In vain he struggled to defend himself, to block, to cover up, to duck,
to clinch into a moment's safety. That moment was denied him. Knockdown
after knockdown was his portion. He was knocked to the canvas backwards,
and sideways, was punched in the clinches and in the breakaways--stiff,
jolty blows that dazed his brain and drove the strength from his muscles.
He was knocked into the corners and out again, against the ropes,
rebounding, and with another blow against the ropes once more. He fanned
the air with his arms, showering savage blows upon emptiness. There was
nothing human left in him. He was the beast incarnate, roaring and
raging and being destroyed. He was smashed down to his knees, but
refused to take the count, staggering to his feet only to be met stiff-
handed on the mouth and sent hurling back against the ropes.
In sore travail, gasping, reeling, panting, with glazing eyes and sobbing
breath, grotesque and heroic, fighting to the last, striving to get at
his antagonist, he surged and was driven about the ring. And in that
moment Joe's foot slipped on the wet canvas. Ponta's swimming eyes saw
and knew the chance. All the fleeing strength of his body gathered
itself together for the lightning lucky punch. Even as Joe slipped the
other smote him, fairly on the point of the chin. He went over backward.
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