Three times during the first round Burns floored his man. The onlookers were mad with excitement.
Back in his own corner, Charley Burns was sitting, a hard set look in his eyes, his jaw square and firm.
Alf Pond fussed about him like a hen over a chick.
"Shut up, Alf! I know what I'm doing," said Burns sharply.
"He knows what he's doing," repeated Alf Pond ecstatically. "Hear that, Sandy? He knows what he's doing, and so does Jeff, I'll lay a pony to a pink pill," he added.
Once more the gong sounded; once more Burns sprang up and darted at his man. Jefferson tried first to dodge and then to clinch; but without avail. He was unnerved. His strategy and tactics had been planned in view of Burns's usual methods; but here was an entirely different man to deal with—a great fighter.
Twice more Jefferson went down, taking a count of nine on each occasion. He seemed to share with the spectators the knowledge that there would be no third round.
On rising the second time he seemed determined to change his tactics. He rushed forward, fighting gamely, apparently in the hope of getting a lucky knock-out blow. Without giving an inch, Burns threw off the blows and, feinting with his left, crashed his right full on the point of his opponent's jaw.
Jefferson's hands fell, and for a second he stood gazing stupidly before him; then his knees sagged and, with a deliberation that seemed almost intolerable, he crashed forward on his face, one arm outstretched as if in protest.
Again the timekeeper's voice was heard monotonously counting. Burns turned to his corner without waiting for the conclusion of the count. He knew the strength behind that blow.