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A moment's silent
sparring, a quick tread of feet, and Joe feints Ravenslee into an
opening, swings for his chin, misses by an inch, and ducking a vicious
counter, drives home a smashing body-blow and, staggering weakly,
Ravenslee goes down full length.
"Shook ye up a bit, sir?" enquired Joe, running up with hands
outstretched, "take a rest, now do, sir."
"No, no," answered Ravenslee, springing to his feet, "the Old Un hasn't
called 'Time' yet."
"Not me!" piped the old man, "not bloomin' likely! Go to it, both on
ye--mind, that's two-fifty for me, Joe!"
What need is there to tell the numerous feints, the lightning shifts,
the different tricks of in-fighting and all the cunning strategy and
ringcraft that Joe brought to bear and carefully explained between
rounds? Suffice it that at the end of a certain fierce "mix up", as
Ravenslee sat outstretched and panting, the white flesh of arms and
broad chest discovered many livid marks and patches that told their
tale; also one elbow was grazed and bleeding, and one knee showed signs
of contact with the floor.


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