hand, shoved
Ponta back with his left. The latter, crouching, circled around, and the
referee circled with him, thrusting him back and keeping between him and
the fallen man.

"Four--five--six--" the count went on, and Joe, rolling over on his face,
squirmed weakly to draw himself to his knees. This he succeeded in
doing, resting on one knee, a hand to the floor on either side and the
other leg bent under him to help him rise. "Take the count! Take the
count!" a dozen voices rang out from the audience.

"For God's sake, take the count!" one of Joe's seconds cried warningly
from the edge of the ring. Genevieve gave him one swift glance, and saw
the young fellow's face, drawn and white, his lips unconsciously moving
as he kept the count with the referee.

"Seven--eight--nine--" the seconds went.

The ninth sounded and was gone, when the referee gave Ponta a last
backward shove and Joe came to his feet, bunched up, covered up, weak,
but cool, very cool. Ponta hurled himself upon him with terrific force,
delivering an uppercut and a straight punch. But Joe blocked the two,
ducked a third, stepped to the side to avoid a fourth, and was then
driven backward into a corner by a hurricane of blows. He was
exceedingly weak. He tottered as he kept his footing, and staggered back
and forth. His back was against the ropes. There was no further
retreat. Ponta paused, as if to make doubly sure, then feinted with his
left and struck fiercely with his right with all his strength. But Joe
ducked into a clinch and was for a moment saved.

Ponta struggled frantically to free himself. He wanted to give the
finish to this foe already so far gone. But Joe was holding on for life,
resisting the other's every effort, as fast as one hold or grip was torn
loose finding a new one by which to cling. "Break!" the referee
commanded. Joe held on tighter. "Make 'm break! Why the hell don't you
make 'm break?" Ponta panted at the referee. Again the latter commanded
the break. Joe refused, keeping, as he well knew, within his rights.
Each moment of the clinch his strength was coming back to him, his brain
was clearing, the cobwebs were disappearing from before his eyes. The
round was young, and he must live, somehow, through the nearly three
minutes of it yet to run.

The referee clutched each by the shoulder and sundered them violently,
passing quickly between them as he thrust them backward in order to make
a clean break o