"What do you want—a murder?" he growled.
The referee's sympathies were clearly veering to Sam's corner. Big Jack, whatever his shortcomings, was a good sport, and Joe was showing a disposition to fight foul. Jack watched him closely in the clinches. Joe was beginning to seek clinches to save his wind. Jack, in parting them, received a sly blow meant for Sam.
Like a flash, Jack's own experienced right jabbed Joe's stomach, sending him reeling back into his corner. The spectators howled in divided feelings. Jack, however, controlled the situation with a look.
In the fourth round Joe turned sullen and refused to force the fighting any longer. He stood in front of his corner, stooping his shoulders and swinging his head like a gorilla. Such blows as Sam had been able to land had all been addressed to Joe's right eye. His beauty was not thereby improved.
Now he stood, deaf alike to Sam's taunts and to the urgings of his own supporters. Sam, dancing in front of him, feinting and retreating, could not draw a blow. Strategy was working in Joe's dull brain. He dropped his arms.
Instantly Sam ran in with another blow on the damaged eye. Over-confidence betrayed him. Joe's right was waiting. The slender figure was lifted clean from the floor by the impact. He crashed down in a heap and, rolling over, lay on his face, twitching.
A roar broke from the spectators. That was what they wanted.
Bela ran out from her corner, distracted. Musq'oosis intercepted her.
"No place for girl," he said sternly. "Go back."
"He's dead! He's dead!" she cried wildly.