he was in Slade's corner before Slade was scarcely off his stool. The whole thing happened so fast, only the ringside customers really saw what happened. The brown man's right fist smashed against Slade's jaw with the impact of a shell. They were right above us, and I saw Slade's eyes go empty and his knees sag.
Jones brought up a left upper cut. He was a shade too fast, and his fist missed Slade's jaw and smashed against his cheekbone, drawing blood. Slade went down on hands and knees. He stared straight at us, his jaw hanging, his eyes vacant, his senses paralysed.
I became aware that Vestal was leaning forward, her fingers gripping my wrist, her mouth open. There was so much noise going on I couldn't hear her scream, but I knew she was screaming. Half the crowd were on their feet, yelling their heads off. The Stadium rocked with the sound.
The referee shoved Jones back, waving him to a neutral corner. But Jones was excited, and the referee had to shout at him to get him to obey his order.
The delay had given Slade a few valuable seconds. I was watching him. I saw a spark of life come into his eyes. The referee was bending over him, yelling the count at him, his arm rising and falling.
"A sucker punch!" I shouted in Vestal's ear. "The mug! The goddam mug!"
I don't think she even knew I had spoken. She was crouched forward, her eyes gleaming, her face a ferocious, hard mask as she watched the seconds tick off.
Slade was on his feet at the count of nine. As Jones shot across the ring, Slade slid into a clinch, hanging on desperately, smothering the brown arms, while he fought to bring his senses into action again.
The referee had to tear the two men apart, and in his excitement Jones released a hail of punches instead of stepping back, measuring his man and handing out the one finisher.
Slade covered up, retreating around the ring, with Jones chasing him.
The crowd was screaming for the kill, but Jones hadn't the experience to get through with a finisher. The bell went just as Jones had succeeded in manoeuvring his tottering opponent into a corner and was setting himself to let fly another wild barrage of punches.
"Well, that's that," I said in disgust as the brown man stormed angrily back to his corner. "His jaw's broken. What a mug! To have fallen for a sucker punch with his experience! It'll be over in the next round."
Vestal was still clutching my wrist.
"I've never been so excited," she gasped. "This is wonderful! You mean he really has a broken jaw?"
"Well, look at it. Look at the way it's hanging. Jones has only to hit him there, and it's over."
Vestal leaned forward, her eyes avid as she stared at Slade who lay back in his corner, his great chest heaving, his jaw hanging loose, his eyes vacant.
The bell went and out came Jones, his face a snarling, ferocious mask.
Slade had both hands up to protect his broken jaw, and as Jones rushed at him, Slade's left stabbed out and caught Jones in the face, sending him reeling back.
Slade shuffled forward. His right and left moved with piston like precision, driving Jones before him.
Vestal was yelling again, and she wasn't the only one.
Jones's seconds were bawling for him to finish it, but he was getting flurried. Every time he set himself to bring over a haymaker, Slade's left stabbed out and threw him off balance. Slade kept that up until the dying seconds of the round, then Jones managed to catch him with a vicious left hook to the side of his face. His expression of agony had Vestal screaming like a mad thing for Jones to go in and finish him.
Slade went down on one knee. He looked like a wounded and dangerous lion as he snarled up at the brown fighter who stepped away from him.
Blood ran down his face from a cut eye; blood ran out of his mouth.
The bell stopped the count, and Slade's seconds poured into the ring to half carry him back to his corner.
"Oh, this is something!" Vestal said, her chest heaving. "I didn't imagine a fight would be like this!
Jones brought up a left upper cut. He was a shade too fast, and his fist missed Slade's jaw and smashed against his cheekbone, drawing blood. Slade went down on hands and knees. He stared straight at us, his jaw hanging, his eyes vacant, his senses paralysed.
I became aware that Vestal was leaning forward, her fingers gripping my wrist, her mouth open. There was so much noise going on I couldn't hear her scream, but I knew she was screaming. Half the crowd were on their feet, yelling their heads off. The Stadium rocked with the sound.
The referee shoved Jones back, waving him to a neutral corner. But Jones was excited, and the referee had to shout at him to get him to obey his order.
The delay had given Slade a few valuable seconds. I was watching him. I saw a spark of life come into his eyes. The referee was bending over him, yelling the count at him, his arm rising and falling.
"A sucker punch!" I shouted in Vestal's ear. "The mug! The goddam mug!"
I don't think she even knew I had spoken. She was crouched forward, her eyes gleaming, her face a ferocious, hard mask as she watched the seconds tick off.
Slade was on his feet at the count of nine. As Jones shot across the ring, Slade slid into a clinch, hanging on desperately, smothering the brown arms, while he fought to bring his senses into action again.
The referee had to tear the two men apart, and in his excitement Jones released a hail of punches instead of stepping back, measuring his man and handing out the one finisher.
Slade covered up, retreating around the ring, with Jones chasing him.
The crowd was screaming for the kill, but Jones hadn't the experience to get through with a finisher. The bell went just as Jones had succeeded in manoeuvring his tottering opponent into a corner and was setting himself to let fly another wild barrage of punches.
"Well, that's that," I said in disgust as the brown man stormed angrily back to his corner. "His jaw's broken. What a mug! To have fallen for a sucker punch with his experience! It'll be over in the next round."
Vestal was still clutching my wrist.
"I've never been so excited," she gasped. "This is wonderful! You mean he really has a broken jaw?"
"Well, look at it. Look at the way it's hanging. Jones has only to hit him there, and it's over."
Vestal leaned forward, her eyes avid as she stared at Slade who lay back in his corner, his great chest heaving, his jaw hanging loose, his eyes vacant.
The bell went and out came Jones, his face a snarling, ferocious mask.
Slade had both hands up to protect his broken jaw, and as Jones rushed at him, Slade's left stabbed out and caught Jones in the face, sending him reeling back.
Slade shuffled forward. His right and left moved with piston like precision, driving Jones before him.
Vestal was yelling again, and she wasn't the only one.
Jones's seconds were bawling for him to finish it, but he was getting flurried. Every time he set himself to bring over a haymaker, Slade's left stabbed out and threw him off balance. Slade kept that up until the dying seconds of the round, then Jones managed to catch him with a vicious left hook to the side of his face. His expression of agony had Vestal screaming like a mad thing for Jones to go in and finish him.
Slade went down on one knee. He looked like a wounded and dangerous lion as he snarled up at the brown fighter who stepped away from him.
Blood ran down his face from a cut eye; blood ran out of his mouth.
The bell stopped the count, and Slade's seconds poured into the ring to half carry him back to his corner.
"Oh, this is something!" Vestal said, her chest heaving. "I didn't imagine a fight would be like this!
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