Ward's beard brushed his face as the teeth went in for the grip on his throat.
Ward was saying, and Dave noted that his face and eyes were cruel and gloating and proud.
Ward was forty years of age, a successful business man, and very unhappy.
James Ward then concluded the performance by giving a song that always irresistibly rushed to his lips when he was engaged in fierce struggling or fighting.
After the satisfaction of his nights, a morning's sleep, and a breakfast of Lee Sing's, James Ward crossed the bay to San Francisco on a midday ferryboat and went to the club and on to his office, as normal and conventional a man of business as could be found in the city.
Thus it was that James Ward made a fresh and heroic effort to control the Teutonic barbarian that was half of him.
One rip of the beast's claws had dragged away Ward's pajama-coat and streaked his flesh with blood.
Ward, the San Francisco business man, but one, unnamed and unknown, a crude, rude savage creature who, by some freak of chance, lived again after thrice a thousand years.
His guests rushed to possess him and acclaim him, but James Ward, suddenly looking out of the eyes of the early Teuton, saw the fair frail Twentieth Century girl he loved, and felt something snap in his brain.
The time passed quickly; when Miss Ward sent for him to take off her skates there was a general groan and declaration that it could not possibly be half-past eight o'clock yet.
When the door was opened, he saw Miss Ward standing behind the maid who admitted him.