ht he shouted, while men thought he was
coughing blood. "Got it! Got it! Solved!"

And now that he knew the answer he could put his mind on this fight.

What round? The eighteenth? They'd lost count probably, but anyway it
had gone far enough. He'd finish it now. He had hardly hit Holliday at
all; he'd hit him now. Where was he? He groped, and then he found him;
found him by the simple process of noting from which quarter Holliday's
last blow came. Right there in front of him, standing there and
measuring him and driving it into his unprotected face.

It must look queer to the crowd, him not keeping his guard up or
anything. They'd think he was letting Holliday knock him out. He'd
better get it over with; he was consumed with eagerness, anyhow, to tell
Hamilton and English the joke about the roof, the joke which was on
himself.

So he swayed with the next blow and rocked lightly back. He'd sit down
no more. He swayed with the next one, but this time he snapped forward,
glove and arm and shoulder. This time, on the rebound, he put all he had
into it; and that after all was what a champion really was: A guy who had
something always left to call on, a guy who could shoot it all, when the
crisis came.

And even Holliday must have been unwary and fooled and thought he was out
standing up. For this time he did not miss. Nor did the floor rise.
Nor Holliday. Tough on Holliday. Solved!

He allowed the referee to hold aloft his hand; good referee,--square. He
fell out of the ring--clumsy!--and passed down miles and miles of aisle
between pale faces. What were _they_ goggling at? Of course he was a
little cut up and bruised; what did they expect? He'd taken some
punishment. They'd say now, he supposed, that he had no skill.

But they drew back and looked away, or dropped their eyes; they acted
almost shamed. Well, some of them had been mistaken; they'd called him
yellow. He wanted to stop and tell 'em it was not so, but he couldn't
spare the time just now. He had to hurry to his dressing-room and tell
Hamilton and English the joke,--this joke at his own expense.

English had an idea apparently that he was helping him, holding him up.
Well, he wasn't. He'd bet it was fourteen feet from his neck to his
ankles. But the joke--had they closed the door? Then listen!

"The roof! I thought it was the roof that fell on me! Can you beat
that? First a brick roof--then a tin one--" He thought it wa