A few minutes later, near the end of the sixth round, he began to try for clinches in order to save himself, but somehow his wary opponent, as quick on his feet and as strong with his hands as he was at the start, was still adept at hitting and getting away. Just then Sadler, who, with watch in hand, always made a little step forward as he called the end of each round, put out his foot when Siebold was facing him and the sophomore, tired and eager for a minute’s respite, started to get back and lowered his guard. And upon the instant of shouting the word Gus, with his back to Sadler, let go with his right.
Siebold crumpled up like a rag. Sadler, slow to begin counting, stood over him a moment. Gus drew back and with the first excitement he had shown jerked his gloves off and tossed them wide. The boys crowded in, gazing at Siebold who lay with white face and sprawled out like one dead. Gus heard Sadler’s count reach eight; then stop. Someone said: “What’s the matter with him, boys?” They had not seen a fellow lie so still and show not even the flicker of an eyelid. One boy stooped down and lifted Siebold’s arm, calling to him: “Wake up! Are you hurt?” A doctor’s son got down and put his ear to Siebold’s heart. “Gosh, fellows! It’s stopped! He’s—he’s dead!”
Gus pushed the boys aside. He had hit Siebold over the heart harder than he had intended. What if the blow had proved fatal? Most unlikely; more than once he himself had been struck that way. It had hurt him, and once it brought him to his knees, but it had never made him unconscious. He, in turn, got down and put his ear to Siebold’s side. In the excitement both the doctor’s son and Gus had listened at the right side and no one had observed the mistake. They were all looking on with horrified faces. Gus could hear nothing; he touched the prostrate youth’s cheek; it was cold. He rose with something like a sob.
“Fellows, I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t know he couldn’t stand it. But he can’t really be much hurt, can he? Why, I—he——”
Again Gus knelt and listened for heart beats. He slumped down, feeling as though his own heart would stop, too. In his daze he heard someone talking on the telephone at the far end of the gym and dimly distinguished the word “doctor.” He got to his feet then. No one opposed him. He must get Bill, good old Bill, to speak for him and tell them that he had not meant to hurt Siebold. They must know he was not murderously inclined, and that he hated to hurt anyone, anything, an animal, a bug even; also that he would not run away if they wanted to arrest him.
In a sort of trance he reached his room, where he found Bill and Tony. Gus fell into a chair, almost sobbing.
“Bill, old fellow,—we boxed,—Siebold! And I—I’ve—I guess I’ve killed him! I didn’t mean to, Bill, you know that. Tell them I didn’t; that I’ll be here and go to prison without a word. And write home, Bill, and tell them——”
“Oh, stuff!” said Bill. “I don’t believe it! Tony will go see about it. At the gym, Gus? Yes, at the gym,” nodding to the Italian.
Tony was gone. Bill stood by Gus, his hand on his chum’s head. Seldom was there any real show at tenderness between these lads, but there was a loyalty there that made such a demonstration unnecessary.
“It isn’t so, Gus—and even if it should be—anybody knows it was an accident, and you won’t be arrested. At least not in a criminal way—only in the matter of form. The president will understand. And, Gus, we can get together money enough to defend you—legally—even though we have to quit school.”