A half-minute had passed when Sandel， overconfident，left an opening. King’s eyes and right arm flashed in thesame instant. It was his first real blow—a hook， with thetwisted arch of the arm to make it rigid， and with all theweight of the half-pivoted body behind it. It was like asleepy-seeming lion suddenly thrusting out a lightningpaw. Sandel， caught on the side of the jaw， was felled like abullock. The audience gasped and murmured awe-strickenapplause. The man was not muscle-bound， after all， and hecould drive a blow like a trip-hammer.
Sandel was shaken. He rolled over and attempted torise， but the sharp yells from his seconds to take the countrestrained him. He knelt on one knee， ready to rise， andwaited， while the referee stood over him， counting theseconds loudly in his ear. At the ninth he rose in fightingattitude， and Tom King， facing him， knew regret that theblow had not been an inch nearer the point of the jaw.
That would have been a knockout， and he could havecarried the thirty quid home to the missus and the kiddies.
The round continued to the end of its three minutes，Sandel for the first time respectful of his opponent andKing slow of movement and sleepy-eyed as ever. As theround neared its close， King， warned of the fact by sightof the seconds crouching outside ready for the springin through the ropes， worked the fight around to hisown corner. And when the gong struck， he sat downimmediately on the waiting stool， while Sandel had towalk all the way across the diagonal of the square to hisown corner. It was a little thing， but it was the sum oflittle things that counted. Sandel was compelled to walkthat many more steps， to give up that much energy， and tolose a part of the precious minute of rest. At the beginningof every round King loafed slowly out from his corner，forcing his opponent to advance the greater distance.
The end of every round found the fight maneuvred byKing into his own corner so that he could immediately sitdown.
Two more rounds went by， in which King was
parsimonious of effort and Sandel prodigal. The latter’sattempt to force a fast pace made King uncomfortable，for a fair percentage of the multitudinous blows showeredupon him went home. Yet King persisted in his doggedslowness， despite the crying of the young hotheads forhim to go in and fight. Again， in the sixth round， Sandelwas careless， again Tom King’s fearful right flashed out tothe jaw， and again Sandel took the nine seconds count.
By the seventh round Sandel’s pink of condition wasgone， and he settled down to what he knew was to be thehardest fight in his experience. Tom King was an old un，but a better old un than he had ever encountered—an oldun who never lost his head， who was remarkably able atdefence， whose blows had the impact of a knotted club，and who had a knockout in either hand. Nevertheless，Tom King dared not hit often. He never forgot hisbattered knuckles， and knew that every hit must countif the knuckles were to last out the fight. As he sat in hiscorner， glancing across at his opponent， the thought cameto him that the sum of his wisdom and Sandel’s youthwould constitute a world’s champion heavyweight. Butthat was the trouble. Sandel would never become a worldchampion. He lacked the wisdom， and the only way forhim to get it was to buy it with Youth； and when wisdomwas his， Youth would have been spent in buying it.
King took every advantage he knew. He never missedan opportunity to clinch， and in effecting most of theclinches his shoulder drove stiffly into the other’s ribs.
In the philosophy of the ring a shoulder was as good as apunch so far as damage was concerned， and a great dealbetter so far as concerned expenditure of effort. Also，in the clinches King rested his weight on his opponent，and was loath to let go. This compelled the interferenceof the referee， who tore them apart， always assisted bySandel， who had not yet learned to rest. He could notrefrain from using those glorious flying arms and writhingmuscles of his， and when the other rushed into a clinch，striking shoulder against ribs， and with head resting underSandel’s left arm， Sandel almost invariably swung his rightbehind his own back and into the projecting face. It wasa clever stroke， much admired by the audience， but itwas not dangerous， and was， therefore， just that muchwasted strength. But Sandel was tireless and unaware oflimitations， and King grinned and doggedly endured.
Sandel developed a fierce right to the body， whichmade it appear that King was taking an enormousamount of punishment， and it was only the old ringsterswho appreciated the deft touch of King’s left glove tothe other’s biceps just before the impact of the blow.
It was true， the blow landed each time； but each timeit was robbed of its power by that touch on the biceps.
In the ninth round， three times inside a minute， King’sright hooked its twisted arch to the jaw； and three timesSandel’s body， heavy as it was， was levelled to the mat.
Each time he took the nine seconds allowed him and roseto his feet， shaken and jarred， but still strong. He hadlost much of his speed， and he wasted less effort. He wasfighting grimly； but he continued to draw upon his chiefasset， which was Youth. King’s chief asset was experience.
As his vitality had dimmed and his vigor abated， he hadreplaced them with cunning， with wisdom born of thelong fights and with a careful shepherding of strength.
Not alone had he learned never to make a superfluousmovement， but he had learned how to seduce an opponentinto throwing his strength away. Again and again， by feintof foot and hand and body he continued to inveigle Sandelinto leaping back， ducking， or countering. King rested， buthe never permitted Sandel to rest. It was the strategy ofAge.
