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 his shoulders and shielded
by them. His hands were in position before him,
ready either to attack or defend. The muscles
of his body were tense, and as he moved about she could
see them bunch up and writhe and crawl like live things
under the white skin.
But again Ponta was upon him and he was struggling
to live. He crouched a bit more, drew his body
more compactly together, and covered up with his hands,
elbows, and forearms. Blows rained upon him,
and it looked to her as though he were being beaten
to death.
But he was receiving the blows on his gloves and shoulders,
rocking back and forth to the force of them like a
tree in a storm, while the house cheered its delight.
It was not until she understood this applause, and
saw Silverstein half out of his seat and intensely,
madly happy, and heard the “Oh, you, Joe’s!”
from many throats, that she realized that instead
of being cruelly punished he was acquitting himself
well. Then he would emerge for a moment, again
to be enveloped and hidden in the whirlwind of Ponta’s
ferocity.
The gong sounded. It seemed they had been fighting
half an hour, though from what Joe had told her she
knew it had been only three minutes. With the
crash of the gong Joe’s seconds were through
the ropes and running him into his corner for the
blessed minute of rest. One man, squatting on
the floor between his outstretched feet and elevating
them by resting them on his knees, was violently chafing
his legs. Joe sat on the stool, leaning far
back into the corner, head thrown back and arms outstretched
on the ropes to give easy expansion to the chest.
With wide-open mouth he was breathing the towel-driven
air furnished by two of the seconds, while listening
to the counsel of still another second who talked with
low voice in his ear and at the same time sponged off
his face, shoulders, and chest.
Hardly had all this been accomplished (it had taken
no more than several seconds), when the gong sounded,
the seconds scuttled through the ropes with their
paraphernalia, and Joe and Ponta were advancing against
each other to the centre of the ring. Genevieve
had no idea that a minute could be so short.
For a moment she felt that this rest had been cut,
and was suspicious of she knew not what.
