CHAPTER V
The gong sounded. It seemed they had been fighting half an hour,
though from what Joe had told her she knew it had been only three
minutes. With the crash of the gong Joe's seconds were through the
ropes and running him into his corner for the blessed minute of
rest. One man, squatting on the floor between his outstretched feet
and elevating them by resting them on his knees, was violently
chafing his legs. Joe sat on the stool, leaning far back into the
corner, head thrown back and arms outstretched on the ropes to give
easy expansion to the chest. With wide-open mouth he was breathing
the towel-driven air furnished by two of the seconds, while
listening to the counsel of still another second who talked with low
voice in his ear and at the same time sponged off his face,
shoulders, and chest.
Hardly had all this been accomplished (it had taken no more than
several seconds), when the gong sounded, the seconds scuttled
through the ropes with their paraphernalia, and Joe and Ponta were
advancing against each other to the centre of the ring. Genevieve
had no idea that a minute could be so short. For a moment she felt
that this rest had been cut, and was suspicious of she knew not
what.
Ponta lashed out, right and left, savagely as ever, and though Joe
blocked the blows, such was the force of them that he was knocked
backward several steps. Ponta was after him with the spring of a
tiger. In the involuntary effort to maintain equilibrium, Joe had
uncovered himself, flinging one arm out and lifting his head from
beneath the 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 compared with the fury
of this one. And there was no more opportunity for another blow.
Joe was too busy living through the storm he had already caused,
blocking, covering up, and ducking into the safety and respite of
the clinches.
But the clinch was not all safety and respite. Every instant of it
was intense watchfulness, while the breakaway was still more
dangerous. Genevieve had noticed, with a slight touch of amusement,
the curious way in which Joe snuggled his body in against Ponta's in
the clinches; but she had not realized why, until, in one such
clinch, before the snuggling in could be effected, Ponta's fist
whipped straight up in the air from under, and missed Joe's chin by
a hair's-breadth. In another and later clinch, when she had already
relaxed and sighed her relief at seeing him safely snuggled, Ponta,
his chin over Joe's shoulder, lifted his right arm and struck a
terrible downward blow on the small of the back. The crowd groaned
its apprehension, while Joe quickly locked his opponent's arms to
prevent a repetition of the blow.
The gong struck, and after the fleeting minute of rest, they went at
it again--in Joe's corner, for Ponta had made a rush to meet him
clear across the ring. Where the blow had been over the kidneys,
the white skin had become bright red. This splash of color, the
size of the glove, fascinated and frightened Genevieve so that she
could scarcely take her eyes from it. Promptly, in the next clinch,
the blow was repeated; but after that Joe usually managed to give
Ponta the heel of the glove on the mouth and so hold his head back.
This prevented the striking of the blow; but three times more,
before the round ended, Ponta effected the trick, each time striking
the same vulnerable part.
Another rest and another round went by, with no further damage to
Joe and no diminution of strength on the part of Ponta. But in the
beginning of the fifth round, Joe, caught in a corner, made as
though to duck into a clinch. Just before it was effected, and at
the precise moment that Ponta was ready with his own body to receive
the snuggling in of Joe's body, Joe drew back slightly and drove
with his fists at his opponent's unprotected stomach. Lightning-
like blows they were, four of them, right and left; and heavy they
were, for Ponta winced away from them and staggered back, half
dropping his arms, his shoulders drooping forward and in, as though
he were about to double in at the waist and collapse. Joe's quick
eye saw the opening, and he smashed straight out upon Ponta's mouth,
following instantly with a half swing, half hook, for the jaw. It
missed, striking the cheek instead, and sending Ponta staggering
sideways.
The house was on its feet, shouting, to a man. Genevieve could hear
men crying, "He's got 'm, he's got 'm!" and it seemed to her the
beginning of the end. She, too, was out of herself; softness and
tenderness had vanished; she exulted with each crushing blow her
lover delivered.
But Ponta's vitality was yet to be reckoned with. As, like a tiger,
he had followed Joe up, Joe now followed him up. He made another
half swing, half hook, for Ponta's jaw, and Ponta, already
recovering his wits and strength, ducked cleanly. Joe's fist passed
on through empty air, and so great was the momentum of the blow that
it carried him around, in a half twirl, sideways. Then Ponta lashed
out with his left. His glove landed on Joe's unguarded neck.
Genevieve saw her lover's arms drop to his sides as his body lifted,
went backward, and fell limply to the floor. The referee, bending
over him, began to count the seconds, emphasizing the passage of
each second with a downward sweep of his right arm.
The audience was still as death. Ponta had partly turned to the
house to receive the approval that was his due, only to be met by
this chill, graveyard silence. Quick wrath surged up in him. It
was unfair. His opponent only was applauded--if he struck a blow,
if he escaped a blow; he, Ponta, who had forced the fighting from
the start, had received no word of cheer.
His eyes blazed as he gathered himself together and sprang to his
prostrate foe. He crouched alongside of him, right arm drawn back
and ready for a smashing blow the instant Joe should start to rise.
The referee, still bending over and counting with his right hand,
shoved Ponta back with his left. The latter, crouching, circled
around, and the referee circled with him, thrusting him back and
keeping between him and the fallen man.
"Four--five--six--" the count went on, and Joe, rolling over on his
face, squirmed weakly to draw himself to his knees. This he
succeeded in doing, resting on one knee, a hand to the floor on
either side and the other leg bent under him to help him rise.
"Take the count! Take the count!" a dozen voices rang out from the
audience.
"For God's sake, take the count!" one of Joe's seconds cried
warningly from the edge of the ring. Genevieve gave him one swift
glance, and saw the young fellow's face, drawn and white, his lips
unconsciously moving as he kept the count with the referee.
"Seven--eight--nine--" the seconds went.
The ninth sounded and was gone, when the referee gave Ponta a last
backward shove and Joe came to his feet, bunched up, covered up,
weak, but cool, very cool. Ponta hurled himself upon him with
terrific force, delivering an uppercut and a straight punch. But
Joe blocked the two, ducked a third, stepped to the side to avoid a
fourth, and was then driven backward into a corner by a hurricane of
blows. He was exceedingly weak. He tottered as he kept his
footing, and staggered back and forth. His back was against the
ropes. There was no further retreat. Ponta paused, as if to make
doubly sure, then feinted with his left and struck fiercely with his
right with all his strength. But Joe ducked into a clinch and was
for a moment saved.
Ponta struggled frantically to free himself. He wanted to give the
finish to this foe already so far gone. But Joe was holding on for
life, resisting the other's every effort, as fast as one hold or
grip was torn loose finding a new one by which to cling. "Break!"
the referee commanded. Joe held on tighter. "Make 'm break! Why
the hell don't you make 'm break?" Ponta panted at the referee.
Again the latter commanded the break. Joe refused, keeping, as he
well knew, within his rights. Each moment of the clinch his
strength was coming back to him, his brain was clearing, the cobwebs
were disappearing from before his eyes. The round was young, and he
must live, somehow, through the nearly three minutes of it yet to
run.
The referee clutched each by the shoulder and sundered them
violently, passing quickly between them as he thrust them backward
in order to make a clean break of it. The moment he was free, Ponta
sprang at Joe like a wild animal bearing down its prey. But Joe
covered up, blocked, and fell into a clinch. Again Ponta struggled
to get free, Joe held on, and the referee thrust them apart. And
again Joe avoided damage and clinched.
Genevieve realized that in the clinches he was not being beaten--
why, then, did not the referee let him hold on? It was cruel. She
hated the genial-faced Eddy Jones in those moments, and she partly
rose from her chair, her hands clenched with anger, the nails
cutting into the palms till they hurt. The rest of the round, the
three long minutes of it, was a succession of clinches and breaks.
Not once did Ponta succeed in striking his opponent the deadly final
blow. And Ponta was like a madman, raging because of his impotency
in the face of his helpless and all but vanquished foe. One blow,
only one blow, and he could not deliver it! Joe's ring experience
and coolness saved him. With shaken consciousness and trembling
body, he clutched and held on, while the ebbing life turned and
flooded up in him again. Once, in his passion, unable to hit him,
Ponta made as though to lift him up and hurl him to the floor.
"V'y don't you bite him?" Silverstein taunted shrilly.
In the stillness the sally was heard over the whole house, and the
audience, relieved of its anxiety for its favorite, laughed with an
uproariousness that had in it the note of hysteria. Even Genevieve
felt that there was something irresistibly funny in the remark, and
the relief of the audience was communicated to her; yet she felt
sick and faint, and was overwrought with horror at what she had seen
and was seeing.
"Bite 'm! Bite 'm!" voices from the recovered audience were
shouting. "Chew his ear off, Ponta! That's the only way you can
get 'm! Eat 'm up! Eat 'm up! Oh, why don't you eat 'm up?"
The effect was bad on Ponta. He became more frenzied than ever, and
more impotent. He panted and sobbed, wasting his effort by too much
effort, losing sanity and control and futilely trying to compensate
for the loss by excess of physical endeavor. He knew only the blind
desire to destroy, shook Joe in the clinches as a terrier might a
rat, strained and struggled for freedom of body and arms, and all
the while Joe calmly clutched and held on. The referee worked
manfully and fairly to separate them. Perspiration ran down his
face. It took all his strength to split those clinging bodies, and
no sooner had he split them than Joe fell unharmed into another
embrace and the work had to be done all over again. In vain, when
freed, did Ponta try to avoid the clutching arms and twining body.
He could not keep away. He had to come close in order to strike,
and each time Joe baffled him and caught him in his arms.
And Genevieve, crouched in the little dressing-room and peering
through the peep-hole, was baffled, too. She was an interested
party in what seemed a death-struggle--was not one of the fighters
her Joe?--but the audience understood and she did not. The Game had
not unveiled to her. The lure of it was beyond her. It was greater
mystery than ever. She could not comprehend its power. What
delight could there be for Joe in that brutal surging and straining
of bodies, those fierce clutches, fiercer blows, and terrible hurts?
Surely, she, Genevieve, offered more than that--rest, and content,
and sweet, calm joy. Her bid for the heart of him and the soul of
him was finer and more generous than the bid of the Game; yet he
dallied with both--held her in his arms, but turned his head to
listen to that other and siren call she could not understand.
The gong struck. The round ended with a break in Ponta's corner.
The white-faced young second was through the ropes with the first
clash of sound. He seized Joe in his arms, lifted him clear of the
floor, and ran with him across the ring to his own corner. His
seconds worked over him furiously, chafing his legs, slapping his
abdomen, stretching the hip-cloth out with their fingers so that he
might breathe more easily. For the first time Genevieve saw the
stomach-breathing of a man, an abdomen that rose and fell far more
with every breath than her breast rose and fell after she had run
for a car. The pungency of ammonia bit her nostrils, wafted to her
from the soaked sponge wherefrom he breathed the fiery fumes that
cleared his brain. He gargled his mouth and throat, took a suck at
a divided lemon, and all the while the towels worked like mad,
driving oxygen into his lungs to purge the pounding blood and send
it back revivified for the struggle yet to come. His heated body
was sponged with water, doused with it, and bottles were turned
mouth-downward on his head.
