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88 ABBOTT'S MONTHLY

severely. As his seconds poured water over him he grinned as best he could with badly cut lips. He was giving Morgan the beating of his life. Morgan would never quit now until he was knocked insensible.

The fifth round saw the turn of the battle. Not to an unpracticed eye, perhaps, but quite readily to a professional onlooker.
Morgan was finding it increasingly difficult to stop Fred's blows. He could not maneuver Fred into the position he wanted. His feet were caving in.
Fred was young and splendidly muscled. His big body seemed tireless. At times he fought with a blind madness. Seldom did he hear the final gong. He smashed Morgan unceasingly. Like a leashed dog he was between rounds. With frenzied impatience he waited the welcome gong to begin the round.
The end came in the seventh. Fred's arms were working like pistons. A world of power was packed in each mitt. He drove Morgan to a corner and lambasted him with a dozen short body blows.
Out in the middle of the ring again. Fred landed a telling blow on his opponent's jaw. Morgan was sagging at the knees.

Fred drove home a bevy of crushing punches. He walloped Morgan a terrific smack and Morgan folded up like a collapsible chair. He flopped to the canvas. But he was up at the count of nine. A terrible hate drove him on to a last effort. He knew this was his last time in a ring. But his soul had been bared. He was a beast, locking horns in a death struggle. Again the two men flayed each other. They were close together. A brief clinch.
As Morgan held Fred he gasped. "Next steam bath I'll kill you!" The referee pulled them apart.
Morgan's last words made Fred go blind with hate. They were near one edge of the ring. The next move came like lightning.
Suddenly Fred stood up on his toes. He raised his arms above his head. Then with the swiftness of a striking snake he drove both fists at the same instant into Morgan's diaphragm. 
Morgan was unable to dodge. His hands flew wildly upwards, he himself was shot backwards. He went through the ropes.
There was no need for the referee's count. Morgan was out for nearly fifteen minutes.
Now that the strain was over, Fred was trembling. He was glad to get to his dressing-room. He couldn't stand the crowd now.
Grant was as joyful as a kid presented with a new toy. He whistled and sang tunelessly.
"Great work, Fred, great work," he splattered. "Yes, sir, great."
Fred had accomplished his purpose. After tonight's beating Morgan would never come back.
"Now to cop the heavyweight championship," Fred remarked.
And he did.

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