The Englishman
was a beautiful taper from his great shoulders to his small aristocratic
feet. His muscles were long, graceful and knitted across his arms,
chest, and stomach like lace leather. He was built for swift enduring
action and could only have sprung from a race of men who had spent their
lives in play and luxury.
Farnol Greer, on the other hand, was as heavily moulded as a bulldog.
His arms were short and blocky; his shoulders welted with brawn; his
chest was two hairy hills, like a gorilla's, while across his stomach
muscles lay ridged like ropes. His waist was thick with pones of sinew
bulging over the hips, as one sees in the statue of Discobolus. It was
plain that Greer had labored tremendously all his life and that his
strength was simply wonderful.
It struck Madden as a strange coincidence that these two extreme types
of luxury and labor should meet in this furnace on the Sargasso and
fight for the trivial reason that one offended the other's sense of
music.
"All ready!" called Leonard.
The two men squared away at each other, Caradoc smiling sarcastically,
Greer grim as a gallows. Utter silence fell over the crowd. The fighters
crouched, bare fists up, staring at each other over the tips of their
guards.
For a moment Smith shifted around his man on his toes.
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