“Go to it, Driscoll!”
“Eat him up, Bub!”
“Soak the big dub!”
And Driscoll did his best. He began by trying to outbox his opponent. But within the first twenty seconds Knowlton pulled down his guard with a clever feint and staggered him with a straight punch to the face.
Driscoll came back with a cheerful grin and by fast footwork and taking the fullest advantage of his longer reach, went to the end of the round without further damage. Knowlton went to his corner smiling.
The next three rounds were slow. Driscoll, afraid of his wind, tried once or twice to rush the fighting, but was unable to reach his man. Knowlton, always smiling; took it easy. His breath came as regularly as though he were sitting still.
The smile got on Driscoll’s nerves. He knew he was being played with, and that aroused his anger. Time and again he aimed a blow at those lightly parted lips, only to find them a foot out of his reach.
He began to pant heavily and was unsteady on his feet as he walked to his corner at the end of the fourth round. Helpless rage possessed him as he looked across the room and saw Knowlton sitting in his chair with easy unconcern.
At the cry of “Time!” he gathered himself together and rushed at Knowlton with set teeth and glaring eyes. Knowlton, unprepared for the sudden onslaught, was caught off his guard and carried to the floor.
Shouts of encouragement came from the excited spectators. Knowlton sprang to his feet. The smile was gone.
“Kill him, Driscoll!”
“You’ve got him going!”
“Put him to sleep!”
Again Driscoll rushed madly. But this time Knowlton was prepared. He stepped aside nimbly as a cat, and Driscoll stumbled and nearly fell. As he recovered his balance Knowlton turned and swung with his right.
It caught Driscoll on the ear and he went down like a shot. He was up at the count of three and, sobbing with rage, rushed again. The onlookers sprang to their feet in excitement.
This time Knowlton met the assault squarely and stopped it with a stiff punch.
“Time!” called Dougherty.
Everybody began to talk at once. Booth helped Driscoll to his corner. Blood was on his face and he breathed in quick, short gasps.
“Cut it, Bub,” said Jennings, running over to him. “The big slob’ll kill you.”
Driscoll tried to grin, but wasted no breath on speech. He leaned back in his chair while Booth waved a towel wildly up and down in front of him. When he heard Dougherty call “Time!” for the sixth round he would have sworn that he had rested not more than ten seconds.
Cries came from the onlookers to “take it easy” and “watch him,” but Driscoll heeded them not. His blood was boiling and the face of his opponent appeared to him in a dim and wavering haze.
Toward it he rushed in blind fury. Knowlton stepped back and there was a dull thud as his fist landed on Driscoll’s shoulder.
Driscoll staggered, but kept his feet. Again and again he rushed, and again and again he was stopped by Knowlton’s fist. It was evident that Knowlton was putting no force in his blows, but was merely stopping the rushes with extended arm.
This enraged the spectators.
“End it, darn you!” howled Booth.
Knowlton smiled — and ended it. Not waiting for Driscoll’s rush, he leaped forward and swung with his right. Driscoll, receiving the blow on his left side, staggered and swayed, then sank to the floor, a limp, helpless heap.
Knowlton gave the prostrate form a single glance, then walked to his corner and sang out coolly: “Next!”
“I’ll next you, you bruiser!” The voice, filled with tears of rage, was Dougherty’s. He had sprung to Driscoll’s corner and was removing his vest and shirt.
The others lifted Driscoll, assisted him to the side of the room, and, wrapping his overcoat closely about him, seated him in a chair. His eyes were closed, and Booth stood at his side to support him.
Jennings ran over to help Dougherty. Sherman sat silent, the muscles of his face twitching queerly. Little Dumain was jumping up and down in the intensity of his excitement.
“I hope he keels you!” he screamed, shaking a fist at Knowlton.
“Chacun tire de son côte,” said Knowlton calmly.
“Mon Dieu! Français!” shrieked Dumain. “Eet ees degradation!”
Knowlton laughed at him.
Dougherty, stripped to the waist, advanced to the middle of the room and pushed the little Frenchman aside.
“Come on,” he said grimly to Knowlton. “We don’t need a referee. This is no boxing match. It’s a fight, and you’ll soon find it out.
Dumain retreated to the side of Booth. Sherman rose from his chair and stood in front of it. Driscoll opened his eyes for the first time, and kept them open.
The battle that followed was worth the price of a ringside seat at Madison Square Garden.
Within the first minute Knowlton discovered that the man he was facing was by no means a tyro. He had thought that Dougherty, completely out of condition, would be unable to withstand even the crudest kind of attack and had led with a double swing. Dougherty stepped back cleverly, waited the exact fraction of a second necessary, and then lunged forward like a panther.
Knowlton found himself on the floor with blood streaming from his nose, while the onlookers shrieked with ecstasy. He regained his feet warily, and, changing his mind as to the capabilities of his opponent, altered his tactics to suit.
Dougherty was fighting with all the cunning at his command. He realized that he was handicapped by the shortness of his wind, but figured that this was nearly, if not quite, equalized by the fact that Knowlton was not fresh. He did not throw himself away, as he had done in the encounter with Driscoll in the billiard room of the Lamartine. Instead, he called into play all his old-time ring knowledge and relied on superior tactics and skill. He waited for another break on the part of Knowlton.
But Knowlton was not to be caught napping again. He fought cautiously and warily, watching for an opening. He was not a pleasant sight to look at. The blood from his nose covered the lower half of his face and one side of his neck. His hair was matted with sweat, and his damp body glistened as he bent, now, forward, now to one side or the other, dodging, feinting, waiting.
For upward of five minutes they sparred and shifted, neither one gaining any advantage or landing a punishing blow. Then it began to get warmer.
Dougherty’s foot happened to alight on an upturned corner of the rug, and as he glanced downward for the merest fraction of a second Knowlton closed in and landed a stinging jab on his face, turning him half round.
Instead of returning, he completed the circle, and, catching Knowlton unaware, staggered him with a left swing. They exchanged blows at close quarters, then clinched for a rest.
Knowlton was beginning to weaken under the prolonged strain. He had played with Driscoll longer than was good for his wind, and by now he was breathing heavily, while Dougherty was comparatively fresh. He tried to hold the clinch to get his wind, but Dougherty broke away.
Then, urged on by the exited and encouraging cries of the Erring Knights, Dougherty started in to finish it. By using his feet cleverly Knowlton avoided close fighting, but he received two body blows that made him grunt.
In recovering from the second of these he opened his guard, and a clean uppercut on the point of the jaw bent him backward and left him dazed.
Dougherty followed it up savagely, landing on the body at will, while Knowlton retreated blindly, covering his face with his hands. The onlookers howled with delight.
“Now get him, Tom!”
“It’s all yours, old boy!”