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 uncov