The opening of the twelfth round found both fighters blown, bleeding and
filled with a desperate determination to end the contest. They formed a
ghastly sight when they were pitted in what proved to be the final
clash. Greer's face was chopped and bleeding, while Caradoc's ribs were
a mass of bruises, as mottled as a leopard's skin.
To Caradoc, the whole dock seemed unsteady. The sun bored into the back
of his head. The men had ceased yelling, and the circle silently swayed
back and forth to give the battlers room. The whole scene was hazy and
fantastic.
The Englishman put up his hands automatically when he faced his enemy,
and the next moment black-haired blocky bull of a fellow charged
furiously. Smith tried to stop him with a heavy right hand smash, but
his fist glanced off the man's sweaty shoulder. The next moment, Greer's
right landed in a fierce solid jolt on Smith's hip bone. A sickening
pain went through the Englishman. He sagged away and went down on a
knee, hunched forward, trying to protect his face with his gloves. Greer
Started another rush, when Madden jumped in, put a hand on his shoulder.
"You can't hit him while he's down!" he shouted in the bull's ear, and
then the American began counting: "One, two, three..."
Caradoc rested with his broad chest panting convulsively up and down
till the count of eight.
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