From the group of slightly disgusted onlookers, a huge and tawny shape burst forth; hurtling through the air, straight for the fat throat of the boaster.
Rhuburger, by some heaven-sent instinct, flung up his arms to shield his menaced jugular.

He had no time to do more.
Lad's fury-driven eighty pounds of muscular weight crashed full against his chest.

Lad's terrible teeth, missing their throat-goal, drove deep into the uplifted right forearm; shearing through imported tweed coat-sleeve and through corded silken shirt, and through flabby flesh and clean to the very bone.
The dog's lion-roar blended with the panic-screeches of the victim.
And, under that fearful impact, Rhuburger reeled back from the stairhead, and went crashing down the steps, to the broad stone flagging at the bottom.
Not once, during that meteoric, shriek-punctured downward flight, did Lad loose his grip on the torn forearm.

But as the two struck the flagging at the bottom, he shifted his hold, with lightning speed; stabbing once more for the exposed jugular.
He lunged murderously at his mark.

Yes, and this time he found it.