Ponta. But in the beginning of
the fifth round, Joe, caught in a corner, made as though to duck into a
clinch. Just before it was effected, and at the precise moment that
Ponta was ready with his own body to receive the snuggling in of Joe's
body, Joe drew back slightly and drove with his fists at his opponent's
unprotected stomach. Lightning-like blows they were, four of them, right
and left; and heavy they were, for Ponta winced away from them and
staggered back, half dropping his arms, his shoulders drooping forward
and in, as though he were about to double in at the waist and collapse.
Joe's quick eye saw the opening, and he smashed straight out upon Ponta's
mouth, following instantly with a half swing, half hook, for the jaw. It
missed, striking the cheek instead, and sending Ponta staggering
sideways.

The house was on its feet, shouting, to a man. Genevieve could hear men
crying, "He's got 'm, he's got 'm!" and it seemed to her the beginning of
the end. She, too, was out of herself; softness and tenderness had
vanished; she exulted with each crushing blow her lover delivered.

But Ponta's vitality was yet to be reckoned with. As, like a tiger, he
had followed Joe up, Joe now followed him up. He made another half
swing, half hook, for Ponta's jaw, and Ponta, already recovering his wits
and strength, ducked cleanly. Joe's fist passed on through empty air,
and so great was the momentum of the blow that it carried him around, in
a half twirl, sideways. Then Ponta lashed out with his left. His glove
landed on Joe's unguarded neck. Genevieve saw her lover's arms drop to
his sides as his body lifted, went backward, and fell limply to the
floor. The referee, bending over him, began to count the seconds,
emphasizing the passage of each second with a downward sweep of his right
arm.

The audience was still as death. Ponta had partly turned to the house to
receive the approval that was his due, only to be met by this chill,
graveyard silence. Quick wrath surged up in him. It was unfair. His
opponent only was applauded--if he struck a blow, if he escaped a blow;
he, Ponta, who had forced the fighting from the start, had received no
word of cheer.

His eyes blazed as he gathered himself together and sprang to his
prostrate foe. He crouched alongside of him, right arm drawn back and
ready for a smashing blow the instant Joe should start to rise. The
referee, still bending over and counting with his right