Durand had the heavy shoulders and swelling muscles that come from
years of training for the ring. Like most pugilists out of active
service he had taken on flesh. But the extra weight was not fat, for
Jerry kept always in good condition. He held his leadership partly at
least because of his physical prowess. No tough in New York would
willingly have met him in rough-and-tumble fight.

The younger man was more slightly built. He was a Hermes rather than a
Hercules. His muscles flowed. They did not bulge. But when he moved
it was with the litheness of a panther. The long lines of shoulder and
loin had the flow of tigerish grace. The clear eyes in the brown face
told of a soul indomitable in a perfectly synchronized body.

Durand lashed out with a swinging left, all the weight of his body
behind the blow. Clay stepped back, shot a hard straight right to the
cheek, and ducked the counter. Jerry rushed him, flailing at his foe
blow on blow, intending to wear him out by sheer hard hammering. He
butted with head and knee, used every foul trick he had learned in his
rotten trade of prize-fighting. Active as a wild cat, the Arizonan
side-stepped, scored a left on the eye, ducked again, and fought back
the furious attack.

The gangman came out of the rally winded, perplexed, and disturbed.
His cheek was bleeding, one eye was in distress, and he had hardly
touched his agile opponent.

He rushed again. Nothing but his temper, the lack of self-control that
made him see red and had once put him at the mercy of a first-class
ring general with stamina and a punch, had kept Jerry out of a world
championship. He had everything else needed, but he was the victim of
his own passion. It betrayed him now. His fighting was that of a wild
cave man, blind, furious, damaging. He threw away his science and his
skill in order to destroy the man he hated. He rained blows on
him--fought him with head and knee and fist, was on top of him every
moment, controlled by one dominating purpose to make that dancing
figure take the dust.

How Clay weathered the storm he did not know. Some blows he blocked,
others he side-stepped, a few he took on face and body. He was cool,
quite master of himself. Before the fight had gone three minutes he
knew that, barring a chance blow, some foul play, or a bit of bad luck,
he would win. He was covering up, letting the pugilist wear himself
out, and taking only the punishment he must. Bu