The sweating bodies of the fighters glistened in the roasting sunshine.
Both were bruised, Smith's body, Greer's head and shoulders. Caradoc's
mouth felt slimy and he spit at nothing.
The fighting went in spurts, Greer rushing Land Smith dancing away and
stabbing. The two gangs of rubbers bawled encouragement to their men.
"Land on 'is nose there, Smith!" shouted Mulcher. "Don't let 'im to ye!
Play away, play away, me boy! Now huppercut 'im! Huppercut 'im, I say!"
On the other side, Galton was shrieking hoarsely, "Bore in, Greer! Bore
in, me lad!" and Hogan, "G'wan and mash the spalpeen's ribs! Br-reak his
long nick! Cr-rush him! Why don't ye hit him on th' head and lay him
out?"
"Time's up!" announced Madden.
During the following rounds, Caradoc stuck to the long range English
method of fighting, but over and over Farnol broke through his guard and
his short-arm jabs spread a sick numb feeling over Caradoc's sides and
chest.
The Briton deliberately worked for Greer's eyes. His first round with
the silent man convinced him that he would never be able to stop that
massive steel body with a knock-out. On the other hand Greer covered up
tightly and lunged like a tiger after Smith's stomach and endurance.
Two or three weeks before, Caradoc could never have withstood that
terrific bombardment, but his hard life on the dock, his abstinence from
alcohol, and the fact that tobacco had long ago run out, all this had
armored his body with hard flesh.
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