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He swung his right with all the strength he had in him and grunted as he felt it sink into the Battler's stomach. He stepped back. He heard shouting. He saw the Mexican double over and cover his head with his arms. "Atta boy!" someone in the crowd yelled. The Battler uncovered slowly. He went in again, jabbing with his left. It struck the Battler's thick arms wrapped around his head.
John's left fist found its mark. He jabbed once, twice, three times and lashed out with his right. The blow glanced off the Mexican's shoulders and they clinched. He felt the Battler's strength in that clinch and he realized it was more than his. The referee called "Break!" and they pushed away from each other. He must keep his head. The Mexican was fast; he pounced like a panther.
With a spring like a cat the Mexican was on him. He shot up his right and it pounded into the Battler's ribs. He tried to wrestle himself out of the clinch into which the Mexican had thrown himself. The referee tore them apart. "None of that," he said to the Battler. "Stop holding in the clinches." The end came a minute later.
He MUST WIN. For the first time since the fight started he thought of why he was there. If he could only rest here a minute more just until his head cleared a little the gong rang. He rushed and saw a look of surprise cross the Battler's face as he dodged to one side. He hooked at the black, shaggy head with his left and felt his fist crack against the Battler's ear.
A clever Fitzsimmons' shift on the part of the Battler removed this obstacle, and some brisk work ensued in neutral territory. Percy landed twice without a return. The Battler's round by a shade. "The Cyclone came out of his corner with a rush, getting home on the Battler's shirt-front and following it up with a right to the chin.
A fist pounded into his stomach and another ripped into his face. He heard a wild shout from the crowd and the Mexican jumped back, smiling. A trickle of blood dropped to his cheek from a cut over his eye. He heard the Battler's seconds shout to their man to "tear into" him. He watched, his left extended, his right close to his body. The Battler rushed again, swaying from the hips.
They were roughing it in the center of the ring and the crowd was on its feet, howling. The Battler swayed far to the right, the glove of his right hand almost touching the floor. John brought his guard down, fearful that the punch the Mexican was swinging was aimed for his body. He started a counter-blow with his right and the Battler's fist rose high and crashed against his jaw.
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