his opponent to the ropes. He gave Sandel
no chance to rest or to set himself, but smashed blow in upon blow till
the house rose to its feet and the air was filled with an unbroken roar
of applause. But Sandel's strength and endurance were superb, and he
continued to stay on his feet. A knock-out seemed certain, and a captain
of police, appalled at the dreadful punishment, arose by the ringside
to stop the fight. The gong struck for the end of the round and Sandel
staggered to his corner, protesting to the captain that he was sound
and strong. To prove it, he threw two back-air-springs, and the police
captain gave in.

Tom King, leaning back in his corner and breathing hard, was
disappointed. If the fight had been stopped, the referee, perforce,
would have rendered him the decision and the purse would have been his.
Unlike Sandel, he was not fighting for glory or career, but for thirty
quid. And now Sandel would recuperate in the minute of rest.

Youth will be served--this saying flashed into King's mind, and he
remembered the first time he had heard it, the night when he had put
away Stowsher Bill. The toff who had bought him a drink after the fight
and patted him on the shoulder had used those words. Youth will be
served! The toff was right. And on that night in the long ago he had
been Youth. To-night Youth sat in the opposite corner. As for himself,
he had been fighting for half an hour now, and he was an old man. Had
he fought like Sandel, he would not have lasted fifteen minutes. But the
point was that he did not recuperate. Those upstanding arteries and
that sorely tried heart would not enable him to gather strength in the
intervals between the rounds. And he had not had sufficient strength in
him to begin with. His legs were heavy under him and beginning to cramp.
He should not have walked those two miles to the fight. And there was
the steak which he had got up longing for that morning. A great and
terrible hatred rose up in him for the butchers who had refused him
credit. It was hard for an old man to go into a fight without enough
to eat. And a piece of steak was such a little thing, a few pennies at
best; yet it meant thirty quid to him.

With the gong that opened the eleventh round, Sandel rushed, making a
show of freshness which he did not really possess. King knew it for what
it was--a bluff as old as the game itself. He clinched to save himself,
then, going free, allowed Sandel to get set. This was wha