Spring Street | Page 4

James H. Richardson
stomach and another ripped into his face. He
heard a wild shout from the crowd and the Mexican jumped back,
smiling. A trickle of blood dropped to his cheek from a cut over his eye.
He heard the Battler's seconds shout to their man to "tear into" him. He
watched, his left extended, his right close to his body.
The Battler rushed again, swaying from the hips. John's left fist found
its mark. He jabbed--once, twice, three times--and lashed out with his
right. The blow glanced off the Mexican's shoulders and they clinched.
He felt the Battler's strength in that clinch and he realized it was more
than his. The referee called "Break!" and they pushed away from each
other.
He must keep his head. The Mexican was fast; he pounced like a
panther. Blake's warning came back to him--"keep cool and wait." That
was it, wait, wait for a chance to land a blow that would end the fight.
He shot out his left again as the Battler came at him. It missed and the
strength he put behind it carried his head forward. Like a flash the
Mexican's right crashed to his jaw. John stumbled to his knees. The
referee was over him.
"One--two--three--four--five--six----"
He felt his head slowly clearing. What a punch that Mexican had! He
must get to his feet and cover.
"Seven--eight----"
He found strength to jump up. He saw nothing before him. He heard
shouting, miles away, it seemed. His arms were heavy when he lifted
them to his head. He tried to set himself. His body reeled as the Battler
pounded him, his head, his face, his back.

Back across the ring he staggered until he went down again.
"One--two--three--four----" the referee's arm waved up and down in
front of his face. His arms, holding up his body from the floor, began to
sag. Blood poured from the cut over his eye. Faintly he saw the sturdy
brown legs of the Mexican dancing before him.
"Five--six--seven----"
He pushed himself up to his knees.
"Eight--nine----"
He got to his feet, his arms hanging loose at his sides. The Battler
swung forward on his toes for another rush. He tried to lift his hands.
They were like dead things. He tried to run out of the way of that
tornado of blows and he tottered back against the ropes.
The gong rang and saved him.
He sank into the canvas camp-chair that was pushed under him in his
corner and gulped at the wind fanned into his heaving lungs by the
towel flapped up and down by the twisted-nose second. A sharp pain as
the cut over his eye was burned with caustic brightened his brain.
"Has he had enough?" he heard the referee ask Blake, who was behind
him.
"No, give me a chance," he gasped.
"Let him try another one," Blake said.
The pounding of his heart slowed and his head cleared so that he could
make out the figure of the Battler leaning back in his chair, his arms
spread along the ropes, smiling.
A second massaged his arms and he felt life coming back into them.
Blake whispered in his ear:

"One punch will end that Mex. boy; try to land it this time."
John nodded. He must land it. He MUST WIN. For the first time since
the fight started he thought of why he was there. If he could only rest
here a minute more--just until his head cleared a little--the gong rang.
He rushed and saw a look of surprise cross the Battler's face as he
dodged to one side. He hooked at the black, shaggy head with his left
and felt his fist crack against the Battler's ear. He swung his right with
all the strength he had in him and grunted as he felt it sink into the
Battler's stomach. He stepped back. He heard shouting. He saw the
Mexican double over and cover his head with his arms.
"Atta boy!" someone in the crowd yelled.
The Battler uncovered slowly. He went in again, jabbing with his left.
It struck the Battler's thick arms wrapped around his head. With a
spring like a cat the Mexican was on him. He shot up his right and it
pounded into the Battler's ribs. He tried to wrestle himself out of the
clinch into which the Mexican had thrown himself.
The referee tore them apart.
"None of that," he said to the Battler. "Stop holding in the clinches."
The end came a minute later. They were roughing it in the center of the
ring and the crowd was on its feet, howling. The Battler swayed far to
the right, the glove of his right hand almost touching the floor. John
brought his guard down, fearful that the punch the Mexican was
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