Billy swung his right for his foe's jaw--a terrible blow that
would have ended the fight had it landed--but the man side-stepped
it, and Billy's momentum carried him sprawling upon
his face. When he regained his feet the "white hope" was
waiting for him, and Billy went down again to lie there, quite
still, while the hand of the referee marked the seconds: One.
Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Billy opened his eyes. Seven.
Billy sat up. Eight. The meaning of that monotonous count
finally percolated to the mucker's numbed perceptive faculties.
He was being counted out! Nine! Like a flash he was on his
feet. He had forgotten the crowd. Rage--cool, calculating rage
possessed him--not the feverish, hysterical variety that takes
its victim's brains away.
They had been counting out the man whom Barbara Harding
had once loved!--the man she had thought the bravest
in the world!--they were making a monkey and a coward of
him! He'd show them!
The "white hope" was waiting for him. Billy was scarce off
his knees before the man rushed at him wickedly, a smile
playing about his lips. It was to be the last of that smile,
however. Billy met the rush with his old familiar crouch, and
stopped his man with a straight to the body.
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