And yet weary as both were by now, they came up quite jauntily for the tenth round. Slavin shot out a fierce left, but it only just touched Jackson as he moved back. He rushed at the black man again, and this time Jackson avoided him altogether. Thrice Slavin dashed in with furious left and right quickly following each other. And the third time he tried this, instead of stepping back, Peter Jackson came in to meet him, and ducking Slavin’s blows, planted his own left, followed by the right in immediate succession, on the white man’s jaw. The second blow came over with terrific force, and Slavin reeled. But he still stood and swung wildly at his man without thought of guarding, his senses almost gone, and only a desperate pluck to keep him from falling. Jackson followed him and rained blows upon him, until Slavin stood still hardly able to lift his hands. Whereupon Jackson, good sportsman that he was, turned to Mr. Angle, who was refereeing the match, and raised his eyebrows. “Experience,” say the Annals of the National Sporting Club, “has repeatedly shown that there is always a punch left in a big man, even when he appears disabled. Dallying at such a crisis is dangerous. Jackson, however, turned round in the most chivalrous manner and looked at the referee. The rules of the game were beyond dispute. Mr. Angle said: “Fight on.”[4] There was nothing more to be said: “I must finish him, then--sorry, Frank,” and with obvious distaste he went in. Even then in his anxiety not to hurt the man he did not hit hard, and Slavin took five blows before he went down. His courage was exemplary. He could so easily have fallen. He stood, however, and took the blows like the man he was. At the fifth he fell forward on his knees and in a blind, instinctive effort to rise again, not knowing what he was doing, he clutched Peter Jackson round the legs. But he could not rise. The ten seconds were counted. For the first time in his life Frank Slavin was beaten, for the first time knocked out. And Peter Jackson took his victory quite calmly. Without a trace of swagger he returned to his corner, and, later, helped to carry Slavin, who was really ill, out of the ring. CHAPTER II JAMES J. CORBETT AND JOHN L. SULLIVAN The last three years of the nineteenth century were rich in great encounters, or so, at any rate, it seems to us now. The transition period, when bare-knuckle fighting had degenerated into the most sordid and secret ruffianism, had passed; and a virtually new sport had taken its place. And of all the giant names associated with Boxing as we understand the word, those of Corbett and Sullivan are immortal. A boxer’s life, as a boxer, is a very short one, so that though both of these men have long since passed into the mythology of the Ring, both of them, were both alive, would be, at the time of writing, but of middle age.