Peter Jackson did not entirely avoid all the white man’s blows, but his footwork was wonderfully good, and even when he failed to guard against them, he generally managed to be moving away when a blow landed, so that most of its power was lost. He seldom gave Slavin a chance to put in one of his regular smashers. And in the meantime the accumulated force of the black’s many but lesser hits, together with the energy wasted by Slavin in futile charges across the ring, weakened the white man. Up to the sixth round it was any one’s fight, though Peter Jackson was an easy winner on points up to that time. But what are points, after all, against one punch whether it is deliberate or “lucky,” which ends a fight? And Jackson very nearly fell a victim to just such a punch. He had never relaxed his vigilance, he never presumed on his opponent’s weakness. He attacked when he saw a safe opening, and for the rest contented himself with holding Slavin well away with that beautiful long straight left. And yet at the end of the sixth round he was all but beaten. Frank Slavin was getting desperate. The men were fighting for a big money prize, but it is unlikely that the £1750 which would be the winner’s share was foremost in the white man’s mind as he strove in the ring. Jackson was a good black fellow, but he was black, and Slavin’s pride of race was very strong in him. Rightly or wrongly, he felt that there was a peculiar shame in accepting defeat from a nigger. But he knew that he would have to make haste. Good as his condition was, these six hard rounds had taken much of his strength. He drew every breath with labour: and though many of a boxer’s movements, whether in offence or defence, are instinctive, the work was very hard work, his light boxing boots were like the boots of a diver, his knees shook a little as he stood still. He was very weary. But he meant to win. He gathered himself up and hurled himself at Jackson, and by sheer determination and weight forced the black across the ring to the ropes, and then with all his weight behind it he sent in his tremendous body-blow. Mr. Corri, who was sitting near the ring-side, tells us that it “seemed to spring from the calves of his legs and upwards to the muscles of his right shoulder and right arm.” And, “I have never seen such an expression of consummate deadliness upon a human face as that which spread across the features of Slavin at this crucial stage.”