“Time!” called Gerald for round two.
This time Murphy went in more viciously, aiming and measuring his blows accurately. Orde stood as before, a humourous smile of self-depreciation on his face, hitting back at the elusive Murphy, but without much effect, his feet never stirring in their tracks. The handler used his best tactics and landed almost at will, but without apparent damage. He grew ugly—finally lost his head.
“Well, if ye will have it!” he muttered, and aimed what was intended as a knockout blow.
Gerald uttered a half cry of warning as his practised eye caught Murphy's intention. The blow landed. Orde's head snapped back, but to the surprise of every one the punch had no other effect, and a quick exchange of infighting sent Murphy staggering back from the encounter. The smile had disappeared from Orde's face, and his eye had calmed.
“Look here,” he called to Gerald, “I don't understand this game very well. At school we used 'taps.' Is a man supposed to hit hard?”
Gerald hesitated, then looked beyond Orde to the gallery. To a man it made frantic and silent demonstration.
“Of course you hit,” he replied. “You can't hurt any one with those big gloves.”
Orde turned back to his antagonist. The latter advanced once more, his bullet head sunk between his shoulders, his little eyes twinkling. Evidently Mr. Bishop's friend would now take the aggressive, and forward movement would deliver an extra force to the professional's blows.
Orde did not wait for Murphy, however. Like a tiger he sprang forward, hitting out fiercely, first with one hand then with the other. Murphy gave ground, blocked, ducked, exerted all a ring general's skill either to stop or avoid the rush. Orde followed him insistent. Several times he landed, but always when Murphy was on the retreat, so the blows had not much weight. Several times Murphy ducked in and planted a number of short-arm jabs at close range. The round ended almost immediately to a storm of applause from the galleries.
“What do you think of his being muscle-bound?” Gerald asked Murphy, as the latter flung himself panting on the wrestling mat for his rest.