The professional had grown incautious and given his foe an opening. It had been accepted, and the blow sent Pete McGilvay clean across the ring, to fall like a log of wood.
“Ah!” shouted the astounded spectators, as they rose to their feet as one man.
The Unknown could strike a blow like the kick of a mule. This was the first surprise.
But McGilvay’s head was hard, and he got up before the referee could count him out.
He was amazed, and he had learned something. In the future he would be more cautious. But now the amateur came at him.
“He’s lost his head!” declared an old sport. “He thinks he can end it right here because he got in one blow. Now Pete will do him.”
But Pete wabbled, and the Unknown punished him severely. Blood began to flow, but the amateur had not been harmed in the least. The breast of the professional was heaving.
“By heavens! Pete is getting the worst of it!”
The man who uttered the words could scarcely believe the evidence of his eyes. It seemed impossible. But that handsome, stern-faced youth with the flashing eyes gave his antagonist not a moment to rest. The tables were turned, and the aggressor of a few moments before was making a poor defense.
The white arms of the amateur whipped the air; his hard fists pounded the ribs, neck, and jaw of the professional. McGilvay tried to counter, but he was bewildered. That first terrible blow had left his head singing and a wavering blackness before his eyes.