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1020 Words
Mr Fritzwa began to fidget, for it was seen that both Boa's eyes were damaged. Steve Angelo, however, seemed to be in considerable distress, his great chest heaving, and the sweat pouring off him. The Champion was smiling, but the round ended in his falling again. Patrick was quite sure the black must win, and could not understand how seven to four in favor of Boa could still be offered. "Pooh, Boa hasn't began yet!" said Mr Fritzwa stoutly. "The black is looking at queer as Duck's hat band already". "Look at Boa's face!" retorted Patrick. "Lord, there's nothing in the black having drawn his cork. He's fighting at the head all the time. But watch Boa going for the mark, that's what I say. He'll mill his man down yet, though I don't deny the black shows game". Both men rattled in well up to time in the next round, but Steve Angelo had decidedly the best of the rally. Boa fell, and a roar of angry disapproval went up from the crowd. There were some shouts of 'foul!' and for a few moments it seemed as though the ring was to be stormed. "I think the black hit him as he fell", said Mr Fritzwa. "I think that must have been it. Clarkson makes no sign, you see. It can't have been a foul blow, or he would have". The disturbance died down as both fighters came up to the mark for the sixth round. It was now obvious that Steve Angelo was greatly distressed for wind. Boa was still full of gaiety. He avoided a rather wild lunge to left and right, and threw in a blow to the body. Steve Angelo managed to stop it, but was doubled up immediately by a terrible blow at the neck. He got away, but was dreadfully cut up. "What did I tell you?" cried Mr Fritzwa. "Good God, the black is as sick as a horse! He's scattered abroad! Boa has him on the run!" The blow seemed indeed to have shaken the black up badly. He was hitting short, dancing about the ring in a way that provoked the rougher part of the crowd to cheers and yells of laughter. Boa followed to round the ring, and floored him by a hit at full arm's length. The odds being offered rise to five to one, and Mr Fritzwa could scarcely keep his seat for excitement. "The next round ends it!" he said. "The black's lost in rage!" He was wrong, however. Steve Angelo came up to time, and charged in, planting one or two blows. Boa put in some straight hits at the throat, stepping back after each. The black bored in, fell, but whether from a hit or from exhaustion neither Patrick nor Mr Fritzwa could see. Riclux got Steve Angelo up to time again. He rallied gamely, but his distance was ill judged. Boa did much as he liked with him, got his head into chancery, and fibbed till he fell. "Well, I'll be damn! Don't you agree, Tellaro?" exclaimed Mr Fritzwa. "Ay, you can see how Riclux and Faruk Lacesh are working on him, but it's my belief he's done... No, by God, he's coming up to the mark again! Damn, the fellow's got excellent bottom, say what you will! But he's dead beat, Tellaro. I wonder why Riclux hasn't thrown the towel in.... Hey, that's finished him! What a left! Enough to break his jaw!" The black had gone down like a log. He was dragged to his corner, apparently insensible, and it seemed impossible that he could recover in the half minute. But Boa, who, in spite of his disfigured countenance, seemed as full of gaiety as ever, gave away his chance, and hugely delighted the crowd by dancing a hornpipe round the stage. Steve Angelo got off his seconds knee, but it was obvious that he could do no more. He made a game attempt to rally, but fell almost at once. "I believe Boa did break his jaw", said Mr Fritzwa, who was watching the black closely. "Damn it, the man's done! Riclux ought to throw in the towel. No sport in this! Lord, he's up again, full of pluck! No, he's done for! There will be no getting him on this feet again. Ah, you see - Ricky knows it! He's going to throw in the towel". Here Mr Fritzwa broke off to join in the cheering. On the stage the Champion, and John McCain, his second, were engaged in dancing a Scotch reel to announce the victory. Patrick joined Mr Fritzwa to wave his hat in the air, and cheering, and sat down again feeling that he had seen a great fight. The knowledge that he had lost quite a large sum of money on it did not weigh with him in the least. He exchanged cards with Mr Fritzwa, accepted some advice from that knowledgeable gentleman on the best hotel to put up at in Rome, promised to call him in Cork Street to pay his debts at the first opportunity, and parted from him with the agreeable conviction that he now had at least one acquaintance in Rome.
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Miss Tellaro spent a pleasant morning exploring the town. There was scarcely anyone about, and that circumstance, coupled with the fineness of the weather, tempted her to take another stroll after her luncheon of cakes and wine. There was nothing to do at the Vinaio beyond sit at her bedroom window and wait for Patrick's return, and this prospect did not appeal to her. Walking about the town had not tired her, and she understood from the chamber maid that Basilica di Santa Croce di Firenza, only three miles from Florence, was generally held to be worth a visit. Miss Tellaro decided to walk there, and set out a little before midday, declining the escort of her maid. The walk was a pretty one, and a steep climb up the high road into the tiny village of Santa Croce quite rewarded Miss Tellaro for her energy.
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