When the ninth round opened the men were both groggy and stumbled to the center of the ring like two blind men groping for each other, swinging wildly and moving slowly.  Each was intent upon a knockout.  Twice each swung and missed rights, avoiding the blows by remnants of their craft and cleverness.  Twice they stumbled into clinches and were torn apart by the pitiless Gannon.  In the in-fighting (a technical term) Jerry I think must have been struck—­I did not see the blow, but it must have been a terrific one—­for his knees sagged and his hands dropped to his sides while his mouth gaped open painfully.  At the cries from his corner Clancy drove a vicious blow, but Jerry weakly managed to avoid it.  But he couldn’t raise his arms.  Jerry was hurt, grievously hurt.  In a moment they were raised again, but he could not seem to see his mark and his swings were wild.  In agony I rose, my arm in Ballard’s, ready for the worst.  Clancy straightened, tried to collect what remained of his scattered wits and strength, poised himself and with a terrible blow, struck Jerry at the point of his chin.

He went down with a crash, his head striking the floor, and remained motionless.  Over him, one hand restraining Clancy, Gannon counted.  Jerry’s figure writhed upon the floor, twisting upon its head struggling to rise and then relaxed.  The fight was over.

A curious hush had fallen over the great hall.  Here and there Clancy’s friends were shouting in glee, but the great mass of the crowd, those whom Jerry had won by his skill and pluck, seemed bewildered.  The end had come too suddenly for them to realize what had happened and how it had happened.  The match was his.  He had won it.  It had only been a question of rounds.  And then, “Chance blow in the solar-plexus,” someone was saying.

It is curious how many and how lasting are the impressions that can be crowded into a second of time.  I clambered out of the box with Jack Ballard toward the ring, fearful of the blow to Jerry’s head upon the boards, and as I pushed my way through the bewildered crowd, I caught just a glimpse of Marcia Van Wyck’s party.  They were all standing up in their box, looking toward the ring.  A man beside her made a remark at the girl’s ear.  I saw her turn and flash a bright glance up at him and had a glimpse of her small white teeth.  She was laughing.  This is just an impression of a momentary glimpse, but it means much.  In this situation is the psychology of the real Marcia.  Jerry, her man-god, her brute-god, lay prone at her feet a quivering mass of bruised flesh, beaten and broken mind and body, and she could smile.

Tingling with rage at this incident, which I thanked God Jerry had not seen, I fought my way behind Jack to the aisle to the dressing-room, whither willing hands had carried the boy.  All around us we heard the encomiums of the crowd.

“Luck,” one said, “mere luck.”

“It’s all in the game.  But Benham’s the better man.”