“Now, men,” instructed the referee briskly, “this is to be for twenty rounds. You are to fight clean breaks. You can hit with one arm free, but you cannot hold with one and hit with the other. When I say ‘Break’ I want you to break at once and step back. Do you understand fully? Good! To your corners.”
Donald glanced at his friends, who sat with their eyes upon him. He felt Andy’s hand upon him gently stroking his arm, yet he could not suppress the trembling in his limbs.
“Everything’s all right, Donnie,” whispered Andy softly.
The gong rang.
Garrieau assumed the crouch Andy had predicted, his chin resting in the hollow of his shoulder, his eyes seeming to retreat into his skull under the overhanging brows. This was the champion’s famous “fighting face.”
“Pretty boy, ain’t yer?” he scoffed. “I’m goin’ to knock dose pretty teet’ down yer throat, you——” he cursed.
Donald snapped a light left to the ugly face and danced out of range. The champion’s thick lips parted in a fiendish grin. “My, mamma’s nice boy has a terrible punch!” he derided.
Donald continued his dazzling footwork, keeping the champion in pursuit and contending himself with occasional left-hand jabs that kept his opponent’s head rocking. He shot glances at intervals to his corner for instructions from Andy, who nodded his head in approval of his tactics.
The round finished in the challenger’s favour by a wide margin on points. The champion had not landed a single effective blow during the round.
The action of the first round caused Donald to forget his nervousness. Andy crowded between his knees and gently massaged his body, all the while speaking words of commendation and counsel.