Already they were badly bruised and battered with the blows of bare knuckles. Padilla's lip, bitten by the girl, slashed again by Stone, could not be closed by his second's endeavours. One eye was darkening on his olive countenance and his body, like Stone's, was smeared with blood. Over Stone's kidneys the white flesh was angry red. The foul blow stabbed like a redhot blade but it was so close to the mark as to be hardly classed unfair in the swift moving of the fight. He writhed in his chair, striving to get back strength enough to meet Padilla within the limit of the swiftly ticking seconds.
"One good buster in the bread-basket 'll knock hall the fight hout of 'im," pleaded Lefty. "Don't wrestle 'im. Slog 'im hin the pantry. 'Ard! Git 'im goin', and you got 'im licked. 'E's yeller, I tell you. 'Is wind is rotten."
Stone barely sensed the meaning of the injunctions. The pain subsided a little but he felt strangely apathetic. His firsts were as heavy as lead, his knees weak, and he tried to flog them to coordination with a brain that functioned dully.
"Bam m-m-m!" There was the bell again and it seemed to him he had taken less than a dozen gulping breaths. He started to get to his feet, but Lefty's hands were on his shoulders and he settled back with relief. A few seconds more and he would be so much better able to face the man he was going to lick. It was preposterous that a Mexican—a Spigotty, as Grimm styled them—could beat an American. It
