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 blow she felt a sickening sensation in the pit of her
stomach. She did not know that what she heard was the impact of glove on
glove, or glove on shoulder, and that no damage was being done.

She was suddenly aware that a change had come over the fight. Both men
were clutching each other in a tense embrace; no blows were being struck
at all. She recognized it to be what Joe had described to her as the