Adventure, November 1915 — page 139: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Return of Billy Blain and his dark skin-tights made him look insignificant. Connolly, on the other hand, flashily ribboned and obviously in the pink of good condition, ran in jauntily and start- ed to lead off as if the whole affair were more or less a joke—as most of his more re- cent battles had been. He reeled back against the ropes behind him and then again and again, as Billy fol- lowed up. There was blood flowing from his nose before he realized that Billy was a real antagonist. By the time he had recovered something of his balance Billy was away and out of reach. The crowd applauded. The half-forgotten favorite began to come into his own again. Two of these punches had hurt. Con- nolly remembered now that he had a grudge to pay, as well as a championship fight to win. He came back from the ropes with the vicious, snarling rush of a wild beast out for blood. The next move was almost too quick for the eye to follow. There was a thud as Billy sidestepped, and Mike Connolly sprawled headlong, to take the count of five. The count was a little overslow, O’Han- lon thought, sitting with his watch in hand, and one hand in his right hip pocket; but he kept his seat and made no move to at- tract the referee’s attention. The rest of that round was a series of scrambling clinches, in which Connolly sought to wear down Billy’s strength and recover his own wind. ‘The second round was a very different affair. Connolly had received instructions from his corner, and was taking things more seriously. Although Billy had a man only to use the towel on him, and no one to ad- vise, it was evident to any one that the one- time champion was dangerous and capable of winning unless Connolly used all the head he had. Nobody knows better than a prize- fighter that advice from his corner between rounds will never win a fight; the lonely man who has more ring experience than friends to shout to him is not beaten until the count of ten. Connolly began to box. The set of his jaw, the sidewise, waltzing movement of his feet, the shrunken, hugged- together crouch of all his muscles, like.a cat’s about to spring, set the fans holding to their seats in frenzied anticipation. - There was a pass or two—a wary, watch- ful interchange of taps—and Mike thought he saw an opening. In a second the two were at it, toe to toe, neither giving an inch of ground, sparring like greased lightning. They crossed the ring crabwise. Billy ducked a swing’ and landed on Mike’s stomach with a _ short-arm hook that brought a grunt. “Finish him, Billy!” roared O'Hanlon. a ee 137 They had agreed before the fight that Billy’s best chance would be to force the — pace and win, if he could, in the first three — rounds. But Connolly was no beginner. He cut and chopped and elbowed himself clear. Billy’s second claimed a foul at the top of his lungs, and the cry was taken up by half the fans, but the referee affected not to notice Mike’s butting with his forehead, although he had brought the blood streaming down into Billy’s eyes. The crowd began to hiss, but still the referee kept watching Billy and ignoring Connolly’s fouls. ; Half blinded by the blood, Billy was al- ternately clinching and boring in with short-arm body blows that were discon- certing Connolly considerably. They jarred him from head to heel each time they landed. It looked to O’Hanlon, then, as if the referee said something. Immediately Connolly stepped back, rushed in with a right-hand swing that landed like a pole-ax on the crown of Billy’s skull, and stepped back for another one., But down went Billy. “Onel”’ called the referee, beginning to count almost before Billy had touched the floor.~ ‘“Two—three—”’ Then his eye caught O’Hanlon’s. standing up, and his right hand was little more than barely in his pocket. ‘‘Four— five—” he counted, still quickly. But the fist emerged, and the long fore- finger was quite plainly crooked around something round and hard. Billy had be- gun to stir. “‘Six—seven—eight—” the referee said, very slowly. Billy scrambled to his knees. Connolly rushed in and stood right over him to drop him again the second that he left the floor. fans. ‘Give the man a chance!” But the referee said nothing. “Nine!” he counted. Billy rose. Mike sprang in to finish him, and Bong! the gong came to the rescue. Terence O’Hanlon left his seat and hur- ried round to Billy’s corner. That gentleman was — “Stand back!” yelled a hundred of the (E() NOLO co ie