King did not attempt to free himself. He had shot hisbolt. He was gone. And Youth had been served. Even inthe clinch he could feel Sandel growing stronger againsthim. When the referee thrust them apart， there， beforehis eyes， he saw Youth recuperate. From instant to instantSandel grew stronger. His punches， weak and futile at first，became stiff and accurate. Tom King’s bleared eyes sawthe gloved fist driving at his jaw， and he willed to guardit by interposing his arm. He saw the danger， willed theact； but the arm was too heavy. It seemed burdened witha hundredweight of lead. It would not lift itself， and hestrove to lift it with his soul. Then the gloved fist landedhome. He experienced a sharp snap that was like anelectric spark， and， simultaneously， the veil of blacknessenveloped him.
When he opened his eyes again he was in his corner，and he heard the yelling of the audience like the roar ofthe surf at Bondi Beach. A wet sponge was being pressedagainst the base of his brain， and Sid Sullivan was blowingcold water in a refreshing spray over his face and chest.
His gloves had already been removed， and Sandel， bendingover him， was shaking his hand. He bore no ill-will towardthe man who had put him out， and he returned the gripwith a heartiness that made his battered knuckles protest.
Then Sandel stepped to the centre of the ring and theaudience hushed its pandemonium to hear him acceptyoung Pronto’s challenge and offer to increase the sidebet to one hundred pounds. King looked on apatheticallywhile his seconds mopped the streaming water from him，dried his face， and prepared him to leave the ring. He felthungry. It was not the ordinary， gnawing kind， but a greatfaintness， a palpitation at the pit of the stomach thatcommunicated itself to all his body. He remembered backinto the fight to the moment when he had Sandel swayingand tottering on the hair-line balance of defeat. Ah， thatpiece of steak would have done it！ He had lacked just thatfor the decisive blow， and he had lost. It was all because ofthe piece of steak.
His seconds were half-supporting him as they helpedhim through the ropes. He tore free from them， duckedthrough the ropes unaided， and leaped heavily to the floor，following on their heels as they forced a passage for himdown the crowded centre aisle. Leaving the dressing-roomfor the street， in the entrance to the hall， some youngfellow spoke to him.
“W’y didn’t yuh go in an’ get ’im when yuh ’ad ’im？” theyoung fellow asked.
“Aw， go to hell！” said Tom King， and passed down thesteps to the sidewalk.
The doors of the public house at the corner wereswinging wide， and he saw the lights and the smilingbarmaids， heard the many voices discussing the fight andthe prosperous chink of money on the bar. Somebodycalled to him to have a drink. He hesitated perceptibly，then refused and went on his way.
He had not a copper in his pocket， and the two-milewalk home seemed very long. He was certainly getting old.
Crossing the Domain， he sat down suddenly on a bench，unnerved by the thought of the missus sitting up for him，waiting to learn the outcome of the fight. That was harderthan any knockout， and it seemed almost impossible toface.
He felt weak and sore， and the pain of his smashedknuckles warned him that， even if he could find a job atnavvy work， it would be a week before he could grip a pickhandle or a shovel. The hunger palpitation at the pit of thestomach was sickening. His wretchedness overwhelmedhim， and into his eyes came an unwonted moisture. Hecovered his face with his hands， and， as he cried， heremembered Stowsher Bill and how he had served himthat night in the long ago. Poor old Stowsher Bill！ Hecould understand now why Bill had cried in the dressingroom.