They must have clinched again, but Shorty was not conscious of it. A sharp pain in his upper lip made him angry. His right shot forward again, struck home, and while the crowd roared and the lights began to swim again, he knew that he was rushing McCleaverty back, back, back, his arms shooting out and in like piston rods, now for an upper cut with his left on the— "_Time!_" Billy Hicks was talking excitedly. The crowd still roared. His lips pained. Someone was spurting water over him, one of his seconds worked the fans like a windmill. He wondered what Miss Starbird thought of him now. "_Time!_" He barely had a chance to duck, almost double, while McCleaverty’s right swished over his head. The dub was swinging for a knockout already. The round would be hot and fast. "Stay with um, Shorty." "That’s the stuff, Shorty." He must be setting the pace, the house plainly told him that. He stepped in again and cut loose with both fists. "_Break!_" Shorty had not clinched. Was it possible that McCleaverty was clinching "to avoid punishment." Shorty tried again, stepping in close, his right arm crooked and ready. "_Break!_" The dub was clinching. There could be no doubt of that. Shorty gathered himself together and rushed in, upper-cutting viciously; he felt McCleaverty giving way before him. "He’s got um going." There was exhilaration in the shout. Shorty swung right and left, his fist struck something that hurt him. Sure, he thought, that must have been a good one. He recovered, throwing out his left before him. Where was the dub? not down there on one knee in a corner of the ring? The house was a pandemonium, near at hand some one was counting, "one—two—three—four—" Billy Hicks shouted, "Come back to your corner. When he’s up go right in to finish him. He ain’t knocked out yet. He’s just taking his full time. Swing for his chin again, you got him going. If you can put him out, Shorty, we’ll take you to San Francisco." "Seven—eight—nine—" McCleaverty was up again. Shorty rushed in. Something caught him a fearful jar in the pit of the stomach. He was sick in an instant, racked with nausea. The lights began to dance. "_Time!_" There was water on his face and body again, deliciously cool. The fan windmills swung round and round. "What’s the matter, what’s the matter," Billy Hicks was asking anxiously. Something was wrong. There was a lead-like weight in Shorty’s stomach, a taste of potato salad came to his mouth, he was sick almost to vomiting. "He caught you a hard one in the wind just before the gong, did he?" said Billy Hicks. "There’s fight in him yet. He’s got a straight arm body blow you want to look out for. Don’t let up on him. Keep—" "_Time!_"