eath, but his opponent was equal to this blind assault. Dodging,
ducking, side-stepping, blocking, he foiled the other at every turn,
and, just before the round ended, drove his left into the pit of the big
man's stomach, with a thwack that resounded throughout the building.

Once more time was called. The Jam-wagon was bleeding about the
knuckles. Several of Locasto's teeth had been loosened, and he spat
blood frequently. Otherwise he looked as fit as ever. He pursued his
man with savage determination, and seemed resolved to get in a deadly
body-blow that would end the fight.

It was pretty to see the Jam-wagon work. He was sprightly as a ballet
dancer, as, weaving in and out, he dodged the other's blows. His arms
swung at his sides, and he threw his head about in a manner insufferably
mocking and tantalising. Then he took to landing light body-blows, that
grew more frequent till he seemed to be beating a regular tattoo on
Locasto's ribs. He was springy as a panther, elusive as an eel. As for
Locasto, his face was sober now, strained, anxious, and he seemed to be
waiting with menacing eyes to get in that vital smash that meant the
end.

The Jam-wagon began to put more force into his arms. He drove in a
short-arm left to the stomach, then brought his right up to the other's
chin. Locasto swung a deadly knock-out blow at the Jam-wagon, which just
grazed his jaw, and the Jam-wagon retaliated with two lightning rights
and a nervous left, all on the big man's face.

Then he sprang back, for he was excited now. In and out he wove. Once
more he landed a hard left on Locasto's heaving stomach, and then,
rushing in, he rained blow after blow on his antagonist. It was a
furious mix-up, a whirling storm of blows, brutal, savage and murderous.
No two men could keep up such a gait. They came into a clinch, but this
time the Jam-wagon broke away, giving the deadly kidney blow as they
parted. When time was called both men were panting hard, bruised and
covered with blood.

How the house howled with delight! All the primordial brute in these men
was glowing in their hearts. Nothing but blood could appease it. Their
throats were parched, their eyes wild.

Round six. Locasto sprang into the centre of the ring. His face was
hideously disfigured. Only in that battered, blood-stained mask could I
recognise the black eyes gleaming deadly hatred. Rushing for the
Jam-wagon, he hurled him across the ring. Again charging, he overbore
him