caught Jerry in the stomach and I saw the boy wince with pain; again he reached Jerry’s head, a terrific blow which would have sent him to the floor had Jerry not been moving away.  And all the while Jerry’s blows were landing, cutting the man, blinding him, but still he came on.  Was there no limit to the amount of punishment that he could endure?  Jerry’s blows were not the leads of a boxer, but fighting blows, and Clancy’s face and body would bear testimony to their strength for many a day, but he always came on for more—­a superbeast that as long as breath came and blood flowed, was untamed and unconquerable.  Jerry was tiring now and throwing discretion to the winds was trying for a knockout.  Two swings he missed by mere wildness and weariness of eye, and Flynn’s voice rose above the wild clamor of the of the crowd.  “Keep him off, Jerry—­keep him off!” But Jerry did not hear or did not choose to hear, for he no longer avoided Clancy’s blows or his advances, standing his ground and slugging wildly as Clancy was doing.  Jack Ballard saw the danger and sprang to his feet seconding Flynn’s advice, but he could not be heard above the roar of the crowd.  It was a wild moment.  A chance blow by either man would end the battle then.  I was no longer Roger Canby, ex-tutor and philosopher, but a mad mother-beast whose cub was fighting for its life.  “Keep him off, Jerry,” I yelled hoarsely again and again, but the boy still stood, his toe to Clancy’s, fighting wildly.  Three times they fell into clinches from sheer exhaustion to be pried apart by the referee, only to go at each other again.  This was no test of skill, but of brutality and chance.  I think that Jerry was mad—­brute mad, for, though Clancy’s blows were now reaching him, he didn’t seem to be aware of them.  His face was distorted with rage—­animal rage.  When the gong clanged at the end of this round, the eighth, they still fought even when Gannon thrust his bulk between them.

The crowd sank back into their seats gasping.  It was a long while since New York had seen a fight such as this.

“What d’ I tell you, Charlie?” whispered the optimist next to me hoarsely.

“By—­, he’s good an’ no mistake,” confessed the fat man.

“He’s got the Sailor goin’.”

Jack Ballard and I were in an agony of apprehension, watching the faces of the excited men in Jerry’s corner, who were trying to warn him before it was too late.  But we could see that Jerry was stubborn, for when Flynn pleaded with him he shook his head.  Spatola and the negro massaged him furiously, adding their anxious pleas to Flynn’s, but Jerry would not listen.  He was taking the foul air in huge gasps, his eyes closed, fighting for recuperation.