For ten minutes steadily the fighters milled and I never saw a better slugging match. The Sergeant had had more experience in boxing, that was certain, but what Red lacked in skill he made up for in hitting power. Every time his glove met the Sergeant’s face it smacked as loud as a hand clap.
They didn’t stop for rounds, or time out, or anything.
Then just when it seemed as if they must be tired out, there was a sudden clash and a whirl of fists and Redney ducked away and started one from the floor. It was an uppercut and it found a clean hole between the Sergeant’s two arms, and met him flush on the point of the jaw. He staggered, tried to fall into a clinch, missed the elusive Redney and went down with a thump.
“1-2-3-4-5-6-” counted the referee.
The Sergeant rolled over and tried to get up. “Don’t hold me down; lemme at him,” he said huskily. But no one was holding him down. It was his refractory nerves. They wouldn’t obey his will power.
“7-8-9-10,” tolled off the fateful numbers. Then what a yell went up for Redney, and Red, almost all in, himself, evidently had satisfied his grudge, for he went over and helped stand the groggy Sergeant on his feet.