"I've got to land this wicked brute, some way, or I may as well conclude
that the jig is danced through, as far as I am concerned," Reade thought
ruefully.
Panting, quivering, in dread of being choked again, and much harder, Tom
tried to think fast in the effort to devise some new plan for worsting
this terrible opponent.
"I've been fooling myself all along," Tom told himself, with a sinking
heart. "I've been up against several men who were too weak or too cowardly
to fight, and I've somehow gained the opinion that I could fight. But
this black fellow has taken all the conceit out of me. I was a fool ever
to think that I could fight! I'm nothing but a piece of jelly---or putty!"
Of a sudden Reade tried to wrench himself free at the collar, at the same
time raising his right knee with a forceful jerk.
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