Dancing in and out he drew an ineffective left from his opponent and
countered with a pile-driving right to the heart. Yorke gave vent to a
groaning exclamation and turned pale. He spat gaspingly out of his
mashed lips and propped Redmond off awhile; then, suddenly springing in
again he attempted to mix it. George was nothing loath, and the two men,
standing toe-to-toe, slugged each other with a perfect whirlwind of
damaging punches to face and body.

Even in the giddy whirl of combat, in either man's heart now was a wonder
almost akin to respect for each other's ring knowledge and gameness. It
was not George's first bout by many, but the physical endurance of this
hard, clean-hitting Corinthian of a man was an astounding revelation to
him; the science of the graceful, narrow-waisted figure was still as
quick and as punishing as a steel trap.

Yorke, for his part, reflected with bitter irony how utterly erroneous
had been his primary calculations--how Nemesis was hard upon his heels at
last in the guise of this relentless youngster, who fought like a
college-bred "Charley Mitchell."

Ding! dong!--hook, jab, uppercut, block, and swing; in and out, back and
forth, side-stepping and head-work--one long exhausting round. Flesh and
blood could not stand the pace--though it was Redmond now who forced it.
Neither of the men was in training and the long strain began to tell upon
them both cruelly--especially upon the veteran Yorke. Still, with
frosted hair and streaming faces, the sweat-soaked, bruised and bleeding
combatants staggered against each other and strove to make play with
their weary arms, until utter exhaustion rang the time gong.