Adventure Magazine Cover, April 1916 — page 215: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Trap ed to have lost all the fire that had marked his first efforts and to be merely fighting in the hope of landing a lucky punch that would put Abe away. The audience was puzzled at this reversal of form, and mur- murs began to be audible. They seemed to intimidate Abe to some extent and to awaken Marty. When the sixth round was signaled he once more leaped to the attack, his teeth showing and his face twisted, though his appearance was rather more desperate than terrifying. Abe, meeting him confidently, stood up to him in the center of the ring and for once threw his science away as though to show that he was not overawed by the reputation of his enemy. He ducked the first swing and hooked his own glove into Marty’s ribs. Instead of clinching at this point, he planted both feet and, with hair flying, met the hail of frantic blows with others as thunderous and far more accurate. The astonished and yelling crowd saw Marty’s fists land again and again; but in- stead of beholding the downfall of Abe they perceived him stand under them unflinch- ing and send his own hands smashing into face and body of the champion. The foes stamped solidly across the springing boards and grunted with their exertions, heaving shoulders and twisting backs marking the force which they put into the deadly blows. Again and again the gloves landed with sharp smacks or dull thuds, and the flesh that they fell on puffed red and angry be- neath them. Marty’s face was cut and bleeding, while Abe’s eye was nearly closed. A terrible punch that barely missed McGuire’s jaw took a part of his ear with it and the blood spattered over them both. It seemed a miracle that either could stand to this work, but they battered away tirelessly until the bell once more sent them to their corners, where they sat with heaving chests, lolling with arms over the ropes while the seconds fanned them and spat water over their red and gleaming bodies. As for the crowd, it had gone wild and crazy with delight. Once more the bell called them to the battle. Yet it was the despised Abe that sprang fiercely from his seat and rushed to the attack, while the terrible McGuire seem- ed to be almost reluctant to resume, and when he got on his feet, was noticeably slow in leaving his corner. There was a look of hopeless resolution on his face, and his parti- 213 sans knew that he was beaten—unless, as some of them hoped, he was stalling and leading the Hebrew into a trap. There was some color lent to this theory by his actions. Abe had danced in front of him, shifting from side to side and watching the best moment for a rush and a blow that would settle things. Suddenly Marty poised himself and with a convulsive and terrible contortion of face and body, launch- ed an awful blow from his hip. Abe set himself and struck, lightly, swift- ly, with delicate skill. His left hand jabbed easily into the shoulder of the lightweight, just at the end of the collarbone, long before the blow could land. And, though the force of the stroke would hardly have broken an egg, it was sufficient to turn the cataclysm from its course and to throw Marty far off his balance, aided by his own mighty effort. His head and body bent after his arm and his feet crossed as he swung around. Then Abe planted his feet deliberately and struck with his right hand. The blow hook- ed across Marty’s shoulder and flush upon the unprotected angle of his jaw. He drop- ped as if he had been pole-axed. The crowd was on its feet and rushing the ring. Those in front fought it back lest it trample them. Chairs were flying and oaths being hurled back and forth. The referee tolled off the count, while Abe watched the struggle underneath him anxiously and impatiently, as if hastening to be off. Somewhere in the crowd a pistol cracked, and Abe turned pale beneath the red spots on his features. “‘Ten!”’ yelled the referee and, rising from the prostrate McGuire, seized Abe’s glove and held his hand aloft. VII MR. CRABBE was waiting. He had slipped from the ring before the last blow was struck and gone out behind the dressing-rooms. There was an automobile there, and the manager of McGuire had taken his place at the wheel. The noise that burst from the enclosure seemed to worry him. His face was pale and his eyes restless as he swept the doors beneath the grand stand in vain search for his principals. It seemed that they would never arrive, and the engine of the machine was getting hot as he raced it in preparation for their advent. CoMmichoooks CO