tained a respite that was a godsend. His brain was cleared of pain-engendered fog and once more he felt his body responsive to his will. No miracle had happened. He was tiring and he knew that he would have to do what he was set to do inside of the next round or so. But he seemed to have acquired a sort of second wind and, when he faced Padilla once more, he noticed the Mexican's palpitating stomach as the latter danced away lightly and fell into a crouch. That was his target.
Stone commenced the aggressive. He had always been noted for that in the old gymnasium days. Only his knowledge of his lack of condition, braking him sub-consciously, had held him back. Now he sailed in confident, smiling, without a wasted move, feinting, covering, and boring in again, never giving the Mexican a chance to get set for a leap or rush, out-guessing him, bewildering him. Two swings he ducked beautifully and laughed as he noted the expression in the Mexican's eyes, as if Padilla suddenly saw a tired and sluggish fighter turned by magic into an altogether different opponent, fast and fresh.
Once only Padilla managed to evade him, the pair trading punches that left the Mexican's lower face bloody crimson as a sliced beet, but gave him his chance to rush, swinging a murderous right. Stone side-stepped and, as Padilla carried by, flashed his right hard to the mark with a jolt that did not travel far but had every ounce of weight and recoil of arm and shoulder muscle back of it. It knocked the breath out of Padilla's body, it sent his face gray,
