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. And Youth had been served. Even in the clinch he could feel Sandel
growing stronger against him. When the referee thrust them apart, there,
before his eyes, he saw Youth recuperate. From instant to instant Sandel
grew stronger. His punches, weak and futile at first, became stiff and
accurate. Tom King's bleared eyes saw the gloved fist driving at his
jaw, and he willed to guard it by interposing his arm. He saw the
danger, willed the act; but the arm was too heavy. It seemed burdened
with a hundredweight of lead. It would not lift itself, and he strove to
lift it with his soul. Then the gloved fist landed home. He experienced
a sharp snap that was like an electric spark, and, simultaneously, the
veil of blackness enveloped him.

When he opened his eyes again he was in his corner, and he heard the
yelling of the audience like the roar of the surf at Bondi Beach. A wet
sponge was being pressed against the base of his brain, and Sid Sullivan
was blowing cold water in a refreshing spray over his face and chest.
His gloves had already been removed, and Sandel, bending over him, was
shaking his hand. He bore no ill-will toward the man who had put him
out and he returned the grip with a heartiness that made his battered
knuckles protest. Then Sandel stepped to the centre of the ring and
the audience hushed its pandemonium to hear him accept young Pronto's
challenge and offer to increase the side bet to one hundred pounds. King
looked on apathetically while his seconds mopped the streaming water
from him, dried his face, and prepared him to leave the ring. He felt
hungry. It was not the ordinary, gnawing kind, but a great faintness,
a palpitation at the pit of the stomach that communicated itself to all
his body. He remembered back into the fight to the moment when he had
Sandel swaying and tottering on the hair-line balance of defeat. Ah,
that piece of steak would have done it! He had lacked just that for
the decisive blow, and he had lost. It was all because of the piece of
steak.

His seconds were half-supporting him as they helped him through the
ropes. He tore free from them, ducked through the ropes unaided, and
leaped heavily to the floor, following on their heels as they forced a
passage for him down the crowded centre aisle. Leaving the dressing-ro