And, as these arms came together once more, in the bear-hug, Brice shot over a burning left-hander to the beach-comber's unguarded jaw.

Up flew the big arms in belated parry, but not soon enough to block a deliberately-aimed right swing, which Brice drove whizzing into the jaw's point.
The brace of blows rocked the giant, so that he reeled drunkenly under their dynamic force.

The average man must have been floored and even knocked senseless by such well-directed smashes to so vital a spot.

But the beach-comber merely staggered back, seeking instinctively to guard his battered face, and to regain his balance.
In at the reeling foe tore Gavin Brice, showering him with systematic punches to every vulnerable spot above the belt line.

It was merciless punishment, and it was delivered with rare deftness.
Yet, the iron-bodied man on whom it was inflicted merely grunted again and, under the avalanche of blows, managed to regain his balance and plunge back to the assault.