Lovely thought the intermission would never end. He sat stolidly, paying no heed to his seconds' prayers to go slow, to rest up this next round, to make the Gutter Pup work. He would fight his fight his own way, without assistance. "Time!" said the Welsh Rabbit. Lovely started from his corner for the thing that came to meet him without yielding, exchanging blows without attempt at blocking, rushing into clinches, locking against the heaving chest, looking into the strange, wild eyes, pausing for neither breath nor rest. Once he was rushed across the ring, fighting back like a tiger, and jammed over the ropes into the ranks of the spectators. Then he caught the Gutter Pup off his balance, and drove him the same way, his arms working like pistons. The rounds continued and ended with nothing to choose between them. Lovely felt neither the blows received nor the rough rubbing-down of his seconds. He heard nothing but the sharp cries of "Time!" and sometimes he didn't hear that; but a rough hand would seize him (was it Hickey's?) and tear him away from the body against him. He went down several times, wondering what had caused it, quits for standing moments triumphantly, while the fallen Gutter Pup raised himself from the ground. Then he lost track of the rounds; and the rows of sweaters and funny white faces about the ring seemed to swell and multiply into crowds that stretched far back and up. The lights seemed to be going out--getting terribly dim and unsteady. [Illustration: "Then he lost track of the rounds"] Once in his corner he thought he heard some one say: "Fifteenth round"--fifteen, and he could remember only six. In fact, he had forgotten whom he was fighting or what it was about, only that some one on whose knee he was resting was shrieking in his ear: "He's all out, Lovely. You've got him. Just one good soak--just one _lovely_ one!" That was a joke, he supposed--a poor joke--but he would see to that "one soak" the next round. "Time!" cried the Welsh Rabbit. For the sixteenth time the seconds raised their champions, steadied them, and sent them forth. One good blow would send either toppling over to the final count. So they craned forward in wild excitement, exhorting them in hoarse whispers. The two contestants gyrated up and stood blankly regarding each other. About them rose a murmur of voices: "Sail in!" "Soak him, Lovely!" "Clean him up, Gutter Pup!" "One to the jaw!" "Now's your time!" With a simultaneous movement each raised his right and shot it lumberingly forward, past the hazy, confronting head, fruitlessly into the air. Renewed whispers, dangerously loud, arose: "Now's your chance, Gutter Pup!" "Draw off and smash him!" "He's all yours, Lovely!" "Oh, Lovely, hit him! hit him!" "Just once!" They neither heard nor cared. Their arms locked lovingly about their shoulders, and they began to settle. New cries: "Break away!" "Don't let him pull you down!" "Keep your feet, Lovely!"