my right. I hook him under the chin and his head goes back like it's on a hinge.
They jump up in the ringside boxes and how! themselves hoarse for me to follow up my advantage. I don't need their advice. I'm on top of Lee like a wildcat! I waste a dozen haymakers before my head steadies and I take aim. Then a right swing sends Lee to his knees and the mob groans. Lee waits for "eight" and gets up with a silly grin on his face, like he's thinking "How did that happen?" I show him how it happened right away by dumping him on his face with a left and right to the jaw.
This time a dead silence seems to fall over the arena, broke only by the cheers of my swell rooters in the boxes. Lee looks dead to the world, laying on the floor, and them ironworkers has bet on him in a effort to get back the jack they drop on Shifty McTague. As the referee reaches "nine" without a flicker of a muscle from Mr. Lee, the timekeeper rings the bell, cutting the round short by twelve seconds and robbing me of a clean knockout!
I skip to my corner looking like the battle field after the first day of the Marne. But appearances is deceiving. I feel like a million dollars! The only thing bothers me is my right eye, which is closed as tight as a drum. During the rest Battling Lee's handlers surround the referee and they seems to be quite a argument going on. Lee is sprawled back in his stool, his head rolling around like his necks broke. Then the referee comes over to our corner and asks Nate if he'll accept a draw.
