Jim Hobday grew more aggressive every moment. The round was three-quarters over, and he had practically had the ring to himself, except for a gliding thing like a shadow, which eluded his fists by so little each time he swung that at every lunge he grew more encouraged, although he hit nothing.
"Come on—fight!" he growled, bull-like.
Mr. Cluett's smile deepened a little, and his lips moved. "Say when," were the words they framed.
"When?—why, right now!" roared Hobday, loud enough for the group of his backers to hear.
Mr. Cluett obeyed immediately. It was difficult for the eye to register the movement he made; but to those at the vantage-point of the ringside, it looked as though he doubled under Hobday's guard and then straightened up, all in one movement like a snake striking.
Hobday's knees were seen to sag. His gloves dropped on Cluett's shoulders, half as though caressing his opponent, then slipped limply off. His whole heavy body collapsed, like a wet mattress.
"Ouch!" said Miss Yockley, feeling her chin. Then, glancing sidewise at Daisy, she commented, "Well, kid, I suppose you feel easier now, eh?"
"W-what did he do to him?" said Daisy, a little breathlessly; mixing her pronouns, in her marvelling.
"Oh, nothing," said Miss Yockley, ironically, "nothing at all. Only sent that big bovalapus off to Dreamland, on a through ticket, with one swipe. That's all!"
After Mr. Hobday, in an only partially recovered state, had been removed, and the hubbub of comment among his backers in the orchestra seats had subsided, there came a lull. Mr. Cluett sat in his chair in the corner of the ring, nodding and occasionally replying briefly to some remark made by the chatting group that surrounded him. From back in the wings came presently the sound of argument and protest; and, after a moment, a hale person in striped trunks shot into view as though he had been playfully pushed. With one sheepish glance toward the audience, however, he turned about and beat a retreat.