the
sound gurgling and dying in his throat. Genevieve saw the little
by-play, and as Ponta's eyes slowly swept round the circle of their hate
and met hers, she, too, shrivelled and shrank back. The next moment they
were past, pausing to centre long on Joe. It seemed to her that Ponta
was working himself into a rage. Joe returned the gaze with mild boy's
eyes, but his face grew serious.

The announcer escorted a third man to the centre of the ring, a genial-
faced young fellow in shirt-sleeves.

"Eddy Jones, who will referee this contest," said the announcer.

"Oh, you, Eddy!" men shouted in the midst of the applause, and it was
apparent to Genevieve that he, too, was well beloved.

Both men were being helped into the gloves by their seconds, and one of
Ponta's seconds came over and examined the gloves before they went on
Joe's hands. The referee called them to the centre of the ring. The
seconds followed, and they made quite a group, Joe and Ponta facing each
other, the referee in the middle, the seconds leaning with hands on one
another's shoulders, their heads craned forward. The referee was
talking, and all listened attentively.

The group broke up. Again the announcer came to the front.

"Joe Fleming fights at one hundred and twenty-eight," he said; "John
Ponta at one hundred and forty. They will fight as long as one hand is
free, and take care of themselves in the breakaway. The audience must
remember that a decision must be given. There are no draws fought before
this club."

He crawled through the ropes and dropped from the ring to the floor.
There was a scuttling in the corners as the seconds cleared out through
the ropes, taking with them the stools and buckets. Only remained in the
ring the two fighters and the referee. A gong sounded. The two men
advanced rapidly to the centre. Their right hands extended and for a
fraction of an instant met in a perfunctory shake. Then Ponta lashed
out, savagely, right and left, and Joe escaped by springing back. Like a
projectile, Ponta hurled himself after him and upon him.

The fight was on. Genevieve clutched one hand to her breast and watched.
She was bewildered by the swiftness and savagery of Ponta's assault, and
by the multitude of blows he struck. She felt that Joe was surely being
destroyed. At times she could not see his face, so obscured was it by
the flying gloves. But she could hear the resounding blows, and with the
sound of each