I was
puzzled in my mind why Acton was so "short," but I think now it was
because he had never done anything but with gloves on, and fisticuffs,
which were more or less familiar with Phil, were unknown to him. They
don't fight, I believe, in France or Germany with Nature's weapons, but
occasional turn-ups with the farmers' sons and the canal men had, of
course, fallen to Phil's share.
On each occasion that Phil got home, Acton answered with a vicious
spurt which did not do much good, but only tired him, and at the end of
the seventh round I was astonished to think that Phil had stood the
racket so well. Phil's lips were puffy, and one eye was visibly
swelling, and he had other minor marks of Acton's attention, but he was
in excellent condition still. Acton was damaged above a bit, and Phil's
first-round reminder showed plainly on his cheek.
Acton began to think that unless he could make Phil dance to a quicker
tune pretty soon, he himself would be limping round the corner of
defeat, for he was very tired. When we called them up for the eighth
round, he had evidently determined to force the fighting. Much as I
disliked Acton, I could not but admire his splendid skill; he bottled up
Phil time and again, feinted, ducked, rallied, swung out in the nick of
time, planted hard telling blows, and was withal as hard to corner as a
sunbeam. As I sponged Phil at the end of the eighth I felt that three
more rounds as per last sample would shake even him, so I said, "Try,
old man, for one straight drive if he gives you a ghost of a chance.
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