As he saw his opponent stand, Orde uttered a sound of satisfaction.
He dropped slightly his right shoulder behind his next blow. The
glove crashed straight as a pile-driver through Murphy's upraised
hands to his face, which it met with a smack. The trainer, lifted
bodily from the ground, was hurled through the air, to land doubled
up against the supports of a parallel bars. There he lay quite
still, his palms up, his head sunk forward.

Orde stared at him a moment in astonishment, as though expecting him
to arise. When, however, he perceived that Murphy was in reality
unconscious, he tore off the gloves and ran forward to kneel by the
professional's side.

"I didn't suppose one punch like that would hurt him," he muttered
to the men crowding around. "Especially with the gloves. Do you
suppose he's killed?"

But already Murphy's arms were making aimless motions, and a deep
breath raised his chest.

"He's just knocked out," reassured one of the men, examining the
prostrate handler with a professional attention. "He'll be as good
as ever in five minutes. Here," he commanded one of the gymnasium
rubbers who had appeared, "lend a hand here with some water."

The clubmen crowded about, all talking at once.

"You're a wonder, my friend," said one.

"By Jove, he's hardly breathing fast after all that rushing," said a