"Stand back, Craggs, this instant!" Stapleton repeated.
The Master sank his hands sulkily and walked backwards to the rope with
his ferocious eyes fixed upon his fallen antagonist. The timekeeper
called the seconds. If ten of them passed before Montgomery rose to his
feet, the fight was ended. Ted Barton wrung his hands and danced about
in an agony in his corner.
As if in a dream--a terrible nightmare--the student could hear the voice
of the timekeeper--three--four--five--he got up on his hand--six--
seven--he was on his knee, sick, swimming, faint, but resolute to rise.
Eight--he was up, and the Master was on him like a tiger, lashing
savagely at him with both hands. Folk held their breath as they watched
those terrible blows, and anticipated the pitiful end--so much more
pitiful where a game but helpless man refuses to accept defeat.
Strangely automatic is the human brain. Without volition, without
effort, there shot into the memory of this bewildered, staggering,
half-stupefied man the one thing which could have saved him--that blind
eye of which the Master's son had spoken. It was the same as the other
to look at, but Montgomery remembered that he had said that it was the
left. He reeled to the left side, half felled by a drive which lit upon
his shoulder.
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