It was a surprised and chastened mucker that walked with bent head to his corner after the first round. The “white hope” was grinning and confident, and so he returned to the center of the ring for the second round. During the short interval Billy had thrashed the whole thing out. The crowd had gotten on his nerves. He was trying to fight the whole crowd instead of just one man--he would do better in this round; but the first thing that happened after he faced his opponent sent the fans into delirious ecstasies of shouting and hooting. Billy swung his right for his foe's jaw--a terrible blow that would have ended the fight had it landed--but the man side-stepped it, and Billy's momentum carried him sprawling upon his face. When he regained his feet the “white hope” was waiting for him, and Billy went down again to lie there, quite still, while the hand of the referee marked the seconds: One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Billy opened his eyes. Seven. Billy sat up. Eight. The meaning of that monotonous count finally percolated to the mucker's numbed perceptive faculties. He was being counted out! Nine! Like a flash he was on his feet. He had forgotten the crowd. Rage--cool, calculating rage possessed him--not the feverish, hysterical variety that takes its victim's brains away. They had been counting out the man whom Barbara Harding had once loved!--the man she had thought the bravest in the world!--they were making a monkey and a coward of him! He'd show them! The “white hope” was waiting for him. Billy was scarce off his knees before the man rushed at him wickedly, a smile playing about his lips. It was to be the last of that smile, however. Billy met the rush with his old familiar crouch, and stopped his man with a straight to the body. Cassidy saw it and almost smiled. He didn't think that Billy could come back--but at least he was fighting for a minute in his old form. The surprised “hope” rushed in to punish his presuming foe. The crowd was silent. Billy ducked beneath a vicious left swing and put a right to the side of the “hope's” head that sent the man to his knees. Then came the gong. In the third round Billy fought carefully. He had made up his mind that he would show this bunch of pikers that he knew how to box, so that none might say that he had won with a lucky punch, for Billy intended to win. The round was one which might fill with delight the soul of the fan who knows the finer points of the game. And when it was over, while little damage had been done on either side, it left no shadow of a doubt in the minds of those who knew that the unknown fighter was the more skilful boxer.