out that that he hadn't yet got quite straight in
his mind. If he could--if he could--A brick roof didn't sound right. If
he could just force his brain a little further. It was urgent--he could
fight better--it had a direct bearing on the fight. But there was that
damned bell again. It interrupted him; broke in upon his train of
reasoning. But he'd get up and fight some more. That was what they'd
paid their money to see. He'd fight and try to think it out at the same
time.

He rose and coughed, sick at his stomach--and sat suddenly down. But
Holliday'd not hit him so hard that time, it seemed. Just pushed him
maybe. That was the game--let him wear himself out! He got up again.
Then he noticed another thing. The crowd had been screaming, "Kill him!
Kill him!" for hours and hours. Now each time that Holliday struck him
they groaned. Well, maybe it was time for him to hit Holliday; maybe
that was what was the matter. He'd try to accommodate 'em. He pushed
the referee aside and swung. But his glove met nothing. The floor came
up and hit him in the face, that was all. Funny floor! Funny roof! No
place to hold a prizefight. And where was Holliday, anyway? Holliday'd
been playing for his good eye, till that was practically closed, too, and
he couldn't see distinctly, couldn't see much of anything. He'd grope
for him--he did it--and got up again!

They were shouting something else now. Could not suit 'em. "Take him
out--take him out!" Who, him? He cursed at them, nor knew that he
merely gibbered from frightful lips. They'd not rob _him_ that way of
his title! Then he saw Hamilton pick up a towel and start to toss it
into the ring. Lucky he was near him! He grabbed that towel and flung
it away--and fell down heavily--and got up again!

He wanted to curse Hamilton, too, but didn't have the time. He seemed to
be hurtling to one side of the ring and then the other, yet effortlessly,
as lightly as thistle-down. Couldn't stop for anything--Holliday
insisted on fighting right along. He couldn't remember it was so long
since he had laid a glove on Holliday.

And then again a lull. What was it? The end of a round, or the
beginning of one? He'd better not sit down, or Devereau and Dunham would
tell 'em he was yellow, and they'd believe. End of a round, apparently.
English was crying over him again, whimpering helplessly. He wished
they'd dispense entirely with the bell. Just fight right along-