Mike lounges in his place, the perfection of the athlete and picture of grace with power. His face, full of vacant amiability, shows pleased and interested as he looks out on the crowded, rampant house. Mike has rather the air of a spectator than a principal. The crowd does not shake him; he is not disturbed by the situation. In a fashion, he has been through the same thing every night, save Sunday, for three years. It comes commonplace enough to Mike.
In a blurred way Mike resents the blood-eagerness which glows in the eyes of his enemy; but he knows no fear. It serves to remind him, however, that no restraints are laid upon him in favor of the brute across the ring, and that he is at liberty to hit with what lust he will.
“Time!” suddenly calls the referee.
Those who entertained a forbode of trouble ahead for Mike are agreeably surprised. With the word “Time!” Mike springs into tremendous life like a panther aroused. His dark eyes glow and gleam in a manner to daunt.
The Terror, a gallant headlong ruffian, throws himself upon Mike like a tornado. For full two minutes his blows fall like a storm. It does not seem of things possible that man could last through such a tempest. But Mike lasts; more than that, every blow of the Terror is stopped or avoided.
It runs off like a miracle to the onlookers, most of whom know somewhat of self-defensive arts. That Mike makes no reprisals, essays no counterhits, does not surprise. A cautious wisdom would teach him to feel out and learn his man. Moreover, Mike is not there to attack; his mere mission is to stay four rounds.
While spectators, with approving comment on Mike’s skill and quickness, are reminding one another that Mike’s business is “simply to stay,” Mike himself is coming to a different thought. He has grown disgusted rather than enraged by the attacks of the Terror. His thrice-trained eye notes each detail of what moves as a whirlwind to folk looking on; his arm and foot provide automatically for his defense and without direct effort of the brain. This leaves Mike’s mind, dull as it is, with nothing to engage itself about save a contemplation of the Terror. In sluggish sort Mike begins to hold a vast dislike for that furious person.
As this dislike commences to fire incipiently, he recalls the picture of Mollie and little Davy of the crutch. Mike remembers that it is after ten o’clock, and his two treasures must be deep in sleep. Then he considers of Christmas, now but a day away; and of the money so necessary to the full pleasure of his sleeping Mollie and little Davy.
As those home-visions come to Mike, and his antipathy to the Terror mounting to its height, the grim impulse claims him to attack. Tigerlike he steps back to get his distance; then he springs forward. It is too quickly done for eye to follow. The Terror’s guard is opened by a feint; and next like a flash Mike’s left shoots cleanly in. There is a sharp “spank!” as the six-ounce glove finds the Terror’s jaw; that person goes down like an oak that is felled. As he falls, Mike’s right starts with a crash for the heart. But there is no need: Mike stops the full blow midway—a feat without a mate in boxing. The Terror lies as one without life.
“W’y didn’t you let ’im ’ave your right like you started, laddy?” screams the old Cockney, as Mike walks towards his corner.