Darky noticed that his strength was ebbing a little though he hadn’t taken a heavy blow; yet Younger seemed as strong as at the beginning. I’ll try to bore in under him, Darky schemed.
Throwing aside the discretion of the left lead, Younger rushed in throwing round arm blows with both hands. Darky ducked low and shot a short right to the body. Younger grunted and smothered up. Darky ripped a left uppercut which caught Younger on the nose and set it bleeding. Sensing he had this time hurt Younger, Darky made to follow up his advantage, but Younger stopped him in his tracks with a savage right cross. The punch cut Darky’s left eyebrow deeply, sending blood pouring onto his shirt front. Younger piled in punching wildly but Darky succeeded in clinching with him and pushing him away.
Younger came in again. Darky failed to evade a left hand punch and it struck his nose setting it bleeding from both nostrils.
The crowd circling the fighters swayed to the rhythm of the battle. A female voice screamed: “Finish him orf, Jimmy boy!”
Younger reigned blows on Darky. Darky clinched, desperately seeking respite. He leaned in on Younger, pushed him off. He threw a desperate right cross which landed flush on Younger’s jaw, steadying him. Darky levelled another right, then a left. Younger retaliated, They stood toe to toe, slugging it out.
“Take it easy, Darky,” Ernie Lyle yelled. “You won’t beat him that way.”
Darky got the worst of the latest encounter and clung on, wrestling Younger back against the tree until the referee came between them, vainly trying to pull Darky away. The referee grabbed Darky’s right arm, tugging at it. With Darky thus handicapped, Younger sent a left hook to the jaw. Darky staggered back. Younger followed him, raining blows. Darky crouched low, desperately trying to land an effective punch to the body. A grunt from Younger indicated he had succeeded. But Younger kept attacking like a ferocious animal; his strength seemed to have no limit. He punched Darky at will aiming his blows at the cut eye. The blood streaming from Darky’s eye and nose had dyed the front of his shirt and trousers red, and spattered over Younger. Younger’s own nose had stopped bleeding but his face was red and barked from the effect of Darky’s punches.
The thud of bone against bone; the crunch of flesh against flesh.
The feeling in the crowd had changed to horror and revulsion; only those few who loved violence for its own sake and Younger’s cronies held any affinity with the battle now.
Darky slumped to the ground as much from exhaustion as the effect of Younger’s punches. Younger stood above him, breathing heavily through the nose, sensing victory.
Darky sat on the roadside wiping the blood from his eye with the back of his hand. His nose bleeding had ceased but he looked a sorry sight, his eyes puffed, his face bruised and swollen, his chest heaving, his clothes red with blood.
“Barley, a minute,” he gasped to the referee. “I want to take me shoes off. I keep slippin’!”
He began to untie his shoe laces. Younger weaved above him impatiently.
Ernie Lyle stepped between them. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough, Darky,” he pleaded.
“Don’t be bloody silly. I’m just gettin’ warmed up,” Darky replied.
Get me wind back and I’ll get the old one two in yet, he was thinking; anyway, he’s got to knock me cold to win it.
In his stockinged feet, Darky arose slowly.
One of Younger’s cronies said: “Take him, Jimmy. He’s had it.”
Younger rushed in for the kill but Darky closed with him, pinioning his arms.
Darky felt some of his strength coming back. If I can coast for a while, I might win it yet.
He kept pushing Younger off, trying to relax and rest in the midst of the bloody fray. No one in the crowd gave Darky any chance now; Younger’s supporters hoped for a quick end to the slaughter; the rest watched Darky’s desperate courage with a mixture of admiration, pity and horror.
Younger was giving Darky no respite. Victory was within his grasp. He bored in punching wildly. Darky kept parrying and clinching. He pushed Younger away and staggered back, his arms at his sides, a picture of abject exhaustion.
It was an old trick and Younger fell for it. He rushed in for the kill. Darky came suddenly to life and raised his fists, halting Younger in his tracks with a left to the face, then a savage right cross and another left as Younger went down. This time Younger was dazed and his right eye began to swell.
The crowd gasped in unbelief.
Younger raised himself on an elbow, shaking his head. Darky stood above him panting like a grampus. He’d hardly the strength left to punch if his opponent regained his feet. Hurt and dazed, Younger climbed to his feet slowly, edging away from Darky as he did so. He seemed to realize that Darky was near the end of his tether.
Now Younger sought respite to regain his youthful strength. As Darky moved in punching without much power, Younger clinched. The referee made no attempt to part them. Younger leant on Darky while the older man wasted his waning strength trying to free his fists to punch.
“Break, yer bastard!” Darky grunted but Younger clung onto him, his strength returning, his head clearing with every second.
“Break ’em!” Ernie Lyle yelled, but the referee paid no heed.
When at last Younger released his grip, his vigor had obviously returned and he began picking Darky off with well placed punches. He was more calm and purposeful than before faced, as he was, by a tired man.
Each man’s knuckles were skinned. Younger’s right eye was closed, his face skinned in places, his body bruised. Darky’s right eyebrow still bled profusely, adding to a puffy black bag under his left eye to impair his vision. His right nostril was split, his face bruised and swelled up, his shirt and trousers red-fronted. He was desperately tired out, to add to his discomfort, his feet were bleeding.
Darky managed to keep his guard up and ward off some blows but he was being ruthlessly punished.
It has been said that youth will triumph over age in physical combat and now the crowd was witnessing a dreadful example of this truism.
Sensing his waning strength Darky seemed to become demented.
He rushed at Younger punching wildly to the head. He set Younger’s nose bleeding again, but the main result of his effort was to so enrage his opponent as to invite the most ruthless reprisals. Younger went over to the offensive again thumping blow after blow to Darky’s undefended face. He backed Darky towards the tree.
Thump! Thump! Thump! Bone on flesh! And Darky against the tree now, his hands by his side. His heart seemed to have swelled up fit to burst and his legs would not hold his body erect. Only the support of the tree kept him on his feet.
Still Younger punched mercilessly.
A woman with a baby in her arms screamed from the edge of the crowd. “Stop him, someone! In the name of the Mother of God, stop him!”
“Stop it, for crissake,” Ernie Lyle said.
Darky could no longer sec his tormentor.
Darky’s face was swollen beyond recognition, a mass of battered, bleeding flesh like a raw steak.
Younger kept punching Darky’s face, sandwiching his head between the pounding fists and the trunk of the tree.
Slowly Darky slid down the tree trunk. Younger rained punches on him until he lay inert against the base of the tree. A dreadful gasp ran through the crowd, like a sigh of relief after torture.
With his fists still upraised Younger stood above Darky and half turned to the crowd.
“Look at him!” he shouted with exultant savagery. “There’s yer famous Darky! He’s stood over the town for twenty years — and look at him now.”