Time passed swiftly, and the end of the round came with the amateur still running away and the professional pursuing, trying to corner him.
“He’s afraid of Pete,” was the universal decision. “He is clever on his feet, but Pete will corner him pretty soon, and end it with one punch.”
The professional sat in his corner and laughed. He felt certain that it was an easy thing.
“W’y, I kin do dat kid wid one t’ump!” he declared. “He’s scared ter deat’ now.”
“Stand up to him,” advised Frank’s second. “You’ll make the crowd sick running erway.”
Frank said nothing.
Clang! sounded the gong. The men were up and advancing. They met again. They were at it once more.
Again the green rushed the blue; again the blue retreated. It seemed to be the same old story over again.
“Oh, this is a sprinting-match!” cried somebody, in disgust.
Flash!—out shot a clean, muscular arm. Crack!—the blow sounded almost like a pistol-shot.