and one eye was visibly
swelling, and he had other minor marks of Acton's attention, but he was
in excellent condition still. Acton was damaged above a bit, and Phil's
first-round reminder showed plainly on his cheek.

Acton began to think that unless he could make Phil dance to a quicker
tune pretty soon, he himself would be limping round the corner of
defeat, for he was very tired. When we called them up for the eighth
round, he had evidently determined to force the fighting. Much as I
disliked Acton, I could not but admire his splendid skill; he bottled up
Phil time and again, feinted, ducked, rallied, swung out in the nick of
time, planted hard telling blows, and was withal as hard to corner as a
sunbeam. As I sponged Phil at the end of the eighth I felt that three
more rounds as per last sample would shake even him, so I said, "Try,
old man, for one straight drive if he gives you a ghost of a chance.
Don't try tapping."

Acton came up smiling; in a twinkling he had Phil at sea by his
trickiness, and was scoring furiously. Then, for the first time, Phil
backed, shortly and sharply. Acton sprang forward for victory, and a
huge lunge should have given Phil his quietus, but it was dreadfully
short, and stung rather than hurt. Phil recovered the next moment, and
was on the watch again cool and cautious as ever. Then Acton, following
an artless feint which drew Phil as easily as a child, ducked the blow
and darted beneath his guard. I gave Phil up for lost. How it happened,
though I was watching carefully, I cannot say, but Acton seemed to
slither or stumble on the turf as he rushed in, and for one second he
was at Phil's mercy.

At that very instant Phil's arm flashed out, and with a blow which would
have felled an ox, he caught Acton between the eyes. Acton dropped to
the ground like a bludgeoned dog.

Phil, like a gentleman, backed a yard or so away, waiting for Acton to
get up again, but he made no sign. Vercoe and I then counted him out
with all due formality, and Phil had won at the very moment he was about
to be beaten. We did our best for Acton, who was unconscious, and, just
when we began to despair of bringing him round, he opened his eyes with
the usual vacant stare. In a minute he recovered his thoughts, and said
eagerly, "Then I've won."

"Not quite," said Vercoe, grimly. "You've jolly well lost."

Acton tottered to his feet blind with rage--diabolic rage--but hate and
fury couldn't give him strength