walked back to his corner. Never to her did he seem less a fighter
than then. His eyes were too mild; there was not a spark of the beast in
them, nor in his face, while his body seemed too fragile, what of its
fairness and smoothness, and his face too boyish and sweet-tempered and
intelligent. She did not have the expert's eye for the depth of chest,
the wide nostrils, the recuperative lungs, and the muscles under their
satin sheaths--crypts of energy wherein lurked the chemistry of
destruction. To her he looked like a something of Dresden china, to be
handled gently and with care, liable to be shattered to fragments by the
first rough touch.

John Ponta, stripped of his white sweater by the pulling and hauling of
two of his seconds, came to the centre of the ring. She knew terror as
she looked at him. Here was the fighter--the beast with a streak for a
forehead, with beady eyes under lowering and bushy brows, flat-nosed,
thick-lipped, sullen-mouthed. He was heavy-jawed, bull-necked, and the
short, straight hair of the head seemed to her frightened eyes the stiff
bristles on a hog's back. Here were coarseness and brutishness--a thing
savage, primordial, ferocious. He was swarthy to blackness, and his body
was covered with a hairy growth that matted like a dog's on his chest and
shoulders. He was deep-chested, thick-legged, large-muscled, but
unshapely. His muscles were knots, and he was gnarled and knobby,
twisted out of beauty by excess of strength.

"John Ponta, West Bay Athletic Club," said the announcer.

A much smaller volume of cheers greeted him. It was evident that the
crowd favored Joe with its sympathy.

"Go in an' eat 'm, Ponta! Eat 'm up!" a voice shouted in the lull.

This was received by scornful cries and groans. He did not like it, for
his sullen mouth twisted into a half-snarl as he went back to his corner.
He was too decided an atavism to draw the crowd's admiration.
Instinctively the crowd disliked him. He was an animal, lacking in
intelligence and spirit, a menace and a thing of fear, as the tiger and
the snake are menaces and things of fear, better behind the bars of a
cage than running free in the open.

And he felt that the crowd had no relish for him. He was like an animal
in the circle of its enemies, and he turned and glared at them with
malignant eyes. Little Silverstein, shouting out Joe's name with high
glee, shrank away from Ponta's gaze, shrivelled as in fierce heat,