"Time!" called Gerald for round two.
This time Murphy went in more viciously, aiming and measuring his
blows accurately. Orde stood as before, a humourous smile of self-
depreciation on his face, hitting back at the elusive Murphy, but
without much effect, his feet never stirring in their tracks. The
handler used his best tactics and landed almost at will, but without
apparent damage. He grew ugly--finally lost his head.
"Well, if ye will have it!" he muttered, and aimed what was intended
as a knockout blow.
Gerald uttered a half cry of warning as his practised eye caught
Murphy's intention. The blow landed. Orde's head snapped back, but
to the surprise of every one the punch had no other effect, and a
quick exchange of infighting sent Murphy staggering back from the
encounter. The smile had disappeared from Orde's face, and his eye
had calmed.
"Look here," he called to Gerald, "I don't understand this game very
well. At school we used 'taps.' Is a man supposed to hit hard?"
Gerald hesitated, then looked beyond Orde to the gallery. To a man
it made frantic and silent demonstration.
"Of course you hit," he replied. "You can't hurt any one with those
big gloves."
Orde turned back to his antagonist.
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