And when that chance came he took it so suddenly and so unexpectedly that not one of the hard-breathing, silent crowd around him saw exactly how he gained his hold.

One moment he was avoiding a smashing, right-handed blow; the next he had his adversary locked in a grip of iron, the while he bent and strained for the mastery.
From then onwards an element that was terrible became apparent in the conflict.

From a simple fisticuff it developed into a deadly struggle between skilled strength and strength that was merely brutal.

Silently, with heaving, convulsive movements, the two struggling figures swayed to and fro.

One of Samson's arms was imprisoned in that unyielding clutch.
The other rained blows upon his adversary's head and shoulders that produced no further effect than if they had been bestowed upon cast-iron.
The grip of the boy's arms only grew tighter and tighter with snake-like force, while a dreadful smile came into the young face and became stamped there, engraved in rigid lines.