The crowd were on their feet, silent.  They thought that the end had come, for at the call of three Clancy had not moved, Flynn and Spatola were already above the level of the ring clinging to the ropes and Jerry stood breathing heavily, his arms at his sides watching the prostrate man.  At the count of six Clancy was on one elbow, eight found him on his knees struggling to his feet.  He swayed a little, but rose and fell into a clinch which saved him.  The referee tore the men apart and Jerry at once assumed the aggressive, making the weary Clancy move warily.  But one of Jerry’s left-hand blows caught him again, and he went half through the ropes.

It was here that Jerry earned the wild applause of the crowd by an act of magnanimity that was nothing less than Quixotic.  But it was like Jerry.  He wanted to take no unfair advantages.  He bent forward, lifting the upper rope, and helped Clancy into the ring.  There the round ended in a roar of cheering that did my heart and Jack’s good to hear.

But the thing was foolhardy.  The man was not done yet, as Jerry was to find out in a moment.  I saw Flynn frowning and protesting in Jerry’s ear, for the boy had been set for a knockout and the bout in all probability would have been ended.  Jerry listened, his arms stretched out along the ropes, smiling up at the glaring electric lights.  He was breathing convulsively and Spatola swung his towel furiously, fanning the heavy air into the boy’s gasping lungs.  He had had all the advantage so far and with good generalship could still win on points if he fought his own battle and not Clancy’s.  But would he?  I knew what Flynn was saying to him, what he was warning him against.  I had heard the warning often in the bouts at the Manor.  Failing in science and skill Clancy would “slug” (Flynn’s word, not mine), trusting to the prodigious length of his arms, taking the punishment that came to him, biding his time and the possible lucky blow which would turn the tide in his favor.

I glanced at Clancy’s corner.  There was anxiety there.  I think during the seventh round, Clancy had seen his fifteen thousand going a-glimmering and Riley was no less emphatic than Flynn.  There were but three more rounds—­three rounds in which the Sailor could regain his lost ground and the heavyweight laurels that seemed to be slipping from him.

When the gong clanged, it was immediately to be seen that Clancy’s whole plan of battle had changed.  From some hidden sources in that great hulk of a body he drew new forces of energy.  You will see the same thing in any wild beast of the jungle, a hidden reserve of nervous power and viciousness, most dangerous apparently when nearest extinction.  He was ugly—­his jowls shot forward, his brow lowering, his long arms shooting like pistons—­a jungle beast at bay.  Jerry stopped his progress again—­again—­with straight thrusts and uppercuts, but the man only covered up, crouched lower, and came on again.  Once he