In height, weight and reach they were not badly matched, though such advantage as there was, lay with Zorn. Both had some slight, haphazard training with the gloves, after the customary manner of active schoolboys. Both, too, had inklings of the rules; though, to tell the truth, neither paid much heed to them. Sam, to be sure, would not wittingly strike an adversary below the belt, and it is to be recorded that Zorn made no attempt, apparently, to get in a foul blow; but neither bothered himself about the niceties of procedure. Almost at the outset they came to a clinch, and staggered about the clearing, locked in hostile embrace, and jabbing away desperately. Then Sam, who for all his righteous wrath, was the cooler of the two, broke away, because he felt that close quarters were profiting him not at all; and there was a space, in which the rivals battled almost in full form. And here Sam’s clearer head began to avail him. Zorn was getting the worse of the exchanges. Vaguely he understood this, and charging savagely, succeeded in grappling again with his adversary.
Hagle watched the fight as if spellbound. The Shark looked on, critically, if not without prejudice. He knew that both Sam and Zorn were far from fresh, and speculated not a little at the vigor of the combat. Indeed, in his own coldly mathematical fashion he arrived at a fairly accurate notion of the power of the feud between the two leaders and the strength it gave them in this decisive test. He made no attempt to interfere. It was one to one, which was fair, mathematically and every other way. If Zorn defeated Sam the Shark felt it might be his duty to take up the argument in behalf of the Safety First Club; but Sam was not yet defeated. Nay, he appeared to be getting rather the better of it. So the Shark hastily polished his glasses, assured himself that Hagle continued passively neutral, and gave his undivided attention to the fight. It was a good fight—no; it was more; it was a great fight!
Just as there were no seconds, so there were no rounds, no pauses to regain wind. Both Zorn and Sam were panting heavily. Both were bleeding about the mouth, and a lump was forming under Sam’s left eye. But a change was coming in the tactics of each. Zorn was growing more furious, if that were possible; his generalship was more reckless. Sam, on the other hand, seemed to be slowing, but the mathematician was not misled. Shrewdly enough, he decided that Sam was keeping his head and beginning to follow a definite line of strategy, which involved waiting for the fateful opening Zorn’s offensive was almost sure to afford.
It came at last, when the Shark was beginning to wonder at Sam’s endurance and persistence in the new waiting game. Zorn had struggled to gain the prized and effective under-hold; had failed to secure it; had resorted to a rain of blows with one free arm at Sam’s head; had shifted his plan of attack and tried to wear out his opponent by beating a vicious tattoo on his back. Sam, who had been responding in kind, if not in degree, to these attentions, felt a slackening in the grip of the arm Zorn still had about him. He made a feint of breaking away; followed it with a renewal of his more than bear-like hug of his adversary’s body. He worked an arm down to Zorn’s waist-line; he drove his chin into Zorn’s shoulder. Zorn began to give under this leverage. Sam threw all his force into the assault. Back of it was the determination which springs not only from a belief in the justice of a cause, but also the accumulated score of endured wrongs. To his own surprise he found a curious accession of strength, as if from some unsuspected reservoir. There was a moment in which Zorn was thoroughly outclassed and outmatched, and in that moment he went down, falling heavily and with Sam still gripping him crushingly.
The end of the fight was in sight, but had not yet arrived. Zorn, facing defeat, struggled madly. Sam pressed his hard-won advantage. He knew his adversary’s stubbornness; he did not underrate his grit. Zorn fought till he was beaten, decisively, utterly. And then, with Sam astride his prostrate body and Sam’s fist menacing his head, he sullenly yielded. It was a bare movement of the eye-lids which answered the decisive demand.
“Had enough? Give up?”
Ruefully Zorn gave the sign, which told as much as volumes could tell. Sam sprang to his feet, and stood prepared to renew battle, should the other break parole. But Zorn, in truth, had had enough, and to spare. Slowly and painfully he got upon his feet. He stood, silent for a moment, glancing first at Hagle and then at Sam. Jack rose from his knees. He took a step toward Sam, paused, turned to Zorn.
“Ed, I—I——” he began.
“Go with him, if you want to,” Zorn said dully. “What’s the difference what you do—now? I’m whipped. I’m down and out. Do as you please.”
Jack was trembling. “I—I don’t know——”