and dropped his guard for a moment.

Sheen's left shot out once more, and found its mark. Peteiro swung his
right viciously, but without effect. Another swift counter added one
more point to Sheen's score.

Sheen nearly chuckled. It was all so beautifully simple. What a fool he
had been to mix it up in the first round. If he only kept his head and
stuck to out-fighting he could win with ease. The man couldn't box. He
was nothing more than a slogger. Here he came, as usual, with the old
familiar rush. Out went his left. But it missed its billet. Peteiro had
checked his rush after the first movement, and now he came in with both
hands. It was the first time during the round that he had got to close
quarters, and he made the most of it. Sheen's blows were as frequent,
but his were harder. He drove at the body, right and left; and once
again the call of Time extricated Sheen from an awkward position. As
far as points were concerned he had had the best of the round, but he
was very sore and bruised. His left side was one dull ache.

"Keep away from him, sir," said Joe Bevan. "You were ahead on that
round. Keep away all the time unless he gets tired. But if you see me
signalling, then go in all you can and have a fight."

There was a suspicion of weariness about the look of the Ripton
champion as he shook hands for the last round. He was beginning to feel
the effects of his hurricane fighting in the opening rounds. He began
quietly, sparring for an opening. Sheen led with his left. Peteiro was
too late with his guard. Sheen tried again--a double lead. His opponent
guarded the first blow, but the second went home heavily on the body,
and he gave way a step.

Then from the corner of his eye Sheen saw Bevan gesticulating wildly,
so, taking his life in his hands, he abandoned his waiting game,
dropped his guard, and dashed in to fight. Peteiro met him doggedly.
For a few moments the exchanges were even. Then suddenly the
Riptonian's blows began to weaken. He got home his right on the head,
and Sheen hardly felt it. And in a flash there came to him the glorious
certainty that the game was his.

He was winning--winning--winning.

* * * * *

"That's enough," said the referee.

The Ripton man was leaning against the ropes, utterly spent, at almost
the same spot where Sheen had leaned at the end of the first round. The
last attack had finished him. His seconds helped him to his corner.

The