ible in the scene--so we had been
drilled in that Million-Dollar Myth, the unscathability of
Carpentier. Was this Gorgeous Georges, this blood-smeared, wilting,
hunted figure, flitting desperately from the grim, dark-jowled
avenger? And then, in the latter part of the second round, Georges
showed one flash of his true genius. Suddenly he sprang, leaping (so
it seemed) clear from the canvas, and landed solidly (though not
killingly) on Dempsey's jaw. There was a flicker of lightning blows,
and for an instant Dempsey was retreating, defensive, even a little
jarred. That was the high moment of the fight, and the crowd then
showed its heart. Ninety thousand people had come there to see
bloodshed; through several humid hours they had sat in a rising
temperature, both inward and outward, with cumulating intensity like
that of a kettle approaching the boil. Dempsey had had a bigger hand
on entering the ring; but so far it had been too one-sided for much
roaring. But now, for an instant, there was actual fighting. There
were some who thought that if Georges could have followed up this
advantage he still had a chance. We do not think so. Dempsey was not
greatly shaken. He was too powerful and too hard to reach. They
clinched and stalled for a moment, and the gong came shortly. But
Carpentier had shown his tiger streak. Scotty Monteith, manager (so
we were told) of Johnny Dundee, sat just in front of us in a pink
skirt, and had been gathering up substantial wagers from the
ill-starred French journalists near by. Scotty was not in any doubt
as to the outcome, but even he was moved by Carpentier's gallant
sally. "No one knew he was a fighter like that," he said.

The rest is but a few words. Carpentier's face had a wild, driven
look. His hits seemed mere taps beside Dempsey's. In the fourth
round he went down once, for eight or nine counts, and climbed up
painfully. The second time he sprawled flat; Dempsey, still with
that pensive lowered head, walked grimly in a semi-circle, waiting
to see if that was the end. It was. Greek gods are no match for
Tarzans in this game.

It was all over in a breathless flash. It was not one lucky blow
that did it, but a sequence of business-like crushing strokes. We
shall not soon forget that picture before the gong rang: Carpentier,
still the White Knight of legend and glory, with his charming upward
smile and easy unconcern; and Dempsey's dark cropped head, bent and
glowering over his chest. Th