"Luck," I said laconically. Jack Ballard had clasped his big congested hand, "Proud of you, Jerry, old boy! You ought to have won. Why the Devil did you let him coax you into close quarters?"
"I thought—I could stand—what he could," grunted Jerry.
"Not the lucky blow. He had it. If you'd stood him off—"
"I came here to fight—" said Jerry sinking back on his mattress wearily.
I think his mind was beginning to work slowly around to the real meaning of his defeat, not the mere failure of his science and skill, but the failure of his body and mind as against the mind and body of a trained brute, whom he had set his heart on conquering. I knew as no one else there knew what the victory meant to him, and the memory of the brief glimpse I had had of the Van Wyck girl's face when he lay in the ring inflamed me anew. I know not what—some vestige of my thought reached him, for he drew me toward him and when I bent my head he whispered in my ear,
"Marcia—was there?"
I nodded.
"She stayed—saw—?"
"Yes."
He made no sound, and submitted silently to the ministrations of his trainers.