Steve, when the contest opened, was disposed to be consolatory in word as well as deed. He kept up a desultory conversation as he circled and feinted.
“You gotta look at it this way,” he began, side-stepping a left, “it ain’t often you hear of anything going wrong at times like this. You gotta remember”—he hooked Kirk neatly on the jaw—“that” he concluded.
Kirk came back with a swing at the body which made his adversary grunt.
“That’s true,” he said.
“Sure,” rejoined Steve a little breathlessly, falling into a clinch.
They moved warily round each other.
“So,” said Steve, blocking a left, “that ought to comfort you some.”
Kirk nodded. He guessed correctly that the other was alluding to his last speech, not to the counter which had just made the sight of his left eye a little uncertain.
Gradually, as the bout progressed, Kirk began to lose the slight diffidence which had hampered him at the start. He had been feeling so wonderfully friendly toward Steve, so grateful for his presence, and his sympathy, that it had been hard, in spite of the other’s admonitions, to enter into the fray with any real conviction. Moreover, subconsciously, he was listening all the time for sounds from above which never came.
These things gave a certain lameness to his operations. It was immediately after this blow in the eye, mentioned above, that he ceased to be an individual with private troubles and a wandering mind, and became a boxer pure and simple, his whole brain concentrated on the problem of how to get past his opponent’s guard.