Kirk nodded. He guessed correctly that the other was alluding to his
last speech, not to the counter which had just made the sight of his
left eye a little uncertain.
Gradually, as the bout progressed, Kirk began to lose the slight
diffidence which had hampered him at the start. He had been feeling so
wonderfully friendly toward Steve, so grateful for his presence, and
his sympathy, that it had been hard, in spite of the other's
admonitions, to enter into the fray with any real conviction. Moreover,
subconsciously, he was listening all the time for sounds from above
which never came.
These things gave a certain lameness to his operations. It was
immediately after this blow in the eye, mentioned above, that he ceased
to be an individual with private troubles and a wandering mind, and
became a boxer pure and simple, his whole brain concentrated on the
problem of how to get past his opponent's guard.
Steve, recognizing the change in an instant, congratulated himself on
the success of his treatment. It had worked even more quickly than he
had hoped. He helped the cure with another swift jab which shot over
Kirk's guard.
Kirk came in with a rush. Steve slipped him. Kirk rushed again. Steve,
receiving a hard punch on a nose which, though accustomed to such
assaults, had never grown really to enjoy them, began to feel a slight
diminution of his detached attitude toward this encounter. Till now his
position had been purely that of the kindly physician soothing a
patient. The rapidity with which the patient was permitting himself to
be soothed rendered the post of physician something of a sinecure; and
Steve, as Kirk had done, began to slip back into the boxer.
It was while he was in what might be called a transition stage that an
unexpected swing sent him with some violence against the wall; and from
that moment nature asserted itself. A curious, set look appeared on his
face; wrinkles creased his forehead; his jaw protruded slightly.
Kirk made another rush. This time Steve did not slip; he went to meet
it, head down and hands busy.
* * * * *
Mrs. Lora Delane Porter came downstairs with the measured
impressiveness of one who bears weighty news. Her determined face was
pale and tired, as it had every right to be; but she bore herself
proudly, as one who has fought and not been defeated.
'Mr. Winfield,' she said.
There was no answer. Looking about her, she found the studio empty.
Then, from behind the closed door of the inner room, she was aware of a
strange, shuffling sound. She listened, astonished. She heard a gasp,
then curious thuds, finally a bump louder than the thuds. And then
there was silence.
These things surprised Mrs. Porter. She opened the door and looked in.
It says much for her iron self-control that she remained quiet at this
point. A lesser person, after a far less tiring ordeal than she had
passed through, would have found relief in some cry or exclamation,
possibly even in a scream.
