ng the count of the fatal seconds in his ear. If before the tenth
second was called, he did not rise, the fight was lost. The house stood
in hushed silence. King rested on trembling legs. A mortal dizziness was
upon him, and before his eyes the sea of faces sagged and swayed, while
to his ears, as from a remote distance, came the count of the referee.
Yet he looked upon the fight as his. It was impossible that a man so
punished could rise.

Only Youth could rise, and Sandel rose. At the fourth second he rolled
over on his face and groped blindly for the ropes. By the seventh second
he had dragged himself to his knee, where he rested, his head rolling
groggily on his shoulders. As the referee cried "Nine!" Sandel stood
upright, in proper stalling position, his left arm wrapped about his
face, his right wrapped about his stomach. Thus were his vital points
guarded, while he lurched forward toward King in the hope of effecting a
clinch and gaining more time.

At the instant Sandel arose, King was at him, but the two blows he
delivered were muffled on the stalled arms. The next moment Sandel was
in the clinch and holding on desperately while the referee strove to
drag the two men apart. King helped to force himself free. He knew the
rapidity with which Youth recovered, and he knew that Sandel was his if
he could prevent that recovery. One stiff punch would do it. Sandel
was his, indubitably his. He had out-generalled him, out-fought him,
out-pointed him. Sandel reeled out of the clinch, balanced on the hair
line between defeat or survival. One good blow would topple him over
and down and out. And Tom King, in a flash of bitterness, remembered
the piece of steak and wished that he had it then behind that necessary
punch he must deliver. He nerved himself for the blow, but it was
not heavy enough nor swift enough. Sandel swayed, but did not fall,
staggering back to the ropes and holding on. King staggered after him,
and, with a pang like that of dissolution, delivered another blow.
But his body had deserted him. All that was left of him was a fighting
intelligence that was dimmed and clouded from exhaustion. The blow that
was aimed for the jaw struck no higher than the shoulder. He had willed
the blow higher, but the tired muscles had not been able to obey. And,
from the impact of the blow, Tom King himself reeled back and nearly
fell. Once again he strove. This time his punch missed altogether, and,
from absolute weakness,