The gong sounded. It seemed they had been fighting half an hour, though
from what Joe had told her she knew it had been only three minutes. With
the crash of the gong Joe's seconds were through the ropes and running
him into his corner for the blessed minute of rest. One man, squatting
on the floor between his outstretched feet and elevating them by resting
them on his knees, was violently chafing his legs. Joe sat on the stool,
leaning far back into the corner, head thrown back and arms outstretched
on the ropes to give easy expansion to the chest. With wide-open mouth
he was breathing the towel-driven air furnished by two of the seconds,
while listening to the counsel of still another second who talked with
low voice in his ear and at the same time sponged off his face,
shoulders, and chest.
Hardly had all this been accomplished (it had taken no more than several
seconds), when the gong sounded, the seconds scuttled through the ropes
with their paraphernalia, and Joe and Ponta were advancing against each
other to the centre of the ring. Genevieve had no idea that a minute
could be so short. For a moment she felt that this rest had been cut,
and was suspicious of she knew not what.
Ponta lashed out, right and left, savagely as ever, and though Joe
blocked the blows, such was the force of them that he was knocked
backward several steps. Ponta was after him with the spring of a tiger.
In the involuntary effort to maintain equilibrium, Joe had uncovered
himself, flinging one arm out and lifting his head from beneath the
sheltering shoulders. So swiftly had Ponta followed him, that a terrible
swinging blow was coming at his unguarded jaw. He ducked forward and
down, Ponta's fist just missing the back of his head. As he came back to
the perpendicular, Ponta's left fist drove at him in a straight punch
that would have knocked him backward through the ropes. Again, and with
a swiftness an inappreciable fraction of time quicker than Ponta's, he
ducked forward. Ponta's fist grazed the backward slope of the shoulder,
and glanced off into the air. Ponta's right drove straight out, and the
graze was repeated as Joe ducked into the safety of a clinch.
Genevieve sighed with relief, her tense body relaxing and a faintness
coming over her. The crowd was cheering madly. Silverstein was on his
feet, shouting, gesticulating, completely out of himself. And even Mr.
Clausen was yelling his enthusiasm, at the top of his lungs, into the ear
of his nearest neighbor.
The clinch was broken and the fight went on. Joe blocked, and backed,
and slid around the ring, avoiding blows and living somehow through the
whirlwind onslaughts. Rarely did he strike blows himself, for Ponta had
a quick eye and could defend as well as attack, while Joe had no chance
against the other's enormous vitality. His hope lay in that Ponta
himself should ultimately consume his strength.
But Genevieve was beginning to wonder why her lover did not fight. She
grew angry. She wanted to see him wreak vengeance on this beast that had
persecuted him so. Even as she waxed impatient, the chance came, and Joe
whipped his fist to Ponta's mouth. It was a staggering blow. She saw
Ponta's head go back with a jerk and the quick dye of blood upon his
lips. The blow, and the great shout from the audience, angered him. He
rushed like a wild man. The fury of his previous assaults was as nothing
compared with the fury of this one. And there was no more opportunity
for another blow. Joe was too busy living through the storm he had
already caused, blocking, covering up, and ducking into the safety and
respite of the clinches.
But the clinch was not all safety and respite. Every instant of it was
intense watchfulness, while the breakaway was still more dangerous.
Genevieve had noticed, with a slight touch of amusement, the curious way
in which Joe snuggled his body in against Ponta's in the clinches; but
she had not realized why, until, in one such clinch, before the snuggling
in could be effected, Ponta's fist whipped straight up in the air from
under, and missed Joe's chin by a hair's-breadth. In another and later
clinch, when she had already relaxed and sighed her relief at seeing him
safely snuggled, Ponta, his chin over Joe's shoulder, lifted his right
arm and struck a terrible downward blow on the small of the back. The
crowd groaned its apprehension, while Joe quickly locked his opponent's
arms to prevent a repetition of the blow.
The gong struck, and after the fleeting minute of rest, they went at it
again--in Joe's corner, for Ponta had made a rush to meet him clear
across the ring. Where the blow had been over the kidneys, the white
skin had become bright red. This splash of color, the size of the glove,
fascinated and frightened Genevieve so that she could scarcely take her
eyes from it. Promptly, in the next clinch, the blow was repeated; but
after that Joe usually managed to give Ponta the heel of the glove on the
mouth and so hold his head back. This prevented the striking of the
blow; but three times more, before the round ended, Ponta effected the
trick, each time striking the same vulnerable part.
Another rest and another round went by, with no further damage to Joe and
no diminution of strength on the part of Ponta. But in the beginning of
the fifth round, Joe, caught in a corner, made as though to duck into a
clinch. Just before it was effected, and at the precise moment that
Ponta was ready with his own body to receive the snuggling in of Joe's
body, Joe drew back slightly and drove with his fists at his opponent's
unprotected stomach. Lightning-like blows they were, four of them, right
and left; and heavy they were, for Ponta winced away from them and
staggered back, half dropping his arms, his shoulders drooping forward
and in, as though he were about to double in at the waist and collapse.
Joe's quick eye saw the opening, and he smashed straight out upon Ponta's
mouth, following instantly with a half swing, half hook, for the jaw. It
missed, striking the cheek instead, and sending Ponta staggering
sideways.
The house was on its feet, shouting, to a man. Genevieve could hear men
crying, "He's got 'm, he's got 'm!" and it seemed to her the beginning of
the end. She, too, was out of herself; softness and tenderness had
vanished; she exulted with each crushing blow her lover delivered.
But Ponta's vitality was yet to be reckoned with. As, like a tiger, he
had followed Joe up, Joe now followed him up. He made another half
swing, half hook, for Ponta's jaw, and Ponta, already recovering his wits
and strength, ducked cleanly. Joe's fist passed on through empty air,
and so great was the momentum of the blow that it carried him around, in
a half twirl, sideways. Then Ponta lashed out with his left. His glove
landed on Joe's unguarded neck. Genevieve saw her lover's arms drop to
his sides as his body lifted, went backward, and fell limply to the
floor. The referee, bending over him, began to count the seconds,
emphasizing the passage of each second with a downward sweep of his right
arm.
The audience was still as death. Ponta had partly turned to the house to
receive the approval that was his due, only to be met by this chill,
graveyard silence. Quick wrath surged up in him. It was unfair. His
opponent only was applauded--if he struck a blow, if he escaped a blow;
he, Ponta, who had forced the fighting from the start, had received no
word of cheer.
His eyes blazed as he gathered himself together and sprang to his
prostrate foe. He crouched alongside of him, right arm drawn back and
ready for a smashing blow the instant Joe should start to rise. The
referee, still bending over and counting with his right hand, shoved
Ponta back with his left. The latter, crouching, circled around, and the
referee circled with him, thrusting him back and keeping between him and
the fallen man.
"Four--five--six--" the count went on, and Joe, rolling over on his face,
squirmed weakly to draw himself to his knees. This he succeeded in
doing, resting on one knee, a hand to the floor on either side and the
other leg bent under him to help him rise. "Take the count! Take the
count!" a dozen voices rang out from the audience.
"For God's sake, take the count!" one of Joe's seconds cried warningly
from the edge of the ring. Genevieve gave him one swift glance, and saw
the young fellow's face, drawn and white, his lips unconsciously moving
as he kept the count with the referee.
"Seven--eight--nine--" the seconds went.
The ninth sounded and was gone, when the referee gave Ponta a last
backward shove and Joe came to his feet, bunched up, covered up, weak,
but cool, very cool. Ponta hurled himself upon him with terrific force,
delivering an uppercut and a straight punch. But Joe blocked the two,
ducked a third, stepped to the side to avoid a fourth, and was then
driven backward into a corner by a hurricane of blows. He was
exceedingly weak. He tottered as he kept his footing, and staggered back
and forth. His back was against the ropes. There was no further
retreat. Ponta paused, as if to make doubly sure, then feinted with his
left and struck fiercely with his right with all his strength. But Joe
ducked into a clinch and was for a moment saved.
Ponta struggled frantically to free himself. He wanted to give the
finish to this foe already so far gone. But Joe was holding on for life,
resisting the other's every effort, as fast as one hold or grip was torn
loose finding a new one by which to cling. "Break!" the referee
commanded. Joe held on tighter. "Make 'm break! Why the hell don't you
make 'm break?" Ponta panted at the referee. Again the latter commanded
the break. Joe refused, keeping, as he well knew, within his rights.
Each moment of the clinch his strength was coming back to him, his brain
was clearing, the cobwebs were disappearing from before his eyes. The
round was young, and he must live, somehow, through the nearly three
minutes of it yet to run.
The referee clutched each by the shoulder and sundered them violently,
passing quickly between them as he thrust them backward in order to make
a clean break of it. The moment he was free, Ponta sprang at Joe like a
wild animal bearing down its prey. But Joe covered up, blocked, and fell
into a clinch. Again Ponta struggled to get free, Joe held on, and the
referee thrust them apart. And again Joe avoided damage and clinched.
Genevieve realized that in the clinches he was not being beaten--why,
then, did not the referee let him hold on? It was cruel. She hated the
genial-faced Eddy Jones in those moments, and she partly rose from her
chair, her hands clenched with anger, the nails cutting into the palms
till they hurt. The rest of the round, the three long minutes of it, was
a succession of clinches and breaks. Not once did Ponta succeed in
striking his opponent the deadly final blow. And Ponta was like a
madman, raging because of his impotency in the face of his helpless and
all but vanquished foe. One blow, only one blow, and he could not
deliver it! Joe's ring experience and coolness saved him. With shaken
consciousness and trembling body, he clutched and held on, while the
ebbing life turned and flooded up in him again. Once, in his passion,
unable to hit him, Ponta made as though to lift him up and hurl him to
the floor.
"V'y don't you bite him?" Silverstein taunted shrilly.
In the stillness the sally was heard over the whole house, and the
audience, relieved of its anxiety for its favorite, laughed with an
uproariousness that had in it the note of hysteria. Even Genevieve felt
that there was something irresistibly funny in the remark, and the relief
of the audience was communicated to her; yet she felt sick and faint, and
was overwrought with horror at what she had seen and was seeing.
"Bite 'm! Bite 'm!" voices from the recovered audience were shouting.
"Chew his ear off, Ponta! That's the only way you can get 'm! Eat 'm
up! Eat 'm up! Oh, why don't you eat 'm up?"
The effect was bad on Ponta. He became more frenzied than ever, and more
impotent. He panted and sobbed, wasting his effort by too much effort,
losing sanity and control and futilely trying to compensate for the loss
by excess of physical endeavor. He knew only the blind desire to
destroy, shook Joe in the clinches as a terrier might a rat, strained and
struggled for freedom of body and arms, and all the while Joe calmly
clutched and held on. The referee worked manfully and fairly to separate
them. Perspiration ran down his face. It took all his strength to split
those clinging bodies, and no sooner had he split them than Joe fell
unharmed into another embrace and the work had to be done all over again.
In vain, when freed, did Ponta try to avoid the clutching arms and
twining body. He could not keep away. He had to come close in order to
strike, and each time Joe baffled him and caught him in his arms.
And Genevieve, crouched in the little dressing-room and peering through
the peep-hole, was baffled, too. She was an interested party in what
seemed a death-struggle--was not one of the fighters her Joe?--but the
audience understood and she did not. The Game had not unveiled to her.
The lure of it was beyond her. It was greater mystery than ever. She
could not comprehend its power. What delight could there be for Joe in
that brutal surging and straining of bodies, those fierce clutches,
fiercer blows, and terrible hurts? Surely, she, Genevieve, offered more
than that--rest, and content, and sweet, calm joy. Her bid for the heart
of him and the soul of him was finer and more generous than the bid of
the Game; yet he dallied with both--held her in his arms, but turned his
head to listen to that other and siren call she could not understand.
The gong struck. The round ended with a break in Ponta's corner. The
white-faced young second was through the ropes with the first clash of
sound. He seized Joe in his arms, lifted him clear of the floor, and ran
with him across the ring to his own corner. His seconds worked over him
furiously, chafing his legs, slapping his abdomen, stretching the hip-
cloth out with their fingers so that he might breathe more easily. For
the first time Genevieve saw the stomach-breathing of a man, an abdomen
that rose and fell far more with every breath than her breast rose and
fell after she had run for a car. The pungency of ammonia bit her
nostrils, wafted to her from the soaked sponge wherefrom he breathed the
fiery fumes that cleared his brain. He gargled his mouth and throat,
took a suck at a divided lemon, and all the while the towels worked like
mad, driving oxygen into his lungs to purge the pounding blood and send
it back revivified for the struggle yet to come. His heated body was
sponged with water, doused with it, and bottles were turned
mouth-downward on his head.