bear. But with what a grace and aplomb he stood
upon that scaffold! Dempsey, on the other hand, was sullen and
sombre; when they spoke together he seemed embarrassed and kept his
face averted. As the hands were bandaged and gloves put on, he sat
with lowered head, his dark poll brooding over his fists, not unlike
Rodin's Thinker. Carpentier, at the opposite corner, was apparently
at ease; sat smilingly in his gray and black gown, watching the
airplanes.

You have read the accounts of the fight to small purpose if you do
not realize that Carpentier was utterly outclassed--not in skill or
cunning, but in those qualities where the will has no part, in power
and reach. From the first clinch, when Dempsey began that series of
terrible body jabs that broke down the Frenchman's energy and speed,
the goose was cooked. There was nothing poetic or glamorous about
those jabs; they were not spectacular, not particularly swift; but
they were terribly definite. Half a dozen of them altered the scene
strangely. The smiling face became haggard and troubled.

Carpentier, too, must have been leaving something to the gods, for
his tactics were wildly reckless. He was the aggressor at the start,
leading fiercely for Dempsey's jaw, and landing, too, but not
heavily enough to do damage. Again and again in that first round he
fell into the fatal embrace in which Dempsey punished him busily,
with those straight body strokes that slid in methodically, like
pistons. Georges seemed to have no defence that could slacken those
blows. After every clinch his strength plainly ebbed and withered.
Away, he dodged nimbly, airily, easily more dramatic in arts of
manoeuvre. But Dempsey, tall, sullen, composed, followed him
steadily. He seemed slow beside that flying white figure, but that
wheeling amble was deadly sure. He was always on the inner arc,
Carpentier on the outer; the long, swarthy arms were impenetrable in
front of his vitals; again and again he followed up, seeking to
corner his man; Carpentier would fling a shining arm at the dark
jaw; a clinch would follow in which the two leaned together in that
curious posture of apparent affection; and they hung upon each
other's necks--Carpentier, from a distance, looking almost like a
white girl languishing in the arms of some dark, solicitous lover.
But Mr. Dempsey was the Fatal Bridegroom, for at each union he would
rivet in several more of those steam punches.

There was something almost incred