She
grew angry. She wanted to see him wreak vengeance on this beast that had
persecuted him so. Even as she waxed impatient, the chance came, and Joe
whipped his fist to Ponta's mouth. It was a staggering blow. She saw
Ponta's head go back with a jerk and the quick dye of blood upon his
lips. The blow, and the great shout from the audience, angered him. He
rushed like a wild man. The fury of his previous assaults was as nothing
compared with the fury of this one. And there was no more opportunity
for another blow. Joe was too busy living through the storm he had
already caused, blocking, covering up, and ducking into the safety and
respite of the clinches.
But the clinch was not all safety and respite. Every instant of it was
intense watchfulness, while the breakaway was still more dangerous.
Genevieve had noticed, with a slight touch of amusement, the curious way
in which Joe snuggled his body in against Ponta's in the clinches; but
she had not realized why, until, in one such clinch, before the snuggling
in could be effected, Ponta's fist whipped straight up in the air from
under, and missed Joe's chin by a hair's-breadth. In another and later
clinch, when she had already relaxed and sighed her relief at seeing him
safely snuggled, Ponta, his chin over Joe's shoulder, lifted his right
arm and struck a terrible downward blow on the small of the back.
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