gro massaged him furiously, adding their anxious pleas to Flynn's,
but Jerry would not listen. He was taking the foul air in huge gasps,
his eyes closed, fighting for recuperation.

When the ninth round opened the men were both groggy and stumbled to
the center of the ring like two blind men groping for each other,
swinging wildly and moving slowly. Each was intent upon a knockout.
Twice each swung and missed rights, avoiding the blows by remnants of
their craft and cleverness. Twice they stumbled into clinches and were
torn apart by the pitiless Gannon. In the in-fighting (a technical
term) Jerry I think must have been struck--I did not see the blow, but
it must have been a terrific one--for his knees sagged and his hands
dropped to his sides while his mouth gaped open painfully. At the
cries from his corner Clancy drove a vicious blow, but Jerry weakly
managed to avoid it. But he couldn't raise his arms. Jerry was hurt,
grievously hurt. In a moment they were raised again, but he could not
seem to see his mark and his swings were wild. In agony I rose, my arm
in Ballard's, ready for the worst. Clancy straightened, tried to
collect what remained of his scattered wits and strength, poised
himself and with a terrible blow, struck Jerry at the point of his
chin.

He went down with a crash, his head striking the floor, and remained
motionless. Over him, one hand restraining Clancy, Gannon counted.
Jerry's figure writhed upon the floor, twisting upon its head
struggling to rise and then relaxed. The fight was over.

A curious hush had fallen over the great hall. Here and there Clancy's
friends were shouting in glee, but the great mass of the crowd, those
whom Jerry had won by his skill and pluck, seemed bewildered. The end
had come too suddenly for them to realize what had happened and how it
had happened. The match was his. He had won it. It had only been a
question of rounds. And then, "Chance blow in the solar-plexus,"
someone was saying.

It is curious how many and how lasting are the impressions that can be
crowded into a second of time. I clambered out of the box with Jack
Ballard toward the ring, fearful of the blow to Jerry's head upon the
boards, and as I pushed my way through the bewildered crowd, I caught
just a glimpse of Marcia Van Wyck's party. They were all standing up
in their box, looking toward the ring. A man beside her made a remark
at the girl's ear. I saw her turn and flash a bright glance up at him