Fitzsimmons’s wife, who was present at the ring-side, was now heard to urge her husband to attack the body. But in this sixth round, before he could act successfully on that good advice, Corbett came in close and sent a whizzing upper-cut to the Cornishman’s jaw which sent his right foot tapping involuntarily in the way that always happens with a jaw-blow just not hard enough or accurate enough to knock a man down. Just after that Corbett landed again and Fitzsimmons fell, remaining down for nine seconds. Corbett’s heart must have glowed. True, the nearly beaten man rose and managed to fend off his opponent’s triumphant attack for the rest of the round. But Corbett went back to his corner not greatly disappointed. It was no doubt a pity that he couldn’t finish him off at once: but surely the effect of that knock-down blow would be felt at the end of the minute’s rest. Surely--and yet--would it? There may likely have been a subconscious shadow of doubt in Corbett’s mind. He was himself tired, and, though his seconds whispering to him took his immediate victory for granted, they were just a little anxious. The seventh round found Corbett dashing in to complete his work. Right and left again and again he smashed into Fitzsimmons’s face, bruising and battering, almost pulping it so that hardly a feature was distinguishable. But the effort tired him, and he failed to land a blow on the vulnerable jaw. With a man so reckless of defence as Fitzsimmons, it was, as already explained, easy enough to land a blow--just a blow and another. But to land that blow where no hardihood can stand against it, that is, at the side of the chin, is another matter, and calls for thought and guile. And the cunning though not yet the strength seemed to have gone from Corbett. When a boxer is worn out it is often his forethought and ringcraft which give out before the actual force of his blows. And Fitzsimmons must have looked horrible, soaked in blood and with ferocious eyes and the iron hardness of his limbs still full of spring and vigour. With his long arms swinging, he slouched round the ring watching his opportunity. In the eighth round Corbett sent a driving left straight to his mouth and split his lip so that more blood flowed, and again and yet again Corbett stopped his furious rushes with straight blows, so that Fitzsimmons battered himself upon them by flinging forward his own weight. But it seemed impossible to hurt this thin, awkward man. And Corbett grew more and more cautious, and in his heart more hopeless. His footwork was still a miracle of speed and neatness, and he kept dancing in and away again, dealing out to his opponent a series of hooks and swings and upper-cuts which must have defeated a man of even his own build and lasting power. But footwork should be economical and never for show, and Corbett was using his feet more than was necessary, and adding, in this way, to the whole encounter’s great total of fatigue.