ered slowly. He went in again, jabbing with his left.
It struck the Battler's thick arms wrapped around his head. With a
spring like a cat the Mexican was on him. He shot up his right and it
pounded into the Battler's ribs. He tried to wrestle himself out of the
clinch into which the Mexican had thrown himself.

The referee tore them apart.

"None of that," he said to the Battler. "Stop holding in the clinches."

The end came a minute later. They were roughing it in the center of the
ring and the crowd was on its feet, howling. The Battler swayed far to
the right, the glove of his right hand almost touching the floor. John
brought his guard down, fearful that the punch the Mexican was swinging
was aimed for his body. He started a counter-blow with his right and the
Battler's fist rose high and crashed against his jaw.

A white flash blinded him as he dropped. He was down for the count of
eight. He was "out on his feet" when he struggled up again. He smiled
feebly and pawed in front of him with his left. The Battler brushed it
aside and as John fell forward in a last desperate effort to clinch, his
right went over. The smack of the Mexican's fist as it landed the
knockout punch sounded like the slap of a paddle on water.

"Eight--nine--you're out!"

They carried him to his corner, the Battler on one side, the referee on
the other. As through a fog he saw the Mexican dance back to his corner
to be received joyously by his seconds. He saw Jack Dempsey looking up
at him, nodding his head and smiling. He saw a terribly anxious look on
a pale, strained face he slowly recognized as that of Charlie Chaplin.

He closed his eyes. If they would only let him alone and stop throwing
water on him. He could not see out of one of his eyes. They tore the
gloves from his hands and the sharp odor of smelling salts bit into his
nostrils. His head ached, his lungs burned.

"Come on, kid, get back to da dressin' room," a husky voice said.

He pulled himself to his feet. He was whipped. His only chance to get
money to pay for his father's funeral was gone. So weak that his body
shook and his legs trembled, hysterical tears sprang to his eyes and he
sobbed--gasping sobs that choked him.

The hot tears smarted like salt in the cuts on his cheek as he stumbled
up the aisle toward the dressing rooms.

Someone came running up behind him. A hand grasped his arm and he heard
a voice say:

"Just a minute, my boy, I want to talk to you."