"Just a bit more, boy," he said, encouragingly. "He's nearly done."
King seemed on the point of turning his head to reply, but just then McCartney started towards him. This time King took a half step towards him and met the rush without attempting to step aside. Both men struck at the same moment, and both blows went home. McCartney's rush was checked, but the full force of his rush was behind the blow that caught King on the point of the chin. For a moment King was almost overcome by a sickening dizziness that set the world spinning about him. His mind went suddenly back to the night in McBain's camp when he had been hit on the head, and there started within him a terrible fear that the darkness that had overcome him then was creeping upon him now and blotting out his senses. For fully a minute—it seemed an hour—he fought to keep his eyes open and his attention centred on McCartney. He threw his weight against him blindly and gripped him in sheer desperation. Gradually his legs steadied under him and his sight cleared. Still he clung to his man.
Had McCartney had enough strength in reserve to deliver one more blow with any weight behind it, he could have finished the fight in another second. He knew as much himself, and he paused just a moment to muster what little strength he had left. Then he broke away suddenly and sent his right hand over as he stepped away. King's head went back and his arms went out before him helplessly.
His men shouted to him in that one sickening moment when the sense of utter defeat was forcing itself upon him. Hurley and McBain called his name frantically, but he seemed not to hear them. He sank to the ground on one knee, holding himself as erect as possible in a last effort to meet the rush that he knew was bound to come.
McCartney's men went wild with excitement. They called on him to bore in and finish it. Those behind stepped up and pushed him forward. When he didn't move they cursed him for a fool. But he stood swaying unsteadily, waiting, apparently, for King to fall to the ground.
Behind King there was a sudden commotion in the crowd. Gabe Smith's thin voice was giving commands to the men to make way for him. He pushed his way to the front, leading behind him Cherry McBain.
"Fight—you—fight!" he cried at the top of his voice.
King glanced quickly about at the sound of Gabe's voice and his eyes fell upon Cherry's face. Her look was one of pathos and appeal—but she was smiling.
At once a change passed over King's countenance. Getting up he brushed his hand impatiently across his face and stepped towards McCartney. As he did so McCartney came forward and the two men met at the centre of the enclosure.
From that moment neither man gave an inch of ground. Fighting furiously at close quarters they seemed both to have gained sudden strength and renewed powers of endurance. There was little attempt at defense, each man trying to inflict as much punishment as possible upon his opponent, and caring little how much he received himself.