"What do you think of his being muscle-bound?" Gerald asked Murphy,
as the latter flung himself panting on the wrestling mat for his
rest.

"He's quick as chained lightning," acknowledged the other
grudgingly. "But I'll get him. He can't keep that up; he'll be
winded in half a minute."

Orde sat down on a roll of mat. His smile had quite vanished, and
he seemed to be awaiting eagerly the beginning of the next round.

"Time!" called Gerald for the third.

Orde immediately sprang at his adversary, repeating the headlong
rush with which the previous round had ended. Murphy blocked,
ducked, and kept away, occasionally delivering a jolt as opportunity
offered, awaiting the time when Orde's weariness would leave him at
the other's mercy. That moment did not come. The young man
hammered away tirelessly, insistently, delivering a hurricane of his
two-handed blows, pressing relentlessly in as Murphy shifted and
gave ground, his head up, his eyes steady, oblivious to the return
hammering the now desperate handler opposed to him. Two minutes
passed without perceptible slackening in this terrific pace. The
gallery was in an uproar, and some of the members were piling down
the stairs to the floor. Perspiration stood out all over Murphy's
body. His blows failed of their effect, and some of Orde's were
landing. At length, bewildered more by the continuance than the
violence of the attack, he dropped his ring tactics and closed in to
straight slugging, blow against blow, stand up, give and take.