No need to shake hands this bout—­not again till the fifteenth, noted Dam, as he arose and literally leapt at his opponent with a smashing drive of his right and a feint of his left which drew the Gorilla’s guard and left his face exposed.  The Gorilla received Dam’s full weight and full strength, and, but for the ropes, would have been knocked among the spectators.

A tremendous yell went up, led by the Queen’s Greys.

As the tautening of the ropes swayed the Gorilla inward again, Dam delivered a brace of lightning strokes that, though they did not find the chin, staggered and partly stunned him, and, ere he could pull himself together, Dam was inside his guard, almost breast to breast with him, and raining terrific blows, just above the belt.  Left, right, left, right, and no chance for the Gorilla to get his own hands up for a couple of seconds, and, when he could, and drove an appalling blow at Dam’s chin, it was dodged and he received a cross-counter that shook him.  He must sham weariness and demoralization, lead the tippy rookie on to over-confidence and then land him clean over the ropes.  A sullen rage grew in the Gorilla’s heart.  He wasn’t doing himself justice.  He wasn’t having a fair show.  This blasted half-set pink and white recruit hadn’t given him time to settle down.  A fifteen-round contest shouldn’t be bustled like this! The bloke was more like a wild-cat than a sober heavyweight boxer.

He received a heavy blow in the face and, as he shook his head with an evil grin, according to his custom when well struck, he found it followed practically instantaneously by another.  The swab was about the quickest thing that ever got into a ring.  He was like one of these bloomin’, tricky, jack-in-the-box featherweights, instead of a steady lumbering “heavy”.  And the Gorilla allowed himself to be driven to a corner again, and let his head sink forward, that the incautious youth might again put all his strength into an upper-cut, miss as the other dodged, and be at the mercy of the Gorilla as the errant fist completed its over-driven swing.

But Damocles de Warrenne fought with his brain as well as his strength and skill.  He had learnt a lesson, and no dull-witted oaf of a Gorilla was going to have him like that twice.  As the Gorilla cowered and crouched in simulated defeat and placed his face to tempt the coup de grace which he would see swinging up, and easily dodge, Dam swiftly side-stepped and summoning every ounce of strength, rage, and mad protesting frenzy against the life-long torturing tyrant, he delivered a Homeric blow at the champion’s head, beside and behind the ear.  (Since he was indestructible by the ordinary point-of-the-chin knock-out, let him make the best of that fearful blow upon the base of the brain and spinal cord, direct.)

Experienced men said it was the heaviest blow they had ever seen struck with the human fist.  It was delivered slightly downward, coolly, at measured distance, with change from left foot to right in the act of delivery, and with the uttermost strength of a most powerful athlete in perfect training—­and Hate Incarnate lent the strength of madness to the strength of training and skill.