He was about to remark that it was too excellent to stop when the bell rang for the second round.
To Mary it seemed no different from the first round. The two young men in breech clouts alternately flailed and hugged each other, the referee constantly danced between them crying, "Break!" and the stamping of swiftly shifting feet echoed again through the darkened recesses of the big house. Then another bell and another period of waiting.
"This Bearcat is good," explained Pete, carefully. "He's better than I figured him. The Kid'll get him, but it may take him some time. Do you notice the way the Kid handles that left? Isn't it beautiful?"
"It's—it's horrible."
"Oh, not at all; it's clever. This other boy has a pretty neat left himself. But it's his right that the Kid's watching, and he'd better, for it's wicked. Only trouble with the Bearcat is he telegraphs every punch. Now, when they come up again I want you to notice—— S-sh! There's the bell."
Mary, still gripping the banister, gazed with horrid fascination at the further desecration of Aunt Caroline's black walnut library. And yet, while the spectacle outraged her eyes and violated all the standards by which she measured domestic life in the American home, a subconscious partisanship was breeding within her. She hated this Whaley, almost as much as she hated Bill Marshall. Why didn't the blond bruiser annihilate him forthwith? Why didn't he make an end of the thing at once? Why wasn't Kid Whaley beaten ruthlessly to the floor and stamped under foot, as became his deserts?
She lifted her hand from the banister and clenched her fists. She was not aware that the cave woman was awakening within her, but it was. She thought she was still horrified; and so she was—in the civilized part of her. But Mary Wayne did not possess a hundred per cent of civilization, nor do any of her sisters, although she and they may be ignorant of the lesser fraction of savagery that hides within.
The third round was followed by a fourth, a fifth and a sixth, and still she stood on the stairway, with a conscience that cried aloud in behalf of Aunt Caroline and a surge of primitive rage that demanded victory for the Trenton Bearcat. Pete Stearns was wholly given over to the spell of the battle.
Came the seventh round, more furious than any that went before. The invisible crowd in the library was becoming vocal. Throaty voices were demanding blood. And blood there was, for the Bearcat's crimson nose paid tribute to the efficiency of the Kid, while over one of the Kid's eyes was a cut that witnessed the counter prowess of the Bearcat. Some of the blood was dripping on Aunt Caroline's parquet floor, but not enough for the crowd.
Round eight. The Kid sent two lefts to the face without return. They clinched. The Kid uppercut to the jaw in the breakaway. The Bearcat swung right and left to the head. The Kid landed a right to the body, and followed it with a hook to the jaw. The Bearcat came back with a volley of short-arm jabs, rocking the Kid's head. The Kid rushed, sending right and left to the face. They clinched. The Kid swung a left to the jaw. It shook the Bearcat. The Kid——