Spring Street | Page 4

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 swinging was aimed for his body. He started a counter-blow with his right and the Battler's fist rose high and crashed against his jaw.
A white flash blinded him as he dropped. He was down for the count of eight. He was "out on his feet" when he struggled up again. He smiled feebly and pawed in front of him with his left. The Battler brushed it aside and as John fell forward in a last desperate effort to clinch, his right went over. The smack of the Mexican's fist as it landed the knockout punch sounded like the slap of a paddle on water.
"Eight--nine--you're out!"
They carried him to his corner, the Battler on one side, the referee on the other. As through a fog he saw