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whispering through her； and there was a clamour of the children
unborn。 But of this she knew nothing。 She knew only that it was
sin； and she lifted her head proudly； recklessly resolved； in one
great surge of revolt； to sin to the uttermost。
She had never dreamed of the form under the clothes。 The form；
beyond the hands and the face； had no part in her mental processes。
A child of garmented civilization； the garment was to her the form。
The race of men was to her a race of garmented bipeds； with hands
and faces and hair…covered heads。 When she thought of Joe； the Joe
instantly visualized on her mind was a clothed Joegirl…cheeked；
blue…eyed； curly…headed； but clothed。 And there he stood； all but
naked； godlike； in a white blaze of light。 She had never conceived
of the form of God except as nebulously naked； and the thought…
association was startling。 It seemed to her that her sin partook of
sacrilege or blasphemy。
Her chromo…trained aesthetic sense exceeded its education and told
her that here were beauty and wonder。 She had always liked the
physical presentment of Joe； but it was a presentment of clothes；
and she had thought the pleasingness of it due to the neatness and
taste with which he dressed。 She had never dreamed that this lurked
beneath。 It dazzled her。 His skin was fair as a woman's； far more
satiny； and no rudimentary hair…growth marred its white lustre。
This she perceived； but all the rest； the perfection of line and
strength and development； gave pleasure without her knowing why。
There was a cleanness and grace about it。 His face was like a
cameo； and his lips； parted in a smile； made it very boyish。
He smiled as he faced the audience； when the announcer； placing a
hand on his shoulder； said： 〃Joe Fleming； the Pride of West
Oakland。〃
Cheers and hand…clappings stormed up； and she heard affectionate
cries of 〃Oh； you； Joe！〃 Men shouted it at him again and again。
He walked back to his corner。 Never to her did he seem less a
fighter than then。 His eyes were too mild； there was not a spark of
the beast in them； nor in his face； while his body seemed too
fragile； what of its fairness and smoothness； and his face too
boyish and sweet…tempered and intelligent。 She did not have the
expert's eye for the depth of chest； the wide nostrils； the
recuperative lungs； and the muscles under their satin sheaths
crypts of energy wherein lurked the chemistry of destruction。 To
her he looked like a something of Dresden china； to be handled
gently and with care； liable to be shattered to fragments by the
first rough touch。
John Ponta； stripped of his white sweater by the pulling and hauling
of two of his seconds； came to the centre of the ring。 She knew
terror as she looked at him。 Here was the fighterthe beast with a
streak for a forehead； with beady eyes under lowering and bushy
brows； flat…nosed； thick…lipped； sullen…mouthed。 He was heavy…
jawed； bull…necked； and the short； straight hair of the head seemed
to her frightened eyes the stiff bristles on a hog's back。 Here
were coarseness and brutishnessa thing savage； primordial；
ferocious。 He was swarthy to blackness； and his body was covered
with a hairy growth that matted like a dog's on his chest and
shoulders。 He was deep…chested； thick…legged； large…muscled； but
unshapely。 His muscles were knots； and he was gnarled and knobby；
twisted out of beauty by excess of strength。
〃John Ponta； West Bay Athletic Club；〃 said the announcer。
A much smaller volume of cheers greeted him。 It was evident that
the crowd favored Joe with its sympathy。
〃Go in an' eat 'm； Ponta！ Eat 'm up！〃 a voice shouted in the lull。
This was received by scornful cries and groans。 He did not like it；
for his sullen mouth twisted into a half…snarl as he went back to
his corner。 He was too decided an atavism to draw the crowd's
admiration。 Instinctively the crowd disliked him。 He was an
animal； lacking in intelligence and spirit； a menace and a thing of
fear； as the tiger and the snake are menaces and things of fear；
better behind the bars of a cage than running free in the open。
And he felt that the crowd had no relish for him。 He was like an
animal in the circle of its enemies； and he turned and glared at
them with malignant eyes。 Little Silverstein； shouting out Joe's
name with high glee； shrank away from Ponta's gaze； shrivelled as in
fierce heat； the sound gurgling and dying in his throat。 Genevieve
saw the little by…play； and as Ponta's eyes slowly swept round the
circle of their hate and met hers； she； too； shrivelled and shrank
back。 The next moment they were past； pausing to centre long on
Joe。 It seemed to her that Ponta was working himself into a rage。
Joe returned the gaze with mild boy's eyes； but his face grew
serious。
The announcer escorted a third man to the centre of the ring； a
genial…faced young fellow in shirt…sleeves。
〃Eddy Jones； who will referee this contest；〃 said the announcer。
〃Oh； you； Eddy！〃 men shouted in the midst of the applause； and it
was apparent to Genevieve that he； too； was well beloved。
Both men were being helped into the gloves by their seconds； and one
of Ponta's seconds came over and examined the gloves before they
went on Joe's hands。 The referee called them to the centre of the
ring。 The seconds followed； and they made quite a group； Joe and
Ponta facing each other； the referee in the middle； the seconds
leaning with hands on one another's shoulders； their heads craned
forward。 The referee was talking； and all listened attentively。
The group broke up。 Again the announcer came to the front。
〃Joe Fleming fights at one hundred and twenty…eight；〃 he said； 〃John
Ponta at one hundred and forty。 They will fight as long as one hand
is free； and take care of themselves in the break…away。 The
audience must remember that a decision must be given。 There are no
draws fought before this club。〃
He crawled through the ropes and dropped from the ring to the floor。
There was a scuttling in the corners as the seconds cleared out
through the ropes； taking with them the stools and buckets。 Only
remained in the ring the two fighters and the referee。 A gong
sounded。 The two men advanced rapidly to the centre。 Their right
hands extended and for a fraction of an instant met in a perfunctory
shake。 Then Ponta lashed out； savagely； right and left； and Joe
escaped by springing back。 Like a projectile； Ponta hurled himself
after him and upon him。
The fight was on。 Genevieve clutched one hand to her breast and
watched。 She was bewildered by the swiftness and savagery of
Ponta's assault； and by the multitude of blows he struck。 She felt
that Joe was surely being destroyed。 At times she could not see his
face； so obscured was it by the flying gloves。 But she could hear
the resounding blows； and with the sound of each blow she felt a
sickening sensation in the pit of her stomach。 She did not know
that what she heard was the impact of glove on glove； or glove on
shoulder； and that no damage was being done。
She was suddenly aware that a change had come over the fight。 Both
men were clutching each other in a tense embrace； no blows were
being struck at all。 She recognized it to be what Joe had described
to her as the 〃clinch。〃 Ponta was struggling to free himself； Joe
was holding on。
The referee shouted； 〃Break！〃 Joe made an effort to get away； but
Ponta got one hand free and Joe rushed back into a second clinch； to
escape the blow。 But this time； she noticed； the heel of his glove
was pressed against Ponta's mouth and chin； and at the second
〃Break！〃 of the referee； Joe shoved his opponent's head back and
sprang clear himself。
For a brief several seconds she had an unobstructed view of her
lover。 Left foot a trifle advanced； knees slightly bent； he was
crouching； with his head drawn well down between