those blows.  After every clinch his strength plainly ebbed and withered.  Away, he dodged nimbly, airily, easily more dramatic in arts of manoeuvre.  But Dempsey, tall, sullen, composed, followed him steadily.  He seemed slow beside that flying white figure, but that wheeling amble was deadly sure.  He was always on the inner arc, Carpentier on the outer; the long, swarthy arms were impenetrable in front of his vitals; again and again he followed up, seeking to corner his man; Carpentier would fling a shining arm at the dark jaw; a clinch would follow in which the two leaned together in that curious posture of apparent affection; and they hung upon each other’s necks—­Carpentier, from a distance, looking almost like a white girl languishing in the arms of some dark, solicitous lover.  But Mr. Dempsey was the Fatal Bridegroom, for at each union he would rivet in several more of those steam punches.

There was something almost incredible in the scene—­so we had been drilled in that Million-Dollar Myth, the unscathability of Carpentier.  Was this Gorgeous Georges, this blood-smeared, wilting, hunted figure, flitting desperately from the grim, dark-jowled avenger?  And then, in the latter part of the second round, Georges showed one flash of his true genius.  Suddenly he sprang, leaping (so it seemed) clear from the canvas, and landed solidly (though not killingly) on Dempsey’s jaw.  There was a flicker of lightning blows, and for an instant Dempsey was retreating, defensive, even a little jarred.  That was the high moment of the fight, and the crowd then showed its heart.  Ninety thousand people had come there to see bloodshed; through several humid hours they had sat in a rising temperature, both inward and outward, with cumulating intensity like that of a kettle approaching the boil.  Dempsey had had a bigger hand on entering the ring; but so far it had been too one-sided for much roaring.  But now, for an instant, there was actual fighting.  There were some who thought that if Georges could have followed up this advantage he still had a chance.  We do not think so.  Dempsey was not greatly shaken.  He was too powerful and too hard to reach.  They clinched and stalled for a moment, and the gong came shortly.  But Carpentier had shown his tiger streak.  Scotty Monteith, manager (so we were told) of Johnny Dundee, sat just in front of us in a pink skirt, and had been gathering up substantial wagers from the ill-starred French journalists near by.  Scotty was not in any doubt as to the outcome, but even he was moved by Carpentier’s gallant sally.  “No one knew he was a fighter like that,” he said.

The rest is but a few words.  Carpentier’s face had a wild, driven look.  His hits seemed mere taps beside Dempsey’s.  In the fourth round he went down once, for eight or nine counts, and climbed up painfully.  The second time he sprawled flat; Dempsey, still with that pensive lowered head, walked grimly in a semi-circle, waiting to see if that was the end.  It was.  Greek gods are no match for Tarzans in this game.