mile had disappeared from Orde's face, and his eye had calmed.

"Look here," he called to Gerald, "I don't understand this game very
well. At school we used 'taps.' Is a man supposed to hit hard?"

Gerald hesitated, then looked beyond Orde to the gallery. To a man it
made frantic and silent demonstration.

"Of course you hit," he replied. "You can't hurt any one with those big
gloves."

Orde turned back to his antagonist. The latter advanced once more,
his bullet head sunk between his shoulders, his little eyes twinkling.
Evidently Mr. Bishop's friend would now take the aggressive, and forward
movement would deliver an extra force to the professional's blows.

Orde did not wait for Murphy, however. Like a tiger he sprang forward,
hitting out fiercely, first with one hand then with the other. Murphy
gave ground, blocked, ducked, exerted all a ring general's skill either
to stop or avoid the rush. Orde followed him insistent. Several times he
landed, but always when Murphy was on the retreat, so the blows had
not much weight. Several times Murphy ducked in and planted a number of
short-arm jabs at close range. The round ended almost immediately to a
storm of applause from the galleries.

"What do you think of his being muscle-bound?" Gerald asked Murphy, as
the latter flung himself panting on the wrestling mat for his rest.

"He's quick as chained lightning," acknowledged the other grudgingly.
"But I'll get him. He can't keep that up; he'll be winded in half a
minute."

Orde sat down on a roll of mat. His smile had quite vanished, and he
seemed to be awaiting eagerly the beginning of the next round.

"Time!" called Gerald for the third.

Orde immediately sprang at his adversary, repeating the headlong rush
with which the previous round had ended. Murphy blocked, ducked, and
kept away, occasionally delivering a jolt as opportunity offered,
awaiting the time when Orde's weariness would leave him at the other's
mercy. That moment did not come. The young man hammered away tirelessly,
insistently, delivering a hurricane of his two-handed blows, pressing
relentlessly in as Murphy shifted and gave ground, his head up, his
eyes steady, oblivious to the return hammering the now desperate handler
opposed to him. Two minutes passed without perceptible slackening
in this terrific pace. The gallery was in an uproar, and some of the
members were piling down the stairs to the floor. Perspiration stood out
all over Murphy's bo