Though now he was receiving practically no punishment, he was weakening as rapidly as the other.His blows went home, but there was no longer the weight behind them, and each blow was the result of a severe effort of will.His legs were like lead, and they dragged visibly under him; while Sandel's backers, cheered by this symptom, began calling encouragement to their man.
King was spurred to a burst of effort.He delivered two blows in succession--a left, a trifle too high, to the solar plexus, and a right cross to the jaw.They were not heavy blows, yet so weak and dazed was Sandel that he went down and lay quivering.The referee stood over him, shouting 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, he fell against Sandel and clinched, holding on to him to save himself from sinking to the floor.
King did not attempt to free himself.He had shot his bolt.He was gone.
