At the end of a long, long minute 'Day be-
gan making futile attempts to block those tear-
ing short-arm jolts. A little later he folded
both arms across his tortured stomach, bent
[238]



SCRAP IKON



forward from the waist, and threw up his bullet
head with a sudden jerk, butting Tony squarely
upon the bridge of the nose. It was a deliber-
ate foul — ^the last resort of a fighter made des-
perate by punishment. It was the first time
Tony had ever been fouled; pain and rage made
him a maniac.
A blind unreasoning instinct told Tony to con-
tinue the attack on 'Day's body, and savagely
he obeyed. Head down, stomach covered,
O'Day retreated before the doubled fury of
that assault.
It was no part of his plan to unfold his arms
and reply to it. Toward the end of the round,
when Tony had worn himself out, he would

' ' Tony, the jaw ! The jaw ! ' '

The words seemed to come from a great dis-
tance. Over and over and over again he heard
them, until at last they began to convey a mes-
sage to Tony's dazed brain. It was then that he
saw, none too clearly, the trap into which he
had fallen — ^the foul that had tricked him into
losing his head and wasting his strength.
He sensed in the crouching retreating figure
before him something more than defense;
O'Day, badly hurt and nearly at the end of his
string, seemed to be waiting, waiting. And
then, even as he flailed away at his staggering
foe, Tony felt elbows through his gloves and
became aware of the lowered guard and the un-
protected downtumed face.
