The round, the thirteenth, closed with a rush, in
Ponta's corner. He attempted a rally, was brought to his knees, took the
nine seconds' count, and then tried to clinch into safety, only to
receive four of Joe's terrible stomach punches, so that with the gong he
fell back, gasping, into the arms of his seconds.
Joe ran across the ring to his own corner.
"Now I'm going to get 'm," he said to his second.
"You sure fixed 'm that time," the latter answered. "Nothin' to stop you
now but a lucky punch. Watch out for it."
Joe leaned forward, feet gathered under him for a spring, like a foot-
racer waiting the start. He was waiting for the gong. When it sounded
he shot forward and across the ring, catching Ponta in the midst of his
seconds as he rose from his stool. And in the midst of his seconds he
went down, knocked down by a right-hand blow. As he arose from the
confusion of buckets, stools, and seconds, Joe put him down again. And
yet a third time he went down before he could escape from his own corner.
Joe had at last become the whirlwind. Genevieve remembered his "just
watch, you'll know when I go after him." The house knew it, too. It was
on its feet, every voice raised in a fierce yell. It was the blood-cry
of the crowd, and it sounded to her like what she imagined must be the
howling of wolves. And what with confidence in her lover's victory she
found room in her heart to pity Ponta.
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