new move and put the body in a state of balance.  In the prize ring speed does not mean the ability to strike one lightning blow, but rather that, having finished one drive, the fighter is in position to hit again, and then again, so that no matter where the impetus of his last lunge has placed him he is ready and poised to shoot all his weight behind his fist again and drive it accurately at a vulnerable spot.  Individually the actions may be slow; but the series of efforts seem rapid.  That is why a superior boxer seems to hypnotize his antagonist with movements which to the spectator seem perfectly easy, slow, and sure.

But if Lefty lacked much in agility, he had an animallike sense of balance.  Sprawling, helpless, he saw the convulsed shadow that was Donnegan take form as a straight shooting body that plunged through the air above him.  Lefty Joe dug his left elbow into the floor of the car and whirled back upon his shoulders, bunching his knees high over his stomach.  Nine chances out of ten, if Donnegan had fallen flatwise upon this alert enemy, he would have received those knees in the pit of his own stomach and instantly been paralyzed.  But in the jumping, rattling car even Donnegan was capable of making mistakes.  His mistake in this instance saved his life, for springing too far, he came down not in reaching distance of Lefty’s throat, but with his chest on the knees of the older tramp.

As a result, Donnegan was promptly kicked head over heels and tumbled the length of the car.  Lefty was on his feet and plunging after the tumbling form in the twinkling of an eye, literally speaking, and he was only kept from burying his knife in the flesh of his foe by a sway of the car that staggered him in the act of striking.  Donnegan, the next instant, was beyond reach.  He had struck the end of the car and rebounded like a ball of rubber at a tangent.  He slid into the shadows, and Lefty, putting his own shoulders to the wall, felt for his revolver and knew that he was lost.  He had failed in his first surprise attack, and without surprise to help him now he was gone.  He weighed his revolver, decided that it would be madness to use it, for if he missed, Donnegan would instantly be guided by the flash to shoot him full of holes.

Something slipped by the open door—­something that glimmered faintly; and Lefty Joe knew that it was the red head of Donnegan.  Donnegan, soft-footed as a shadow among shadows.  Donnegan on a blood trail.  It lowered the heartbeat of Lefty Joe to a tremendous, slow pulse.  In that moment he gave up hope and, resigning himself to die, determined to fight to the last gasp, as became one of his reputation and national celebrity on “the road.”

Yet Lefty Joe was no common man and no common fighter.  No, let the shade of Rusty Dick, whom Lefty met and beat in his glorious prime—­let this shade arise and speak for the prowess of Lefty Joe.  In fact it was because he was such a good fighter himself that he recognized his helplessness in the hands of Donnegan.