Unfortunately, it was evident, even to her, that he was being hurt, and
that he was very far from sweeping triumphantly over Albert Parsons. He
had not allowed himself time to recover from his first battle, and his
blows were slow and weary. Albert, moreover, was made of sterner stuff
than Ted. Though now a peaceful tender of cows, there had been a time
in his hot youth when, travelling with a circus, he had fought, week
in, week out, relays of just such rustic warriors as Tom. He knew their
methods--their headlong rushes, their swinging blows. They were the
merest commonplaces of life to him. He slipped Tom, he side-stepped
Tom, he jabbed Tom; he did everything to Tom that a trained boxer can
do to a reckless novice, except knock the fight out of him, until
presently, through the sheer labour of hitting, he, too, grew weary.

Now, in the days when Albert Parsons had fought whole families of Toms
in an evening, he had fought in rounds, with the boss holding the
watch, and half-minute rests, and water to refresh him, and all orderly
and proper. Today there were no rounds, no rests, no water, and the
peaceful tending of cows had caused flesh to grow where there had been
only muscle. Tom's headlong rushes became less easy to side-step, his
swinging blows more difficult than the scientific counter that shot out
to check them. As he tired Tom seemed to regain strength. The tide of
the battle began to ebb. He clinched, and Tom threw him off. He
feinted, and while he was feinting Tom was on him. It was the climax of
the battle--the last rally. Down went Albert, and stayed down.
Physically, he was not finished; but in his mind a question had framed
itself--the question. 'Was it worth it?'--and he was answering, 'No.'
There were other girls in the world. No girl was worth all this
trouble.