They were locked already in that silent, swaying grip which every fighting dog with any knowledge of the great game seeks to establish, to break which mere humans may put forth their utmost strength in vain.
The struggle was a desperate and a bloody one, and it speedily became apparent to the rider that he would have to dismount if he intended to put an end to it.
Fiercely he flung himself off his horse and threw the reins over the Vicarage gate-post.

Then, riding-crop in hand, he approached the swaying fighting animals.

It was like a ghastly wrestling-match.

Both were on their feet, struggling to and fro, each with jaws hard gripped upon the other's neck, each silent save for his spasmodic efforts to breathe.
"Stop it, damn you!" shouted the rider, slashing at them with the zeal of unrestrained fury.

"Caesar, you infernal brute, stop it, will you?
I'll kill you if you don't!" But Caesar was deaf to all threats and quite unconscious of the fact that his master and not his enemy was responsible for the flail-like strokes of the whirling lash.