sheltering shoulders. So swiftly had Ponta followed him, that a terrible
swinging blow was coming at his unguarded jaw. He ducked forward and
down, Ponta's fist just missing the back of his head. As he came back to
the perpendicular, Ponta's left fist drove at him in a straight punch
that would have knocked him backward through the ropes. Again, and with
a swiftness an inappreciable fraction of time quicker than Ponta's, he
ducked forward. Ponta's fist grazed the backward slope of the shoulder,
and glanced off into the air. Ponta's right drove straight out, and the
graze was repeated as Joe ducked into the safety of a clinch.

Genevieve sighed with relief, her tense body relaxing and a faintness
coming over her. The crowd was cheering madly. Silverstein was on his
feet, shouting, gesticulating, completely out of himself. And even Mr.
Clausen was yelling his enthusiasm, at the top of his lungs, into the ear
of his nearest neighbor.

The clinch was broken and the fight went on. Joe blocked, and backed,
and slid around the ring, avoiding blows and living somehow through the
whirlwind onslaughts. Rarely did he strike blows himself, for Ponta had
a quick eye and could defend as well as attack, while Joe had no chance
against the other's enormous vitality. His hope lay in that Ponta
himself should ultimately consume his strength.

But Genevieve was beginning to wonder why her lover did not fight. She
grew angry. She wanted to see him wreak vengeance on this beast that had
persecuted him so. Even as she waxed impatient, the chance came, and Joe
whipped his fist to Ponta's mouth. It was a staggering blow. She saw
Ponta's head go back with a jerk and the quick dye of blood upon his
lips. The blow, and the great shout from the audience, angered him. He
rushed like a wild man. The fury of his previous assaults was as nothing