Sandel was reeling and staggering， but Tom King’s legswere cramping and his knuckles going back on him. Yethe steeled himself to strike the fierce blows， every oneof which brought anguish to his tortured hands. Thoughnow he was receiving practically no punishment， he wasweakening as rapidly as the other. His blows went home，but there was no longer the weight behind them， andeach blow was the result of a severe effort of will. His legswere like lead， and they dragged visibly under him； whileSandel’s backers， cheered by this symptom， began callingencouragement to their man.
King was spurred to a burst of effort. He deliveredtwo blows in succession—a left， a trifle too high， to thesolar plexus， and a right cross to the jaw. They were notheavy blows， yet so weak and dazed was Sandel that hewent down and lay quivering. The referee stood over him，shouting the count of the fatal seconds in his ear. If beforethe tenth second was called， he did not rise， the fightwas lost. The house stood in hushed silence. King restedon trembling legs. A mortal dizziness was upon him， andbefore his eyes the sea of faces sagged and swayed， whileto his ears， as from a remote distance， came the count ofthe referee. Yet he looked upon the fight as his. It wasimpossible that a man so punished could rise.
Only Youth could rise， and Sandel rose. At the fourthsecond he rolled over on his face and groped blindly forthe ropes. By the seventh second he had dragged himselfto his knee， where he rested， his head rolling groggily onhis shoulders. As the referee cried “Nine！” Sandel stoodupright， in proper stalling position， his left arm wrappedabout his face， his right wrapped about his stomach. Thuswere his vital points guarded， while he lurched forwardtoward King in the hope of effecting a clinch and gainingmore time.
At the instant Sandel arose， King was at him， but thetwo blows he delivered were muffled on the stalled arms.
The next moment Sandel was in the clinch and holdingon desperately while the referee strove to drag the twomen apart. King helped to force himself free. He knewthe rapidity with which Youth recovered， and he knewthat Sandel was his if he could prevent that recovery. Onestiff punch would do it. Sandel was his， indubitably his.
He had outgeneralled him， outfought him， outpointedhim. Sandel reeled out of the clinch， balanced on the hairline between defeat or survival. One good blow wouldtopple him over and down and out. And Tom King， ina flash of bitterness， remembered the piece of steakand wished that he had it then behind that necessarypunch he must deliver. He nerved himself for the blow，but it was not heavy enough nor swift enough. Sandelswayed， but did not fall， staggering back to the ropes andholding on. King staggered after him， and， with a panglike that of dissolution， delivered another blow. But hisbody had deserted him. All that was left of him was afighting intelligence that was dimmed and clouded fromexhaustion. The blow that was aimed for the jaw struck nohigher than the shoulder. He had willed the blow higher，but the tired muscles had not been able to obey. And，from the impact of the blow， Tom King himself reeledback and nearly fell. Once again he strove. This time hispunch missed altogether， and， from absolute weakness， hefell against Sandel and clinched， holding on to him to savehimself from sinking to the floor.
