The Game .............................................................................................................................................................1

Many patterns of carpet lay rolled out before them on the floortwo of Brussels showed the beginning of

their quest, and its ending in that direction; while a score of ingrains lured their eyes and prolonged the debate

between desire pocketbook. The head of the department did them the honor of waiting upon them

himselfor did Joe the honor, as she well knew, for she had noted the openmouthed awe of the elevator

boy who brought them up. Nor had she been blind to the marked respect shown Joe by the urchins and groups

of young fellows on corners, when she walked with him in their own neighborhood down at the west end of

But the head of the department was called away to the telephone, and in her mind the splendid promise of the

carpets and the irk of the pocketbook were thrust aside by a greater doubt and anxiety.

"But I don't see what you find to like in it, Joe," she said softly, the note of insistence in her words betraying

For a fleeting moment a shadow darkened his boyish face, to be replaced by the glow of tenderness. He was

only a boy, as she was only a girltwo young things on the threshold of life, house renting and buying

"What's the good of worrying?" he questioned. "It's the last go, the very last."

He smiled at her, but she saw on his lips the unconscious and all but breathed sigh of renunciation, and with

the instinctive monopoly of woman for her mate, she feared this thing she did not understand and which

"You know the go with O'Neil cleared the last payment on mother's house," he went on. "And that's off my

mind. Now this last with Ponta will give me a hundred dollars in bankan even hundred, that's the

She disregarded the money appeal. "But you like it, thisthis 'game' you call it. Why?"

He lacked speechexpression. He expressed himself with his hands, at his work, and with his body and the

play of his muscles in the squared ring; but to tell with his own lips the charm of the squared ring was beyond

him. Yet he essayed, and haltingly at first, to express what he felt and analyzed when playing the Game at the

"All I know, Genevieve, is that you feel good in the ring when you've got the man where you want him, when

he's had a punch up both sleeves waiting for you and you've never given him an opening to land 'em, when

you've landed your own little punch an' he's goin' groggy, an' holdin' on, an' the referee's dragging him off

so's you can go in an' finish 'm, an' all the house is shouting an' tearin' itself loose, an' you know you're the

best man, an' that you played m' fair an' won out because you're the best man. I tell you"

He ceased brokenly, alarmed by his own volubility and by Genevieve's look of alarm. As he talked she had

watched his face while fear dawned in her own. As he described the moment of moments to her, on his

inward vision were lined the tottering man, the lights, the shouting house, and he swept out and away from

her on this tide of life that was beyond her comprehension, menacing, irresistible, making her love pitiful and

weak. The Joe she knew receded, faded, became lost. The fresh boyish face was gone, the tenderness of the

eyes, the sweetness of the mouth with its curves and pictured corners. It was a man's face she saw, a face of

steel, tense and immobile; a mouth of steel, the lips like the jaws of a trap; eyes of steel, dilated, intent, and

the light in them and the glitter were the light and glitter of steel. The face of a man, and she had known only

And yet, while it frightened her, she was vaguely stirred with pride in him. His masculinity, the masculinity

of the fighting male, made its inevitable appeal to her, a female, moulded by all her heredity to seek out the

strong man for mate, and to lean against the wall of his strength. She did not understand this force of his

being that rose mightier than her love and laid its compulsion upon him; and yet, in her woman's heart she

was aware of the sweet pang which told her that for her sake, for Love's own sake, he had surrendered to her,

abandoned all that portion of his life, and with this one last fight would never fight again.

"Mrs. Silverstein doesn't like prizefighting," she said. "She's down on it, and she knows something, too."

He smiled indulgently, concealing a hurt, not altogether new, at her persistent inappreciation of this side of

his nature and life in which he took the greatest pride. It was to him power and achievement, earned by his

own effort and hard work; and in the moment when he had offered himself and all that he was to Genevieve,

it was this, and this alone, that he was proudly conscious of laying at her feet. It was the merit of work

performed, a guerdon of manhood finer and greater than any other man could offer, and it had been to him his

justification and right to possess her. And she had not understood it then, as she did not understand it now,

"Mrs. Silverstein is a dub, and a softy, and a knocker," he said goodhumoredly. "What's she know about

such things, anyway? I tell you it IS good, and healthy, too,"this last as an afterthought. "Look at me. I tell

you I have to live clean to be in condition like this. I live cleaner than she does, or her old man, or anybody

you knowbaths, rubdowns, exercise, regular hours, good food and no makin' a pig of myself, no drinking,

"Honest, I do," he hastened to add at sight of her shocked face. "I don't mean water an' soap, but look there."

His hand closed reverently but firmly on her arm. "Soft, you're all soft, all over. Not like mine. Here, feel

He pressed the ends of her fingers into his hard armmuscles until she winced from the hurt.

"Hard all over just like that," he went on. "Now that's what I call clean. Every bit of flesh an' blood an' muscle

is clean right down to the bonesand they're clean, too. No soap and water only on the skin, but clean all the

way in. I tell you it feels clean. It knows it's clean itself. When I wake up in the morning an' go to work, every

drop of blood and bit of meat is shouting right out that it is clean. Oh, I tell you"

He paused with swift awkwardness, again confounded by his unwonted flow of speech. Never in his life had

he been stirred to such utterance, and never in his life had there been cause to be so stirred. For it was the

Game that had been questioned, its verity and worth, the Game itself, the biggest thing in the worldor what

had been the biggest thing in the world until that chance afternoon and that chance purchase in Silverstein's

candy store, when Genevieve loomed suddenly colossal in his life, overshadowing all other things. He was

beginning to see, though vaguely, the sharp conflict between woman and career, between a man's work in the

world and woman's need of the man. But he was not capable of generalization. He saw only the antagonism

between the concrete, fleshandblood Genevieve and the great, abstract, living Game. Each resented the

other, each claimed him; he was torn with the strife, and yet drifted helpless on the currents of their

His words had drawn Genevieve's gaze to his face, and she had pleasured in the clear skin, the clear eyes, the

cheek soft and smooth as a girl's. She saw the force of his argument and disliked it accordingly. She revolted

instinctively against this Game which drew him away from her, robbed her of part of him. It was a rival she

did not understand. Nor could she understand its seductions. Had it been a woman rival, another girl,

knowledge and light and sight would have been hers. As it was, she grappled in the dark with an intangible

adversary about which she knew nothing. What truth she felt in his speech made the Game but the more

A sudden conception of her weakness came to her. She felt pity for herself, and sorrow. She wanted him, all

of him, her woman's need would not be satisfied with less; and he eluded her, slipped away here and there

from the embrace with which she tried to clasp him. Tears swam into her eyes, and her lips trembled, turning

defeat into victory, routing the allpotent Game with the strength of her weakness.

"Don't, Genevieve, don't," the boy pleaded, all contrition, though he was confused and dazed. To his

masculine mind there was nothing relevant about her breakdown; yet all else was forgotten at sight of her

She smiled forgiveness through her wet eyes, and though he knew of nothing for which to be forgiven, he

melted utterly. His hand went out impulsively to hers, but she avoided the clasp by a sort of bodily stiffening

"Here comes Mr. Clausen," she said, at the same time, by some transforming alchemy of woman, presenting

"Think I was never coming back, Joe?" queried the head of the department, a pinkandwhitefaced man,

"Now let me seehum, yes, we was discussing ingrains," he continued briskly. "That tasty little pattern there

catches your eye, don't it now, eh? Yes, yes, I know all about it. I set up housekeeping when I was getting

fourteen a week. But nothing's too good for the little nest, eh? Of course I know, and it's only seven cents

more, and the dearest is the cheapest, I say. Tell you what I'll do, Joe,"this with a burst of philanthropic

impulsiveness and a confidential lowering of voice,"seein's it's you, and I wouldn't do it for anybody else,

I'll reduce it to five cents. Only,"here his voice became impressively solemn,"only you mustn't ever tell

"Sewed, lined, and laidof course that's included," he said, after Joe and Genevieve had conferred together

"And the little nest, eh?" he queried. "When do you spread your wings and fly away? Tomorrow! So soon?

He rolled his eyes ecstatically for a moment, then beamed upon them with a fatherly air.

Joe had replied sturdily enough, and Genevieve had blushed prettily; but both felt that it was not exactly

proper. Not alone because of the privacy and holiness of the subject, but because of what might have been

prudery in the middle class, but which in them was the modesty and reticence found in individuals of the

Mr. Clausen accompanied them to the elevator, all smiles, patronage, and beneficence, while the clerks

"And tonight, Joe?" Mr. Clausen asked anxiously, as they waited at the shaft. "How do you feel? Think

"You feel all right, eh? Good! Good! You see, I was just a wonderin'you know, ha! ha!goin' to get

married and the rest thought you might be unstrung, eh, a trifle?nerves just a bit off, you know. Know

how gettin' married is myself. But you're all right, eh? Of course you are. No use asking YOU that. Ha! ha!

Well, good luck, my boy! I know you'll win. Never had the least doubt, of course, of course."

"And goodby, Miss Pritchard," he said to Genevieve, gallantly handing her into the elevator. "Hope you call

"Everybody calls you 'Joe'," she said reproachfully, as the car dropped downward. "Why don't they call you

"What's the matter, Joe?" she asked, with a tenderness the power of which to thrill him she knew full well.

"Wishing?what?" Her voice was seduction itself, and her eyes would have melted stronger than he, though

Then, deliberately, his eyes lifted to hers. "I was wishing you could see me fight just once."

She made a gesture of disgust, and his face fell. It came to her sharply that the rival had thrust between and

"II'd like to," she said hastily with an effort, striving after that sympathy which weakens the strongest men

Again his eyes lifted and looked into hers. He meant itshe knew that. It seemed a challenge to the

It may have been the apprehensiveness of love, the wish to meet his need for her sympathy, and the desire to

see the Game face to face for wisdom's sake,and it may have been the clarion call of adventure ringing

through the narrow confines of uneventful existence; for a great daring thrilled through her, and she said, just

"I didn't think you would, or I wouldn't have asked," he confessed, as they walked out to the sidewalk.

"I didn't think you would," he repeated, still amazed, as he helped her upon the electric car and felt in his

Genevieve and Joe were workingclass aristocrats. In an environment made up largely of sordidness and

wretchedness they had kept themselves unsullied and wholesome. Theirs was a selfrespect, a regard for the

niceties and clean things of life, which had held them aloof from their kind. Friends did not come to them

easily; nor had either ever possessed a really intimate friend, a heart companion with whom to chum and

have things in common. The social instinct was strong in them, yet they had remained lonely because they

could not satisfy that instinct and at that same time satisfy their desire for cleanness and decency.

If ever a girl of the working class had led the sheltered life, it was Genevieve. In the midst of roughness and

brutality, she had shunned all that was rough and brutal. She saw but what she chose to see, and she chose

always to see the best, avoiding coarseness and uncouthness without effort, as a matter of instinct. To begin

with, she had been peculiarly unexposed. An only child, with an invalid mother upon whom she attended, she

had not joined in the street games and frolics of the children of the neighbourhood. Her father, a

mildtempered, narrowchested, anaemic little clerk, domestic because of his inherent disability to mix with

men, had done his full share toward giving the home an atmosphere of sweetness and tenderness.

An orphan at twelve, Genevieve had gone straight from her father's funeral to live with the Silversteins in

their rooms above the candy store; and here, sheltered by kindly aliens, she earned her keep and clothes by

waiting on the shop. Being Gentile, she was especially necessary to the Silversteins, who would not run the

And here, in the uneventful little shop, six maturing years had slipped by. Her acquaintances were few. She

had elected to have no girl chum for the reason that no satisfactory girl had appeared. Nor did she choose to

walk with the young fellows of the neighbourhood, as was the custom of girls from their fifteenth year. "That

stuckup dollface," was the way the girls of the neighbourhood described her; and though she earned their

enmity by her beauty and aloofness, she none the less commanded their respect. "Peaches and cream," she

was called by the young menthough softly and amongst themselves, for they were afraid of arousing the

ire of the other girls, while they stood in awe of Genevieve, in a dimly religious way, as a something

For she was indeed beautiful. Springing from a long line of American descent, she was one of those

wonderful workingclass blooms which occasionally appear, defying all precedent of forebears and

environment, apparently without cause or explanation. She was a beauty in color, the blood spraying her

white skin so deliciously as to earn for her the apt description, "peaches and cream." She was a beauty in the

regularity of her features; and, if for no other reason, she was a beauty in the mere delicacy of the lines on

which she was moulded. Quiet, lowvoiced, stately, and dignified, she somehow had the knack of dress, and

but befitted her beauty and dignity with anything she put on. Withal, she was sheerly feminine, tender and

soft and clinging, with the smouldering passion of the mate and the motherliness of the woman. But this side

of her nature had lain dormant through the years, waiting for the mate to appear.

Then Joe came into Silverstein's shop one hot Saturday afternoon to cool himself with icecream soda. She

had not noticed his entrance, being busy with one other customer, an urchin of six or seven who gravely

analyzed his desires before the showcase wherein truly generous and marvellous candy creations reposed

She had heard, "Icecream soda, please," and had herself asked, "What flavor?" without seeing his face. For

that matter, it was not a custom of hers to notice young men. There was something about them she did not

understand. The way they looked at her made her uncomfortable, she knew not why; while there was an

uncouthness and roughness about them that did not please her. As yet, her imagination had been untouched

by man. The young fellows she had seen had held no lure for her, had been without meaning to her. In short,

had she been asked to give one reason for the existence of men on the earth, she would have been nonplussed

As she emptied the measure of icecream into the glass, her casual glance rested on Joe's face, and she

experienced on the instant a pleasant feeling of satisfaction. The next instant his eyes were upon her face, her

eyes had dropped, and she was turning away toward the soda fountain. But at the fountain, filling the glass,

she was impelled to look at him againbut for no more than an instant, for this time she found his eyes

already upon her, waiting to meet hers, while on his face was a frankness of interest that caused her quickly

That such pleasingness would reside for her in any man astonished her. "What a pretty boy," she thought to

herself, innocently and instinctively trying to ward off the power to hold and draw her that lay behind the

mere prettiness. "Besides, he isn't pretty," she thought, as she placed the glass before him, received the silver

dime in payment, and for the third time looked into his eyes. Her vocabulary was limited, and she knew little

of the worth of words; but the strong masculinity of his boy's face told her that the term was inappropriate.

"He must be handsome, then," was her next thought, as she again dropped her eyes before his. But all

goodlooking men were called handsome, and that term, too, displeased her. But whatever it was, he was

good to see, and she was irritably aware of a desire to look at him again and again.

As for Joe, he had never seen anything like this girl across the counter. While he was wiser in natural

philosophy than she, and could have given immediately the reason for woman's existence on the earth,

nevertheless woman had no part in his cosmos. His imagination was as untouched by woman as the girl's was

by man. But his imagination was touched now, and the woman was Genevieve. He had never dreamed a girl

could be so beautiful, and he could not keep his eyes from her face. Yet every time he looked at her, and her

eyes met his, he felt painful embarrassment, and would have looked away had not her eyes dropped so

But when, at last, she slowly lifted her eyes and held their gaze steadily, it was his own eyes that dropped, his

own cheek that mantled red. She was much less embarrassed than he, while she betrayed her embarrassment

not at all. She was aware of a flutter within, such as she had never known before, but in no way did it disturb

her outward serenity. Joe, on the contrary, was obviously awkward and delightfully miserable.

Neither knew love, and all that either was aware was an overwhelming desire to look at the other. Both had

been troubled and roused, and they were drawing together with the sharpness and imperativeness of uniting

elements. He toyed with his spoon, and flushed his embarrassment over his soda, but lingered on; and she

But he could not linger forever over a glass of icecream soda, while he did not dare ask for a second glass.

So he left her to remain in the shop in a waking trance, and went away himself down the street like a

somnambulist. Genevieve dreamed through the afternoon and knew that she was in love. Not so with Joe. He

knew only that he wanted to look at her again, to see her face. His thoughts did not get beyond this, and

The urge of this desire he could not escape. Day after day it worried him, and the candy shop and the girl

behind the counter continually obtruded themselves. He fought off the desire. He was afraid and ashamed to

go back to the candy shop. He solaced his fear with, "I ain't a ladies' man." Not once, nor twice, but scores of

times, he muttered the thought to himself, but it did no good. And by the middle of the week, in the evening,

after work, he came into the shop. He tried to come in carelessly and casually, but his whole carriage

advertised the strong effort of will that compelled his legs to carry his reluctant body thither. Also, he was

shy, and awkwarder than ever. Genevieve, on the contrary, was serener than ever, though fluttering most

alarmingly within. He was incapable of speech, mumbled his order, looked anxiously at the clock, despatched

She was ready to weep with vexation. Such meagre reward for four days' waiting, and assuming all the time

that she loved! He was a nice boy and all that, she knew, but he needn't have been in so disgraceful a hurry.

But Joe had not reached the corner before he wanted to be back with her again. He just wanted to look at her.

He had no thought that it was love. Love? That was when young fellows and girls walked out together. As for

himAnd then his desire took sharper shape, and he discovered that that was the very thing he wanted her to

do. He wanted to see her, to look at her, and well could he do all this if she but walked out with him. Then

that was why the young fellows and girls walked out together, he mused, as the weekend drew near. He had

remotely considered this walking out to be a mere form or observance preliminary to matrimony. Now he

saw the deeper wisdom in it, wanted it himself, and concluded therefrom that he was in love.

Both were now of the same mind, and there could be but the one ending; and it was the mild nine days'

Both were blessed with an avarice of speech, and because of it their courtship was a long one. As he

expressed himself in action, she expressed herself in repose and control, and by the lovelight in her

eyesthough this latter she would have suppressed in all maiden modesty had she been conscious of the

speech her heart printed so plainly there. "Dear" and "darling" were too terribly intimate for them to achieve

quickly; and, unlike most mating couples, they did not overwork the lovewords. For a long time they were

content to walk together in the evenings, or to sit side by side on a bench in the park, neither uttering a word

for an hour at a time, merely gazing into each other's eyes, too faintly luminous in the starshine to be a cause

He was as chivalrous and delicate in his attention as any knight to his lady. When they walked along the

street, he was careful to be on the outside,somewhere he had heard that this was the proper thing to

do,and when a crossing to the opposite side of the street put him on the inside, he swiftly sidestepped

behind her to gain the outside again. He carried her parcels for her, and once, when rain threatened, her

umbrella. He had never heard of the custom of sending flowers to one's ladylove, so he sent Genevieve fruit

instead. There was utility in fruit. It was good to eat. Flowers never entered his mind, until, one day, he

noticed a pale rose in her hair. It drew his gaze again and again. It was HER hair, therefore the presence of

the flower interested him. Again, it interested him because SHE had chosen to put it there. For these reasons

he was led to observe the rose more closely. He discovered that the effect in itself was beautiful, and it

fascinated him. His ingenuous delight in it was a delight to her, and a new and mutual lovethrill was

theirsbecause of a flower. Straightway he became a lover of flowers. Also, he became an inventor in

gallantry. He sent her a bunch of violets. The idea was his own. He had never heard of a man sending flowers

to a woman. Flowers were used for decorative purposes, also for funerals. He sent Genevieve flowers nearly

every day, and so far as he was concerned the idea was original, as positive an invention as ever arose in the

He was tremulous in his devotion to heras tremulous as was she in her reception of him. She was all that

was pure and good, a holy of holies not lightly to be profaned even by what might possibly be the too ardent

reverence of a devotee. She was a being wholly different from any he had ever known. She was not as other

girls. It never entered his head that she was of the same clay as his own sisters, or anybody's sister. She was

more than mere girl, than mere woman. She waswell, she was Genevieve, a being of a class by herself,

And for her, in turn, there was in him but little less of illusion. Her judgment of him in minor things might be

critical (while his judgment of her was sheer worship, and had in it nothing critical at all); but in her

judgment of him as a whole she forgot the sum of the parts, and knew him only as a creature of wonder, who

gave meaning to life, and for whom she could die as willingly as she could live. She often beguiled her

waking dreams of him with fancied situations, wherein, dying for him, she at last adequately expressed the

love she felt for him, and which, living, she knew she could never fully express.

Their love was all fire and dew. The physical scarcely entered into it, for such seemed profanation. The

ultimate physical facts of their relation were something which they never considered. Yet the immediate

physical facts they knew, the immediate yearnings and raptures of the fleshthe touch of finger tips on hand

or arm, the momentary pressure of a handclasp, the rare lipcaress of a kiss, the tingling thrill of her hair

upon his cheek, of her hand lightly thrusting back the locks from above his eyes. All this they knew, but also,

and they knew not why, there seemed a hint of sin about these caresses and sweet bodily contacts.

There were times when she felt impelled to throw her arms around him in a very abandonment of love, but

always some sanctity restrained her. At such moments she was distinctly and unpleasantly aware of some

unguessed sin that lurked within her. It was wrong, undoubtedly wrong, that she should wish to caress her

lover in so unbecoming a fashion. No selfrespecting girl could dream of doing such a thing. It was

unwomanly. Besides, if she had done it, what would he have thought of it? And while she contemplated so

horrible a catastrophe, she seemed to shrivel and wilt in a furnace of secret shame.

Nor did Joe escape the prick of curious desires, chiefest among which, perhaps, was the desire to hurt

Genevieve. When, after long and tortuous degrees, he had achieved the bliss of putting his arm round her

waist, he felt spasmodic impulses to make the embrace crushing, till she should cry out with the hurt. It was

not his nature to wish to hurt any living thing. Even in the ring, to hurt was never the intention of any blow he

struck. In such case he played the Game, and the goal of the Game was to down an antagonist and keep that

antagonist down for a space of ten seconds. So he never struck merely to hurt; the hurt was incidental to the

end, and the end was quite another matter. And yet here, with this girl he loved, came the desire to hurt. Why,

when with thumb and forefinger he had ringed her wrist, he should desire to contract that ring till it crushed,

was beyond him. He could not understand, and felt that he was discovering depths of brutality in his nature of

Once, on parting, he threw his arms around her and swiftly drew her against him. Her gasping cry of surprise

and pain brought him to his senses and left him there very much embarrassed and still trembling with a vague

and nameless delight. And she, too, was trembling. In the hurt itself, which was the essence of the vigorous

embrace, she had found delight; and again she knew sin, though she knew not its nature nor why it should be

Came the day, very early in their walking out, when Silverstein chanced upon Joe in his store and stared at

him with saucereyes. Came likewise the scene, after Joe had departed, when the maternal feelings of Mrs.

Silverstein found vent in a diatribe against all prizefighters and against Joe Fleming in particular. Vainly

had Silverstein striven to stay the spouse's wrath. There was need for her wrath. All the maternal feelings

Genevieve was aware only of the diatribe; she knew a flood of abuse was pouring from the lips of the Jewess,

but she was too stunned to hear the details of the abuse. Joe, her Joe, was Joe Fleming the prizefighter. It

was abhorrent, impossible, too grotesque to be believable. Her cleareyed, girlcheeked Joe might be

anything but a prizefighter. She had never seen one, but he in no way resembled her conception of what a

prizefighter must bethe human brute with tiger eyes and a streak for a forehead. Of course she had heard

of Joe Flemingwho in West Oakland had not?but that there should be anything more than a coincidence

She came out of her daze to hear Mrs. Silverstein's hysterical sneer, "keepin' company vit a bruiser." Next,

Silverstein and his wife fell to differing on "noted" and "notorious" as applicable to her lover.

"But he iss a good boy," Silverstein was contending. "He make der money, an' he safe der money."

"You tell me dat!" Mrs. Silverstein screamed. "Vat you know? You know too much. You spend good money

"I know vat I know," Silverstein held on sturdilya thing Genevieve had never before seen him do when his

wife was in her tantrums. "His fader die, he go to work in Hansen's sailloft. He haf six brudders an' sisters

younger as he iss. He iss der liddle fader. He vork hard, all der time. He buy der pread an' der meat, an' pay

der rent. On Saturday night he bring home ten dollar. Den Hansen gif him twelve dollarvat he do? He iss

der liddle fader, he bring it home to der mudder. He vork all der time, he get twenty dollar vat he do? He

bring it home. Der liddle brudders an' sisters go to school, vear good clothes, haf better pread an' meat; der

"But he haf der beautiful bodyach, Gott, der beautiful body! stronger as der ox, kvicker as der

tigercat, der head cooler as der icebox, der eyes vat see eferytings, kvick, just like dat. He put on der

gloves vit der boys at Hansen's loft, he put on der gloves vit de boys at der varehouse. He go before der club;

he knock out der Spider, kvick, one punch, just like dat, der first time. Der purse iss five dollarvat he do?

"He go many times before der clubs; he get many pursesten dollar, fifty dollar, one hundred dollar. Vat he

do? Tell me dat! Quit der job at Hansen's? Haf der good time vit der boys? No, no; he iss der good boy. He

vork efery day. He fight at night before der clubs. He say, 'Vat for I pay der rent, Silverstein?'to me,

Silverstein, he say dat. Nefer mind vat I say, but he buy der good house for der mudder. All der time he vork

at Hansen's and fight before der clubs to pay for der house. He buy der piano for der sisters, der carpets, der

pictures on der vall. An' he iss all der time straight. He bet on himselfdat iss der good sign. Ven der man

Here Mrs. Silverstein groaned her horror of gambling, and her husband, aware that his eloquence had

betrayed him, collapsed into voluble assurances that he was ahead of the game. "An' all because of Joe

But Genevieve and Joe were preeminently mated, and nothing, not even this terrible discovery, could keep

them apart. In vain Genevieve tried to steel herself against him; but she fought herself, not him. To her

surprise she discovered a thousand excuses for him, found him lovable as ever; and she entered into his life to

be his destiny, and to control him after the way of women. She saw his future and hers through glowing vistas

of reform, and her first great deed was when she wrung from him his promise to cease fighting.

And he, after the way of men, pursuing the dream of love and striving for possession of the precious and

deathless object of desire, had yielded. And yet, in the very moment of promising her, he knew vaguely, deep

down, that he could never abandon the Game; that somewhere, sometime, in the future, he must go back to it.

And he had had a swift vision of his mother and brothers and sisters, their multitudinous wants, the house

with its painting and repairing, its street assessments and taxes, and of the coming of children to him and

Genevieve, and of his own daily wage in the sailmaking loft. But the next moment the vision was dismissed,

as such warnings are always dismissed, and he saw before him only Genevieve, and he knew only his hunger

for her and the call of his being to her; and he accepted calmly her calm assumption of his life and actions.

He was twenty, she was eighteen, boy and girl, the pair of them, and made for progeny, healthy and normal,

with steady blood pounding through their bodies; and wherever they went together, even on Sunday outings

across the bay amongst people who did not know him, eyes were continually drawn to them. He matched her

girl's beauty with his boy's beauty, her grace with his strength, her delicacy of line and fibre with the harsher

vigor and muscle of the male. Frankfaced, freshcolored, almost ingenuous in expression, eyes blue and

wide apart, he drew and held the gaze of more than one woman far above him in the social scale. Of such

glances and dim maternal promptings he was quite unconscious, though Genevieve was quick to see and

understand; and she knew each time the pang of a fierce joy in that he was hers and that she held him in the

hollow of her hand. He did see, however, and rather resented, the men's glances drawn by her. These, too, she

Genevieve slipped on a pair of Joe's shoes, lightsoled and dapper, and laughed with Lottie, who stooped to

turn up the trousers for her. Lottie was his sister, and in the secret. To her was due the inveigling of his

mother into making a neighborhood call so that they could have the house to themselves. They went down

into the kitchen where Joe was waiting. His face brightened as he came to meet her, love shining frankly

"Now get up those skirts, Lottie," he commanded. "Haven't any time to waste. There, that'll do. You see, you

only want the bottoms of the pants to show. The coat will cover the rest. Now let's see how it'll fit.

"Borrowed it from Chris; he's a dead sporty sportlittle, but oh, my!" he went on, helping Genevieve into an

overcoat which fell to her heels and which fitted her as a tailormade overcoat should fit the man for whom

Joe put a cap on her head and turned up the collar, which was generous to exaggeration, meeting the cap and

completely hiding her hair. When he buttoned the collar in front, its points served to cover the cheeks, chin

and mouth were buried in its depths, and a close scrutiny revealed only shadowy eyes and a little less

shadowy nose. She walked across the room, the bottom of the trousers just showing as the bang of the coat

"A sport with a cold and afraid of catching more, all right all right," the boy laughed, proudly surveying his

handiwork. "How much money you got? I'm layin' ten to six. Will you take the short end?"

"Ponta, of course," Lottie blurted out her hurt, as though there could be any question of it even for an instant.

"Of course," Genevieve said sweetly, "only I don't know much about such things."

This time Lottie kept her lips together, but the new hurt showed on her face. Joe looked at his watch and said

it was time to go. His sister's arms went about his neck, and she kissed him soundly on the lips. She kissed

Genevieve, too, and saw them to the gate, one arm of her brother about her waist.

"What does ten to six mean?" Genevieve asked, the while their footfalls rang out on the frosty air.

"That I'm the long end, the favorite," he answered. "That a man bets ten dollars at the ring side that I win

"But if you're the favorite and everybody thinks you'll win, how does anybody bet against you?"

"That's what makes prizefightingdifference of opinion," he laughed. "Besides, there's always the chance

She shrank against him, clingingly and protectingly, and he laughed with surety.

"You wait, and you'll see. An' don't get scared at the start. The first few rounds'll be something fierce. That's

Ponta's strong point. He's a wild man, with an kinds of punches,a whirlwind, and he gets his man in the

first rounds. He's put away a whole lot of cleverer and better men than him. It's up to me to live through it,

that's all. Then he'll be all in. Then I go after him, just watch. You'll know when I go after him, an' I'll get'm,

They came to the hall, on a dark streetcorner, ostensibly the quarters of an athletic club, but in reality an

institution designed for pulling off fights and keeping within the police ordinance. Joe drew away from her,

"Keep your hands in your pockets whatever you do," Joe warned her, "and it'll be all right. Only a couple of

"They never tumbled; nobody'll tumble," Joe assured her, as they climbed the stairs to the second story. "And

even if they did, they wouldn't know who it was and they's keep it mum for me. Here, come in here!"

He whisked her into a little officelike room and left her seated on a dusty, brokenbottomed chair. A few

minutes later he was back again, clad in a long bath robe, canvas shoes on his feet. She began to tremble

"It'll be all right, Genevieve," he said encouragingly. "I've got it all fixed. Nobody'll tumble."

He looked at her in amazement, the wonder of woman bursting upon him in a more transcendent glory than

ever, and he had seen much of the wonder of woman in Genevieve. He was speechless for a moment, and

A sharp double knock at the door, and a sharper "Get a move on yerself, Joe!" brought him back to

"Quick, one last kiss, Genevieve," he whispered, almost holily. "It's my last fight, an' I'll fight as never before

The next she knew, the pressure of his lips yet warm on hers, she was in a group of jostling young fellows,

none of whom seemed to take the slightest notice of her. Several had their coats off and their shirt sleeves

rolled up. They entered the hall from the rear, still keeping the casual formation of the group, and moved

It was a crowded, illlighted hall, barnlike in its proportions, and the smokeladen air gave a peculiar

distortion to everything. She felt as though she would stifle. There were shrill cries of boys selling

programmes and soda water, and there was a great bass rumble of masculine voices. She heard a voice

offering ten to six on Joe Fleming. The utterance was monotonoushopeless, it seemed to her, and she felt a

And she felt other thrills. Her blood was touched, as by fire, with romance, adventurethe unknown, the

mysterious, the terribleas she penetrated this haunt of men where women came not. And there were other

thrills. It was the only time in her life she had dared the rash thing. For the first time she was overstepping the

bounds laid down by that harshest of tyrants, the Mrs. Grundy of the working class. She felt fear, and for

Before she knew it, the front of the hall had been reached, and she had gone up half a dozen steps into a small

dressingroom. This was crowded to suffocationby men who played the Game, she concluded, in one

capacity or another. And here she lost Joe. But before the real personal fright could soundly clutch her, one of

the young fellows said gruffly, "Come along with me, you," and as she wedged out at his heels she noticed

They came upon a sort of stage, which accommodated three rows of men; and she caught her first glimpse of

the squared ring. She was on a level with it, and so near that she could have reached out and touched its

ropes. She noticed that it was covered with padded canvas. Beyond the ring, and on either side, as in a fog,

The dressingroom she had left abutted upon one corner of the ring. Squeezing her way after her guide

through the seated men, she crossed the end of the hall and entered a similar dressingroom at the other

"Now don't make a noise, and stay here till I come for you," instructed her guide, pointing out a peephole

She hurried to the peephole, and found herself against the ring. She could see the whole of it, though part of

the audience was shut off. The ring was well lighted by an overhead cluster of patent gasburners. The front

row of the men she had squeezed past, because of their paper and pencils, she decided to be reporters from

the local papers uptown. One of them was chewing gum. Behind them, on the other two rows of seats, she

could make out firemen from the nearby enginehouse and several policemen in uniform. In the middle of

the front row, flanked by the reporters, sat the young chief of police. She was startled by catching sight of Mr.

Clausen on the opposite side of the ring. There he sat, austere, side whiskered, pink and white, close up

against the front of the ring. Several seats farther on, in the same front row, she discovered Silverstein, his

A few cheers heralded the advent of several young fellows, in shirt sleeves, carrying buckets, bottles, and

towels, who crawled through the ropes and crossed to the diagonal corner from her. One of them sat down on

a stool and leaned back against the ropes. She saw that he was barelegged, with canvas shoes on his feet,

and that his body was swathed in a heavy white sweater. In the meantime another group had occupied the

corner directly against her. Louder cheers drew her attention to it, and she saw Joe seated on a stool still clad

A young man, in a black suit, with a mop of hair and a preposterously tall starched collar, walked to the

His effort was applauded by groans and catcalls, and she noticed with indignation that nobody stopped

smoking. Mr. Clausen held a burning match in his fingers while the announcement was being made, and then

calmly lighted his cigar. She felt that she hated him in that moment. How was her Joe to fight in such an

The announcer came over to Joe. He stood up. His bath robe fell away from him, and he stepped forth to the

centre of the ring, naked save for the low canvas shoes and a narrow hipcloth of white. Genevieve's eyes

dropped. She sat alone, with none to see, but her face was burning with shame at sight of the beautiful

nakedness of her lover. But she looked again, guiltily, for the joy that was hers in beholding what she knew

must be sinful to behold. The leap of something within her and the stir of her being toward him must be

sinful. But it was delicious sin, and she did not deny her eyes. In vain Mrs. Grundy admonished her. The

pagan in her, original sin, and all nature urged her on. The mothers of all the past were 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 haircovered heads. When she thought of

Joe, the Joe instantly visualized on her mind was a clothed Joegirlcheeked, blueeyed, curlyheaded, 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

Her chromotrained 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

hairgrowth 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

He smiled as he faced the audience, when the announcer, placing a hand on his shoulder, said: "Joe Fleming,

Cheers and handclappings stormed up, and she heard affectionate cries of "Oh, you, Joe!" Men shouted it at

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 sweettempered 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, flatnosed, thicklipped, sullenmouthed. He

was heavy jawed, bullnecked, 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 deepchested, thicklegged, largemuscled, but unshapely. His muscles were

knots, and he was gnarled and knobby, twisted out of beauty by excess of strength.

A much smaller volume of cheers greeted him. It was evident that the crowd favored Joe with its sympathy.

This was received by scornful cries and groans. He did not like it, for his sullen mouth twisted into a

halfsnarl 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

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 byplay, 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

The announcer escorted a third man to the centre of the ring, a genialfaced young fellow in shirtsleeves.

"Oh, you, Eddy!" men shouted in the midst of the applause, and it was apparent to Genevieve that he, too,

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,

"Joe Fleming fights at one hundred and twentyeight," 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 breakaway. 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

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,

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

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

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

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

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 wideopen mouth he was breathing the toweldriven 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

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

Ponta lashed out, right and left, savagely as ever, and though Joe blocked the blows, such was the force of

them that he was knocked backward several steps. Ponta was after him with the spring of a tiger. In the

involuntary effort to maintain equilibrium, Joe had uncovered himself, flinging one arm out and lifting his

head from beneath the sheltering shoulders. So swiftly had Ponta followed him, that a terrible swinging blow

was coming at his unguarded jaw. He ducked forward and down, Ponta's fist just missing the back of his

head. As he came back to the perpendicular, Ponta's left fist drove at him in a straight punch that would have

knocked him backward through the ropes. Again, and with a swiftness an inappreciable fraction of time

quicker than Ponta's, he ducked forward. Ponta's fist grazed the backward slope of the shoulder, and glanced

off into the air. Ponta's right drove straight out, and the graze was repeated as Joe ducked into the safety of a

Genevieve sighed with relief, her tense body relaxing and a faintness coming over her. The crowd was

cheering madly. Silverstein was on his feet, shouting, gesticulating, completely out of himself. And even Mr.

Clausen was yelling his enthusiasm, at the top of his lungs, into the ear of his nearest neighbor.

The clinch was broken and the fight went on. Joe blocked, and backed, and slid around the ring, avoiding

blows and living somehow through the whirlwind onslaughts. Rarely did he strike blows himself, for Ponta

had a quick eye and could defend as well as attack, while Joe had no chance against the other's enormous

vitality. His hope lay in that Ponta himself should ultimately consume his strength.

But Genevieve was beginning to wonder why her lover did not fight. She grew angry. She wanted to see him

wreak vengeance on this beast that had persecuted him so. Even as she waxed impatient, the chance came,

and Joe whipped his fist to Ponta's mouth. It was a staggering blow. She saw Ponta's head go back with a jerk

and the quick dye of blood upon his lips. The blow, and the great shout from the audience, angered him. He

rushed like a wild man. The fury of his previous assaults was as nothing compared with the fury of this one.

And there was no more opportunity for another blow. Joe was too busy living through the storm he had

already caused, blocking, covering up, and ducking into the safety and respite of the clinches.

But the clinch was not all safety and respite. Every instant of it was intense watchfulness, while the

breakaway was still more dangerous. Genevieve had noticed, with a slight touch of amusement, the curious

way in which Joe snuggled his body in against Ponta's in the clinches; but she had not realized why, until, in

one such clinch, before the snuggling in could be effected, Ponta's fist whipped straight up in the air from

under, and missed Joe's chin by a hair'sbreadth. In another and later clinch, when she had already relaxed

and sighed her relief at seeing him safely snuggled, Ponta, his chin over Joe's shoulder, lifted his right arm

and struck a terrible downward blow on the small of the back. The crowd groaned its apprehension, while Joe

The gong struck, and after the fleeting minute of rest, they went at it againin Joe's corner, for Ponta had

made a rush to meet him clear across the ring. Where the blow had been over the kidneys, the white skin had

become bright red. This splash of color, the size of the glove, fascinated and frightened Genevieve so that she

could scarcely take her eyes from it. Promptly, in the next clinch, the blow was repeated; but after that Joe

usually managed to give Ponta the heel of the glove on the mouth and so hold his head back. This prevented

the striking of the blow; but three times more, before the round ended, Ponta effected the trick, each time

Another rest and another round went by, with no further damage to Joe and no diminution of strength on the

part of Ponta. But in the beginning of the fifth round, Joe, caught in a corner, made as though to duck into a

clinch. Just before it was effected, and at the precise moment that Ponta was ready with his own body to

receive the snuggling in of Joe's body, Joe drew back slightly and drove with his fists at his opponent's

unprotected stomach. Lightning like blows they were, four of them, right and left; and heavy they were, for

Ponta winced away from them and staggered back, half dropping his arms, his shoulders drooping forward

and in, as though he were about to double in at the waist and collapse. Joe's quick eye saw the opening, and

he smashed straight out upon Ponta's mouth, following instantly with a half swing, half hook, for the jaw. It

The house was on its feet, shouting, to a man. Genevieve could hear men crying, "He's got 'm, he's got 'm!"

and it seemed to her the beginning of the end. She, too, was out of herself; softness and tenderness had

But Ponta's vitality was yet to be reckoned with. As, like a tiger, he had followed Joe up, Joe now followed

him up. He made another half swing, half hook, for Ponta's jaw, and Ponta, already recovering his wits and

strength, ducked cleanly. Joe's fist passed on through empty air, and so great was the momentum of the blow

that it carried him around, in a half twirl, sideways. Then Ponta lashed out with his left. His glove landed on

Joe's unguarded neck. Genevieve saw her lover's arms drop to his sides as his body lifted, went backward,

and fell limply to the floor. The referee, bending over him, began to count the seconds, emphasizing the

The audience was still as death. Ponta had partly turned to the house to receive the approval that was his due,

only to be met by this chill, graveyard silence. Quick wrath surged up in him. It was unfair. His opponent

only was applaudedif he struck a blow, if he escaped a blow; he, Ponta, who had forced the fighting from

His eyes blazed as he gathered himself together and sprang to his prostrate foe. He crouched alongside of

him, right arm drawn back and ready for a smashing blow the instant Joe should start to rise. The referee, still

bending over and counting with his right hand, shoved Ponta back with his left. The latter, crouching, circled

around, and the referee circled with him, thrusting him back and keeping between him and the fallen man.

"Fourfivesix" the count went on, and Joe, rolling over on his face, squirmed weakly to draw himself

to his knees. This he succeeded in doing, resting on one knee, a hand to the floor on either side and the other

leg bent under him to help him rise. "Take the count! Take the count!" a dozen voices rang out from the

"For God's sake, take the count!" one of Joe's seconds cried warningly from the edge of the ring. Genevieve

gave him one swift glance, and saw the young fellow's face, drawn and white, his lips unconsciously moving

The ninth sounded and was gone, when the referee gave Ponta a last backward shove and Joe came to his

feet, bunched up, covered up, weak, but cool, very cool. Ponta hurled himself upon him with terrific force,

delivering an uppercut and a straight punch. But Joe blocked the two, ducked a third, stepped to the side to

avoid a fourth, and was then driven backward into a corner by a hurricane of blows. He was exceedingly

weak. He tottered as he kept his footing, and staggered back and forth. His back was against the ropes. There

was no further retreat. Ponta paused, as if to make doubly sure, then feinted with his left and struck fiercely

with his right with all his strength. But Joe ducked into a clinch and was for a moment saved.

Ponta struggled frantically to free himself. He wanted to give the finish to this foe already so far gone. But

Joe was holding on for life, resisting the other's every effort, as fast as one hold or grip was torn loose finding

a new one by which to cling. "Break!" the referee commanded. Joe held on tighter. "Make 'm break! Why the

hell don't you make 'm break?" Ponta panted at the referee. Again the latter commanded the break. Joe

refused, keeping, as he well knew, within his rights. Each moment of the clinch his strength was coming back

to him, his brain was clearing, the cobwebs were disappearing from before his eyes. The round was young,

The referee clutched each by the shoulder and sundered them violently, passing quickly between them as he

thrust them backward in order to make a clean break of it. The moment he was free, Ponta sprang at Joe like a

wild animal bearing down its prey. But Joe covered up, blocked, and fell into a clinch. Again Ponta struggled

to get free, Joe held on, and the referee thrust them apart. And again Joe avoided damage and clinched.

Genevieve realized that in the clinches he was not being beaten why, then, did not the referee let him hold

on? It was cruel. She hated the genialfaced Eddy Jones in those moments, and she partly rose from her

chair, her hands clenched with anger, the nails cutting into the palms till they hurt. The rest of the round, the

three long minutes of it, was a succession of clinches and breaks. Not once did Ponta succeed in striking his

opponent the deadly final blow. And Ponta was like a madman, raging because of his impotency in the face

of his helpless and all but vanquished foe. One blow, only one blow, and he could not deliver it! Joe's ring

experience and coolness saved him. With shaken consciousness and trembling body, he clutched and held on,

while the ebbing life turned and flooded up in him again. Once, in his passion, unable to hit him, Ponta made

In the stillness the sally was heard over the whole house, and the audience, relieved of its anxiety for its

favorite, laughed with an uproariousness that had in it the note of hysteria. Even Genevieve felt that there was

something irresistibly funny in the remark, and the relief of the audience was communicated to her; yet she

felt sick and faint, and was overwrought with horror at what she had seen and was seeing.

"Bite 'm! Bite 'm!" voices from the recovered audience were shouting. "Chew his ear off, Ponta! That's the

The effect was bad on Ponta. He became more frenzied than ever, and more impotent. He panted and sobbed,

wasting his effort by too much effort, losing sanity and control and futilely trying to compensate for the loss

by excess of physical endeavor. He knew only the blind desire to destroy, shook Joe in the clinches as a

terrier might a rat, strained and struggled for freedom of body and arms, and all the while Joe calmly clutched

and held on. The referee worked manfully and fairly to separate them. Perspiration ran down his face. It took

all his strength to split those clinging bodies, and no sooner had he split them than Joe fell unharmed into

another embrace and the work had to be done all over again. In vain, when freed, did Ponta try to avoid the

clutching arms and twining body. He could not keep away. He had to come close in order to strike, and each

And Genevieve, crouched in the little dressingroom and peering through the peephole, was baffled, too.

She was an interested party in what seemed a deathstrugglewas not one of the fighters her Joe?but the

audience understood and she did not. The Game had not unveiled to her. The lure of it was beyond her. It was

greater mystery than ever. She could not comprehend its power. What delight could there be for Joe in that

brutal surging and straining of bodies, those fierce clutches, fiercer blows, and terrible hurts? Surely, she,

Genevieve, offered more than thatrest, and content, and sweet, calm joy. Her bid for the heart of him and

the soul of him was finer and more generous than the bid of the Game; yet he dallied with bothheld her in

his arms, but turned his head to listen to that other and siren call she could not understand.

The gong struck. The round ended with a break in Ponta's corner. The whitefaced young second was

through the ropes with the first clash of sound. He seized Joe in his arms, lifted him clear of the floor, and ran

with him across the ring to his own corner. His seconds worked over him furiously, chafing his legs, slapping

his abdomen, stretching the hipcloth out with their fingers so that he might breathe more easily. For the first

time Genevieve saw the stomachbreathing of a man, an abdomen that rose and fell far more with every

breath than her breast rose and fell after she had run for a car. The pungency of ammonia bit her nostrils,

wafted to her from the soaked sponge wherefrom he breathed the fiery fumes that cleared his brain. He

gargled his mouth and throat, took a suck at a divided lemon, and all the while the towels worked like mad,

driving oxygen into his lungs to purge the pounding blood and send it back revivified for the struggle yet to

come. His heated body was sponged with water, doused with it, and bottles were turned mouthdownward on

The gong for the sixth round struck, and both men advanced to meet each other, their bodies glistening with

water. Ponta rushed two thirds of the way across the ring, so intent was he on getting at his man before full

recovery could be effected. But Joe had lived through. He was strong again, and getting stronger. He blocked

several vicious blows and then smashed back, sending Ponta reeling. He attempted to follow up, but wisely

forbore and contented himself with blocking and covering up in the whirlwind his blow had raised.

The fight was as it had been at the beginningJoe protecting, Ponta rushing. But Ponta was never at ease.

He did not have it all his own way. At any moment, in his fiercest onslaughts, his opponent was liable to lash

out and reach him. Joe saved his strength. He struck one blow to Ponta's ten, but his one blow rarely missed.

Ponta overwhelmed him in the attacks, yet could do nothing with him, while Joe's tigerlike strokes, always

imminent, compelled respect. They toned Ponta's ferocity. He was no longer able to go in with the complete

But a change was coming over the fight. The audience was quick to note it, and even Genevieve saw it by the

beginning of the ninth round. Joe was taking the offensive. In the clinches it was he who brought his fist

down on the small of the back, striking the terrible kidney blow. He did it once, in each clinch, but with all

his strength, and he did it every clinch. Then, in the breakaways, he began to uppercut Ponta on the

stomach, or to hook his jaw or strike straight out upon the mouth. But at first sign of a coming of a

Two rounds of this went by, and three, but Ponta's strength, though perceptibly less, did not diminish rapidly.

Joe's task was to wear down that strength, not with one blow, nor ten, but with blow after blow, without end,

until that enormous strength should be beaten sheer out of its body. There was no rest for the man. Joe

followed him up, step by step, his advancing left foot making an audible tap, tap, tap, on the hard canvas.

Then there would come a sudden leap in, tigerlike, a blow struck, or blows, and a swift leap back,

whereupon the left foot would take up again its tapping advance. When Ponta made his savage rushes, Joe

carefully covered up, only to emerge, his left foot going tap, tap, tap, as he immediately followed up.

"It's a shame to take the money!" it mocked. "Why don't you eat 'm, Ponta? Go on in an' eat 'm!"

In the oneminute intermissions Ponta's seconds worked over him as they had not worked before. Their calm

trust in his tremendous vitality had been betrayed. Genevieve watched their excited efforts, while she listened

"Take your time," he was saying. "You've got 'm, but you got to take your time. I've seen 'm fight. He's got a

punch to the end of the count. I've seen 'm knocked out and clean batty, an' go on punching just the same.

Mickey Sullivan had 'm goin'. Puts 'm to the mat as fast as he crawls up, six times, an' then leaves an opening.

Ponta reaches for his jaw, an two minutes afterward Mickey's openin' his eyes an' askin' what's doin'. So

you've got to watch 'm. No goin' in an' absorbin' one of them lucky punches, now. I got money on this fight,

Ponta was being doused with water. As the gong sounded, one of his seconds inverted a water bottle on his

head. He started toward the centre of the ring, and the second followed him for several steps, keeping the

bottle still inverted. The referee shouted at him, and he fled the ring, dropping the bottle as he fled. It rolled

over and over, the water gurgling out upon the canvas till the referee, with a quick flirt of his toe, sent the

In all the previous rounds Genevieve had not seen Joe's fighting face which had been prefigured to her that

morning in the department store. Sometimes his face had been quite boyish; other times, when taking his

fiercest punishment, it had been bleak and gray; and still later, when living through and clutching and holding

on, it had taken on a wistful expression. But now, out of danger himself and as he forced the fight, his

fighting face came upon him. She saw it and shuddered. It removed him so far from her. She had thought she

knew him, all of him, and held him in the hollow of her hand; but this she did not knowthis face of steel,

this mouth of steel, these eyes of steel flashing the light and glitter of steel. It seemed to her the passionless

Ponta attempted one of his oldtime rushes, but was stopped on the mouth. Implacable, insistent, ever

menacing, never letting him rest, Joe followed him up. The round, the thirteenth, closed with a rush, in

Ponta's corner. He attempted a rally, was brought to his knees, took the nine seconds' count, and then tried to

clinch into safety, only to receive four of Joe's terrible stomach punches, so that with the gong he fell back,

"You sure fixed 'm that time," the latter answered. "Nothin' to stop you now but a lucky punch. Watch out for

Joe leaned forward, feet gathered under him for a spring, like a footracer waiting the start. He was waiting

for the gong. When it sounded he shot forward and across the ring, catching Ponta in the midst of his seconds

as he rose from his stool. And in the midst of his seconds he went down, knocked down by a righthand

blow. As he arose from the confusion of buckets, stools, and seconds, Joe put him down again. And yet a

Joe had at last become the whirlwind. Genevieve remembered his "just watch, you'll know when I go after

him." The house knew it, too. It was on its feet, every voice raised in a fierce yell. It was the bloodcry of the

crowd, and it sounded to her like what she imagined must be the howling of wolves. And what with

In vain he struggled to defend himself, to block, to cover up, to duck, to clinch into a moment's safety. That

moment was denied him. Knockdown after knockdown was his portion. He was knocked to the canvas

backwards, and sideways, was punched in the clinches and in the breakawaysstiff, jolty blows that dazed

his brain and drove the strength from his muscles. He was knocked into the corners and out again, against the

ropes, rebounding, and with another blow against the ropes once more. He fanned the air with his arms,

showering savage blows upon emptiness. There was nothing human left in him. He was the beast incarnate,

roaring and raging and being destroyed. He was smashed down to his knees, but refused to take the count,

staggering to his feet only to be met stiffhanded on the mouth and sent hurling back against the ropes.

In sore travail, gasping, reeling, panting, with glazing eyes and sobbing breath, grotesque and heroic, fighting

to the last, striving to get at his antagonist, he surged and was driven about the ring. And in that moment Joe's

foot slipped on the wet canvas. Ponta's swimming eyes saw and knew the chance. All the fleeing strength of

his body gathered itself together for the lightning lucky punch. Even as Joe slipped the other smote him,

fairly on the point of the chin. He went over backward. Genevieve saw his muscles relax while he was yet in

The noise of the yelling house died suddenly. The referee, stooping over the inert body, was counting the

seconds. Ponta tottered and fell to his knees. He struggled to his feet, swaying back and forth as he tried to

sweep the audience with his hatred. His legs were trembling and bending under him; he was choking and

sobbing, fighting to breathe. He reeled backward, and saved himself from falling by a blind clutching for the

ropes. He clung there, drooping and bending and giving in all his body, his head upon his chest, until the

referee counted the fatal tenth second and pointed to him in token that he had won.

He received no applause, and he squirmed through the ropes, snakelike, into the arms of his seconds, who

helped him to the floor and supported him down the aisle into the crowd. Joe remained where he had fallen.

His seconds carried him into his corner and placed him on the stool. Men began climbing into the ring,

curious to see, but were roughly shoved out by the policemen, who were already there.

Genevieve looked on from her peephole. She was not greatly perturbed. Her lover had been knocked out. In

so far as disappointment was his, she shared it with him; but that was all. She even felt glad in a way. The

Game had played him false, and he was more surely hers. She had heard of knockouts from him. It often took

men some time to recover from the effects. It was not till she heard the seconds asking for the doctor that she

They passed his limp body through the ropes to the stage, and it disappeared beyond the limits of her

peephole. Then the door of her dressingroom was thrust open and a number of men came in. They were

carrying Joe. He was laid down on the dusty floor, his head resting on the knee of one of the seconds. No one

seemed surprised by her presence. She came over and knelt beside him. His eyes were closed, his lips slightly

parted. His wet hair was plastered in straight locks about his face. She lifted one of his hands. It was very

heavy, and the lifelessness of it shocked her. She looked suddenly at the faces of the seconds and of the men

about her. They seemed frightened, all save one, and he was cursing, in a low voice, horribly. She looked up

and saw Silverstein standing beside her. He, too, seemed frightened. He rested a kindly hand on her shoulder,

This sympathy frightened her. She began to feel dazed. There was a bustle as somebody entered the room.

The person came forward, proclaiming irritably: "Get out! Get out! You've got to clear the room!"

"That's all right, she's his girl," spoke up a young fellow she recognized as her guide.

The newcomer grunted and knelt down. He passed a hand over the damp head, grunted again, and arose to his

Then the thing became a dream to Genevieve. Maybe she had fainted, she did not know, but for what other

reason should Silverstein have his arm around her supporting her? All the faces seemed blurred and unreal.

Fragments of a discussion came to her ears. The young fellow who had been her guide was saying something

about reporters. "You vill get your name in der papers," she could hear Silverstein saying to her, as from a

There was an eruption of new faces, and she saw Joe carried out on a canvas stretcher. Silverstein was

buttoning the long overcoat and drawing the collar about her face. She felt the night air on her cheek, and

looking up saw the clear, cold stars. She jammed into a seat. Silverstein was beside her. Joe was there, too,

still on his stretcher, with blankets over his naked body; and there was a man in blue uniform who spoke

kindly to her, though she did not know what he said. Horses' hoofs were clattering, and she was lurching

Next, light and voices, and a smell of iodoform. This must be the receiving hospital, she thought, this the

operating table, those the doctors. They were examining Joe. One of them, a darkeyed, dark bearded,

"Never saw anything like it," he was saying to another man. "The whole back of the skull."

Her lips were hot and dry, and there was an intolerable ache in her throat. But why didn't she cry? She ought

to cry; she felt it incumbent upon her. There was Lottie (there had been another change in the dream), across

the little narrow cot from her, and she was crying. Somebody was saying something about the coma of death.

It was not the foreignlooking doctor, but somebody else. It did not matter who it was. What time was it? As

And from across the cot his sister wailed, "Don't, don't!" and, covering her face, sobbed afresh.

This, then, was the end of it allof the carpets, and furniture, and the little rented house; of the meetings and

walking out, the thrilling nights of starshine, the deliciousness of surrender, the loving and the being loved.

She was stunned by the awful facts of this Game she did not understandthe grip it laid on men's souls, its

irony and faithlessness, its risks and hazards and fierce insurgences of the blood, making woman pitiful, not

the beall and endall of man, but his toy and his pastime; to woman his mothering and caretaking, his

moods and his moments, but to the Game his days and nights of striving, the tribute of his head and hand, his

most patient toil and wildest effort, all the strain and the stress of his beingto the Game, his heart's desire.

Silverstein was helping her to her feet. She obeyed blindly, the daze of the dream still on her. His hand

"Oh, why don't you kiss him?" Lottie cried out, her dark eyes mournful and passionate.

Genevieve stooped obediently over the quiet clay and pressed her lips to the lips yet warm. The door opened

and she passed into another room. There stood Mrs. Silverstein, with angry eyes that snapped vindictively at

"Vot did I tell you, eh? Vot did I tell you? You vood haf a bruiser for your steady! An' now your name vill be

in all der papers! At a prize fightvit boy's clothes on! You liddle strumpet! You hussy! You"

But a flood of tears welled into her eyes and voice, and with her fat arms outstretched, ungainly, ludicrous,

holy with motherhood, she tottered over to the quiet girl and folded her to her breast. She muttered gasping,

inarticulate lovewords, rocking slowly to and fro the while, and patting Genevieve's shoulder with her