escape the blow. But this time, she noticed, the heel of his glove
was pressed against Ponta’s mouth and chin, and at the second
“Break!” of the referee, Joe shoved his opponent’s head back and
sprang clear himself.
For a brief several seconds she had an unobstructed view of her
lover. Left foot a trifle advanced, knees slightly bent, he was
crouching, with his head drawn well down between his shoulders and
shielded by them. His hands were in position before him, ready
either to attack or defend. The muscles of his body were tense, and
as he moved about she could see them bunch up and writhe and crawl
like live things under the white skin.
But again Ponta was upon him and he was struggling to live. He
crouched a bit more, drew his body more compactly together, and
covered up with his hands, elbows, and forearms. Blows rained upon
him, and it looked to her as though he were being beaten to death.
But he was receiving the blows on his gloves and shoulders, rocking
back and forth to the force of them like a tree in a storm, while
the house cheered its delight. It was not until she understood this
applause, and saw Silverstein half out of his seat and intensely,
madly happy, and heard the “Oh, you, Joe’s!” from many throats, that
she realized that instead of being cruelly punished he was
acquitting himself well. Then he would emerge for a moment, again
to be enveloped and hidden in the whirlwind of Ponta’s ferocity.
CHAPTER V
THE GAME
21
The gong sounded. It seemed they had been fighting half an hour,
though from what Joe had told her she knew it had been only three
minutes. With the crash of the gong Joe’s seconds were through the
ropes and running him into his corner for the blessed minute of
rest. One man, squatting on the floor between his outstretched feet
and elevating them by resting them on his knees, was violently
chafing his legs. Joe sat on the stool, leaning far back into the
corner, head thrown back and arms outstretched on the ropes to give
easy expansion to the chest. With wide-open mouth he was breathing
the towel-driven air furnished by two of the seconds, while
listening to the counsel of still another second who talked with low
voice in his ear and at the same time sponged off his face,
shoulders, and chest.
Hardly had all this been accomplished (it had taken no more than
several seconds), when the gong sounded, the seconds scuttled
through the ropes with their paraphernalia, and Joe and Ponta were
advancing against each other to the centre of the ring. Genevieve
had no idea that a minute could be so short. For a moment she felt
that this rest had been cut, and was suspicious of she knew not
what.
Ponta lashed out, right and left, savagely as ever, and though Joe
blocked the blows, such was the force of them that he was knocked
backward several steps. Ponta was after him with the spring of a
tiger. In the involuntary effort to maintain equilibrium, Joe had
uncovered himself, flinging one arm out and lifting his head from
beneath the sheltering shoulders. So swiftly had Ponta followed
him, that a terrible swinging blow was coming at his unguarded jaw.
He ducked forward and down, Ponta’s fist just missing the back of
his head. As he came back to the perpendicular, Ponta’s left fist
drove at him in a straight punch that would have knocked him
backward through the ropes. Again, and with a swiftness an
inappreciable fraction of time quicker than Ponta’s, he ducked
forward. Ponta’s fist grazed the backward slope of the shoulder,
and glanced off into the air. Ponta’s right drove straight out, and
the graze was repeated as Joe ducked into the safety of a clinch.
Genevieve sighed with relief, her tense body relaxing and a
faintness coming over her. The crowd was cheering madly.
Silverstein was on his feet, shouting, gesticulating, completely out
of himself. And even Mr. Clausen was yelling his enthusiasm, at the
top of his lungs, into the ear of his nearest neighbor.
The clinch was broken and the fight went on. Joe blocked, and
backed, and slid around the ring, avoiding blows and living somehow
through the whirlwind onslaughts. Rarely did he strike blows
himself, for Ponta had a quick eye and could defend as well as
attack, while Joe had no chance against the other’s enormous
vitality. His hope lay in that Ponta himself should ultimately
consume his strength.
But Genevieve was beginning to wonder why her lover did not fight.
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
THE GAME
22
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. The crowd groaned
its apprehension, while Joe quickly locked his opponent’s arms to
prevent a repetition of the blow.
The gong struck, and after the fleeting minute of rest, they went at
it again–in Joe’s corner, for Ponta had made a rush to meet him
clear across the ring. Where the blow had been over the kidneys,
the white skin had become bright red. This splash of color, the
size of the glove, fascinated and frightened Genevieve so that she
could scarcely take her eyes from it. Promptly, in the next clinch,
the blow was repeated; but after that Joe usually managed to give
Ponta the heel of the glove on the mouth and so hold his head back.
This prevented the striking of the blow; but three times more,
before the round ended, Ponta effected the trick, each time striking
the same vulnerable part.
Another rest and another round went by, with no further damage to
Joe and no diminution of strength on the part of Ponta. But in the
beginning of the fifth round, Joe, caught in a corner, made as
though to duck into a clinch. Just before it was effected, and at
the precise moment that Ponta was ready with his own body to receive
the snuggling in of Joe’s body, Joe drew back slightly and drove
with his fists at his opponent’s unprotected stomach. Lightning-
like blows they were, four of them, right and left; and heavy they
were, for Ponta winced away from them and staggered back, half
dropping his arms, his shoulders drooping forward and in, as though
he were about to double in at the waist and collapse. Joe’s quick
eye saw the opening, and he smashed straight out upon Ponta’s mouth,
following instantly with a half swing, half hook, for the jaw. It
missed, striking the cheek instead, and sending Ponta staggering
sideways.
The house was on its feet, shouting, to a man. Genevieve could hear
men crying, “He’s got ‘m, he’s got ‘m!” and it seemed to her the
beginning of the end. She, too, was out of herself; softness and
tenderness had vanished; she exulted with each crushing blow her
lover delivered.
THE GAME
23
But Ponta’s vitality was yet to be reckoned with. As, like a tiger,
he had followed Joe up, Joe now followed him up. He made another
half swing, half hook, for Ponta’s jaw, and Ponta, already
recovering his wits and strength, ducked cleanly. Joe’s fist passed
on through empty air, and so great was the momentum of the blow that
it carried him around, in a half twirl, sideways. Then Ponta lashed
out with his left. His glove landed on Joe’s unguarded neck.
Genevieve saw her lover’s arms drop to his sides as his body lifted,
went backward, and fell limply to the floor. The referee, bending