Motion Picture Story Magazine (Aug 1911-Jan 1912)

114 THE MOTION PICTURE STORY MAGAZINE was a fierce one. Shannon, not in training, long out of practice, scorned and shunned by those who had cheered him in the past, received little encouragement. He tried to keep cool. He covered, blocked and fell into a clinch whenever possible. He bided his time and watched his man like a hawk. He rained blow after blow, as he got the chance, but in spite of all he could do he went down under an avalanche just before the gong sounded in the second round. ' ' Take the count — take the count ! ' ' yelled warning voices from the benches, and Shannon lay still while the referee leaned over him and slowly told off the seconds. The nine seconds just gave him breath enough to finish the round. Shannon's strong point always had been to save his best for the last. He had not realized how much he had lost by the previous year's lack of training until the end of this round. As his seconds rubbed him, held ammonia to his nostrils, gave him lemon to suck, and used every known means to reinvigorate him for the struggle, the old fighting blood surged more and more thru his veins. "I'll win," he muttered, "I'll win in spite of 'em! Th' man's already worn himself half out pounding me. Now I'll go after him so he'll know it." Everybody knew it. What skill "Spike" had lost thru inactivity was supplied by the strength of sheer frenzy. He fought like a maniac. He landed all kinds of punches. He gave his man no time to attack, no time to clinch. He jumped after him as a wild animal jumps after its prey. The crowd began to realize that Shannon, the coward, was putting up such a fight as was seldom seen in a lifetime. They stood up with one accord. They shouted and cheered in reckless disregard of the fact that the station house which sheltered Sergeant Patrick Casey was within easy earshot. Round after round the fight went on, and after each it was plain that the crowd were not with Shannon. He was making a brave, gallant, ' ' game ' ' fight, but the ' ' points ' ' were not his. Eight rounds were over, with honors almost even, and the ninth round began. Early in this round "Spike" delivered a telling blow that brought his man to the floor, but the fellow was up, staggering, on his feet again before the last second had been counted. Then, with a quick spring, Shannon landed a terrific left-hand swing on the point of the jaw which sent his adversary to the floor in a limp, shapeless heap. "One, two, three," the referee shouted, his voice hardly audible above the uproar, but the fallen man did not move. "Nine" — a pause that seemed like several seconds — ' ' ten ! ' ' The battle was over. The next thing Shannon knew, he was being carried bodily forth upon the shoulders of the crowd. No longer Shannon, the coward, but Shannon, the victor, the winner, the champion ! The man who played fair and won out ; the man who had the backbone to be called a coward for the woman he loved; the man who had the courage to break a promise when a life was at stake, and to fight for the wife he loved. In the chapel the priest still prayed on. The unconscious woman in the sick-room moaned slightly. At the Olympic Club a check for one thousand dollars was signed and placed in Shannon's hands. Death had been conquered, and ' ' Spike ' ' Shannon had fought his lasx fight. * ' A double task to paint the finest features of the mind, and to most subtle and mysterious things give color, strength and motion." — Akenside.