Billy knew that he was afraid—­he thought that he was afraid of the big, trained fighter who faced him; but Cassidy knew that it was a plain case of stage fright that had gripped his man.  He knew, too, that it would be enough to defeat Billy’s every chance for victory, and after the big “white hope” had felled Billy twice in the first minute of the first round Cassidy knew that it was all over but the shouting.

The fans, many of them, were laughing, and yelling derogatory remarks at Billy.

“Stan’ up an’ fight, yeh big stiff!” and “Back to de farm fer youse!” and then, high above the others a shrill voice cried “Coward!  Coward!”

The word penetrated Billy’s hopeless, muddled brain.  Coward!  She had called him that once, and then she had changed her mind.  Theriere had thought him a coward, yet as he died he had said that he was the bravest man he ever had known.  Billy recalled the yelling samurai with their keen swords and terrible spears.  He saw the little room in the “palace” of Oda Yorimoto, and again he faced the brown devils who had hacked and hewed and stabbed at him that day as he fought to save the woman he loved.  Coward!  What was there in this padded ring for a man to fear who had faced death as Billy had faced it, and without an instant’s consciousness of the meaning of the word fear?  What was wrong with him, and then the shouts and curses and taunts of the crowd smote upon his ears, and he knew.  It was the crowd!  Again the heavy fist of the “coming champion” brought Billy to the mat, and then, before further damage could be done him, the gong saved him.

It was a surprised and chastened mucker that walked with bent head to his corner after the first round.  The “white hope” was grinning and confident, and so he returned to the center of the ring for the second round.  During the short interval Billy had thrashed the whole thing out.  The crowd had gotten on his nerves.  He was trying to fight the whole crowd instead of just one man—­he would do better in this round; but the first thing that happened after he faced his opponent sent the fans into delirious ecstasies of shouting and hooting.

Billy swung his right for his foe’s jaw—­a terrible blow that would have ended the fight had it landed—­but the man side-stepped it, and Billy’s momentum carried him sprawling upon his face.  When he regained his feet the “white hope” was waiting for him, and Billy went down again to lie there, quite still, while the hand of the referee marked the seconds:  One.  Two.  Three.  Four.  Five.  Six.  Billy opened his eyes.  Seven.  Billy sat up.  Eight.  The meaning of that monotonous count finally percolated to the mucker’s numbed perceptive faculties.  He was being counted out!  Nine!  Like a flash he was on his feet.  He had forgotten the crowd.  Rage—­cool, calculating rage possessed him—­not the feverish, hysterical variety that takes its victim’s brains away.