He began with his old brilliance of footwork, darting in and out, hitting Jefferies almost as he liked: but his blows were not hard, not hard enough, not so hard as they used to be. On points the first round was certainly his, and he wound it up by sending home a splendid right on his man’s ear. The second round was much spoiled by clinching. Jefferies began to assert himself, landing hard on body and face. He crouched low, and with his forearms close to protect his head, “bored in,” as they say, and went for Fitzsimmons’s body with short-arm blows behind which he swung his huge weight. Fitzsimmons tried to put in a right upper-cut, but his adversary guarded it and they clinched, the referee parting them. Immediately afterwards Jefferies shot out a straight left which caught the Cornishman hard in the face when he was standing square, so that he was off his balance, and the blow knocked him down flat on his back. Such a knock-down as that does little harm, and Fitzsimmons rose at once, scorning to take advantage, as so many men would have done, of the ten seconds’ count. It should be remembered that the blow on the jaw which ends, or nearly ends, a fight makes a man fall forward. The third round was very even: they had settled down to hard fighting, and there was a good exchange of blows. The same may be said for the next round, except that Jefferies’s punches were much harder, and once Fitzsimmons was visibly shaken. He must have realised about this time that the odds were considerably against him. He had excellent opportunities for virtually free blows--blows which he could deliver with all his power, perfectly timed, and nicely judged. And they seemed not to inconvenience Jefferies at all. He tried his famous “shift” upon him without avail, that trick of his own invention by means of which he beat Jem Corbett--that dancing, glancing change of feet so that the right hand followed the right foot and smashed into the body under the heart and then glanced upwards to the jaw. Jefferies stood it all, and crouched and glowered and came on, quite impervious to anything that he could do. Once again Fitzsimmons decidedly “won” the sixth round. But of what use was that? He showed himself the better boxer, he landed more hits than his antagonist landed. That was all. There were to be other rounds beyond the sixth, and Jefferies was unhurt, unweakened, only biding his time. The seventh was the same, and this time Jefferies showed a little uncertainty. Fitzsimmons with his years of experience might be feeling a little desperate: Jefferies was only a lad, and realised the great difficulty of landing a punishing blow. No one knew better than he how much cleverer a boxer was the Cornishman. Jefferies was slow to start work in this round, and even, it seemed, a little reluctant. He kept backing away to avoid Fitzsimmons’s rushes. The old champion never charged blindly at his man; he knew too much for that. But he could get with extraordinary