To do Kennedy justice, it was not his fault. He was only acting in self-defence. Walton had started the hugging. Also, he had got the under-grip, which, when neither man knows a great deal of the science of wrestling, generally means victory. Kennedy was quite sure that he could not throw his antagonist, but he hung on in the knowledge that the round must be over shortly, when Walton would have to loose him. "Time," said Jimmy Silver. Kennedy instantly relaxed his grip, and in that instant Walton swung him off his feet, and they came down together with a crash that shook the room. Kennedy was underneath, and, as he fell, his head came into violent contact with the iron support of a bed. Jimmy Silver sprang down from his seat. "What are you playing at, Walton? Didn't you hear me call time? It was a beastly foul--the worst I ever saw. You ought to be sacked for a thing like that. Look here, Kennedy, you needn't go on. I disqualify Walton for fouling." The usually genial James stammered with righteous indignation. Kennedy sat down on a bed, dizzily. "No," he said; "I'm going on." "But he fouled you." "I don't care. I'll look after myself. Is it time yet?" "Ten seconds more, if you really are going on." He climbed back on to the chest of drawers. "Time." Kennedy came up feeling weak and sick. The force with which he had hit his head on the iron had left him dazed. Walton rushed in as before. He had no chivalrous desire to spare his man by way of compensation for fouling him. What monopolised his attention was the evident fact that Kennedy was in a bad way, and that a little strenuous infighting might end the affair in the desired manner. It was at this point that Kennedy had reason to congratulate himself on donning gymnasium shoes. They gave him that extra touch of lightness which enabled him to dodge blows which he was too weak to parry. Everything was vague and unreal to him. He seemed to be looking on at a fight between Walton and some stranger.