“Seconds out of the ring, Time!” called the referee.
Harberth appeared quite recovered, but he was of a curious colour and seemed tired.
Acting on his second’s advice, Dam gave his whole attention to getting at his opponent’s body again, and overdid it. As Harberth struck at him with his left, he ducked, and as he was aiming at Harberth’s mark, he was suddenly knocked from day into night, from light into darkness, from life into death….
Years passed and Dam strove to explain that the mainspring had broken and that he had heard it click—when suddenly a great black drop-curtain rolled up, while some one snapped back some slides that had covered his ears, and had completely deafened him.
Then he saw Harberth and heard the voice of the time-keeper saying: “five—six—seven”.
He scrambled to his knees, “eight” swayed and staggered to his feet, collapsed, rose, “nine” and was knocked down by Harberth.
The time-keeper again stood up and counted, “One—two—three”. But this blow actually helped him.
He lay collecting his strength and wits, breathing deeply and taking nine seconds’ rest.
On the word “nine” he sprang to his feet and as Harberth rushed in, side-stepped, and, as that youth instinctively covered his much-smitten “mark,” Dam drove at his chin and sent him staggering. As he went after him he saw that Harberth was breathing hard, trembling, and swaying on his feet. Springing in, he rained short-arm blows until Harberth fell and then he stepped well back.
Harberth sat shaking his head, looking piteous, and, in the middle of the time-keeper’s counting, he arose remarking, “I’ve had enough”—and walked to his chair.