“Get a grip on yourself, you big slab of ——,” he snarled.
“Y’re goin’ to win in this round. If you don’t go out and tear that bastard to bits I’ll give you the heat.”
Sankey fought down the nagging tiredness. “My left’s like lead,” he whined.
“Then use your goddam right,” Dillon said. “Remember, hit that guy all over the ring. He’ll go down.”
The gong went for the fifth.
The crowd expected Franks to come out and finish it, but he didn’t. He seemed to have suddenly lost his steam. Sankey went straight into a clinch. He hung on, leaning his weight on Franks, until the referee had to shout at him. Franks caught him as he went away, but there was no snap to it. Sankey was breathing like an escape of steam. He jabbed Franks as he came in, and Franks hit him in the ribs, three light blows that didn’t even make Sankey flinch. He danced away from Franks, coming down on the flat of his feet. Franks shuffled after him, his hands low. Sankey saw his opening. He’d have been blind if he hadn’t seen it. In went his left and cross went his right. It was with an open glove, but they both sounded good. The crowd heaved to their feet. Franks went down on his side.
Gurney gave a little hiss of relief. The crowd screamed and rocked, yelling to Franks to get up. The referee, slightly startled, began to tick off the seconds.
Sankey leant against the ropes, his knees buckling and his face smeared with blood. He couldn’t even look pleased.
Franks didn’t move, he just lay there.
Beth Franks fought her way to the ringside. She beat on the canvas with her hands. “Get up and fight!” she screamed. “Don’t let ’em get away with it! Harry… get up and fight!…”