Sandel’s trousers were pulled off， and， as he stood up， hissweater was skinned off over his head. And Tom King，looking， saw Youth incarnate， deep-chested， heavy-thewed，with muscles that slipped and slid like live things underthe white satin skin. The whole body was acrawl with life，and Tom King knew that it was a life that had never oozedits freshness out through the aching pores during the longfights wherein Youth paid its toll and departed not quiteso young as when it entered.
The two men advanced to meet each other， and， as thegong sounded and the seconds clattered out of the ring withthe folding stools， they shook hands and instantly tooktheir fighting attitudes. And instantly， like a mechanismof steel and springs balanced on a hair trigger， Sandelwas in and out and in again， landing a left to the eyes， aright to the ribs， ducking a counter， dancing lightly awayand dancing menacingly back again. He was swift andclever. It was a dazzling exhibition. The house yelled itsapprobation. But King was not dazzled. He had foughttoo many fights and too many youngsters. He knew theblows for what they were—too quick and too deft to bedangerous. Evidently Sandel was going to rush things fromthe start. It was to be expected. It was the way of Youth，expending its splendor and excellence in wild insurgenceand furious onslaught， overwhelming opposition with itsown unlimited glory of strength and desire.
Sandel was in and out， here， there， and everywhere，light-footed and eager-hearted， a living wonder of whiteflesh and stinging muscle that wove itself into a dazzlingfabric of attack， slipping and leaping like a flying shuttlefrom action to action through a thousand actions， all ofthem centred upon the destruction of Tom King， whostood between him and fortune. And Tom King patientlyendured. He knew his business， and he knew Youth nowthat Youth was no longer his. There was nothing to dotill the other lost some of his steam， was his thought，and he grinned to himself as he deliberately ducked soas to receive a heavy blow on the top of his head. It wasa wicked thing to do， yet eminently fair according to therules of the boxing game. A man was supposed to takecare of his own knuckles， and， if he insisted on hittingan opponent on the top of the head， he did so at his ownperil. King could have ducked lower and let the blow whizharmlessly past， but he remembered his own early fightsand how he smashed his first knuckle on the head of theWelsh Terror. He was but playing the game. That duck hadaccounted for one of Sandel’s knuckles. Not that Sandelwould mind it now. He would go on， superbly regardless，hitting as hard as ever throughout the fight. But later on，when the long ring battles had begun to tell， he wouldregret that knuckle and look back and remember how hesmashed it on Tom King’s head.
The first round was all Sandel’s， and he had the houseyelling with the rapidity of his whirlwind rushes. Heoverwhelmed King with avalanches of punches， and Kingdid nothing. He never struck once， contenting himselfwith covering up， blocking and ducking and clinching toavoid punishment. He occasionally feinted， shook his headwhen the weight of a punch landed， and moved stolidlyabout， never leaping or springing or wasting an ounce ofstrength. Sandel must foam the froth of Youth away beforediscreet Age could dare to retaliate. All King’s movementswere slow and methodical， and his heavy-lidded， slowmovingeyes gave him the appearance of being half asleepor dazed. Yet they were eyes that saw everything， that hadbeen trained to see everything through all his twenty yearsand odd in the ring. They were eyes that did not blink orwaver before an impending blow， but that coolly saw andmeasured distance.
Seated in his corner for the minute’s rest at the end ofthe round， he lay back with outstretched legs， his armsresting on the right angle of the ropes， his chest andabdomen heaving frankly and deeply as he gulped downthe air driven by the towels of his seconds. He listenedwith closed eyes to the voices of the house， “Why don’tyeh fight， Tom？” many were crying. “Yeh ain’t afraid of ’im，are yeh？”
“Muscle-bound，” he heard a man on a front seat comment.
“He can’t move quicker. Two to one on Sandel， in quids.”
The gong struck and the two men advanced from theircorners. Sandel came forward fully three-quarters of thedistance， eager to begin again； but King was content toadvance the shorter distance. It was in line with his policyof economy. He had not been well trained， and he hadnot had enough to eat， and every step counted. Besides，he had already walked two miles to the ringside. It was arepetition of the first round， with Sandel attacking like awhirlwind and with the audience indignantly demandingwhy King did not fight. Beyond feinting and several slowlydelivered and ineffectual blows he did nothing save blockand stall and clinch. Sandel wanted to make the pace fast，while King， out of his wisdom， refused to accommodatehim. He grinned with a certain wistful pathos in his ringbatteredcountenance， and went on cherishing his strengthwith the jealousy of which only Age is capable. Sandel wasYouth， and he threw his strength away with the munificentabandon of Youth. To King belonged the ring generalship，the wisdom bred of long， aching fights. He watched withcool eyes and head， moving slowly and waiting for Sandel’sfroth to foam away. To the majority of the onlookers itseemed as though King was hopelessly outclassed， andthey voiced their opinion in offers of three to one onSandel. But there were wise ones， a few， who knew Kingof old time， and who covered what they considered easymoney.
The third round began as usual， one-sided， with Sandeldoing all the leading and delivering all the punishment.
