with pain; again he reached Jerry's head, a terrific blow which would
have sent him to the floor had Jerry not been moving away. And all the
while Jerry's blows were landing, cutting the man, blinding him, but
still he came on. Was there no limit to the amount of punishment that
he could endure? Jerry's blows were not the leads of a boxer, but
fighting blows, and Clancy's face and body would bear testimony to
their strength for many a day, but he always came on for more--a
superbeast that as long as breath came and blood flowed, was untamed
and unconquerable. Jerry was tiring now and throwing discretion to the
winds was trying for a knockout. Two swings he missed by mere wildness
and weariness of eye, and Flynn's voice rose above the wild clamor of
the of the crowd. "Keep him off, Jerry--keep him off!" But Jerry did
not hear or did not choose to hear, for he no longer avoided Clancy's
blows or his advances, standing his ground and slugging wildly as
Clancy was doing. Jack Ballard saw the danger and sprang to his feet
seconding Flynn's advice, but he could not be heard above the roar of
the crowd. It was a wild moment. A chance blow by either man would end
the battle then. I was no longer Roger Canby, ex-tutor and
philosopher, but a mad mother-beast whose cub was fighting for its
life. "Keep him off, Jerry," I yelled hoarsely again and again, but
the boy still stood, his toe to Clancy's, fighting wildly. Three times
they fell into clinches from sheer exhaustion to be pried apart by the
referee, only to go at each other again. This was no test of skill,
but of brutality and chance. I think that Jerry was mad--brute mad,
for, though Clancy's blows were now reaching him, he didn't seem to be
aware of them. His face was distorted with rage--animal rage. When the
gong clanged at the end of this round, the eighth, they still fought
even when Gannon thrust his bulk between them.

The crowd sank back into their seats gasping. It was a long while
since New York had seen a fight such as this.

"What d' I tell you, Charlie?" whispered the optimist next to me
hoarsely.

"By--, he's good an' no mistake," confessed the fat man.

"He's got the Sailor goin'."

Jack Ballard and I were in an agony of apprehension, watching the
faces of the excited men in Jerry's corner, who were trying to warn
him before it was too late. But we could see that Jerry was stubborn,
for when Flynn pleaded with him he shook his head. Spatola and the
ne