CHAPTER XXXV
Francis, glad of a moment or two's solitude in which to rearrange
his somewhat distorted sensations, found an empty space in the
stern of the launch and stood leaning over the rail. His pulses
were still tingling with the indubitable excitement of the last
half-hour. It was all there, even now, before his eyes like a
cinematograph picture--the duel between those two men, a duel of
knowledge, of strength, of science, of courage. From beginning
to end, there had been no moment when Francis had felt that he
was looking on at what was in any way a degrading or immoral
spectacle. Each man had fought in his way to win. Young
Wilmore, graceful as a panther, with a keen, joyous desire of
youth for supremacy written in his face and in the dogged lines
of his mouth; the budding champion from the East End less
graceful, perhaps, but with even more strength and at least as
much determination, had certainly done his best to justify his
selection. There were no points to be scored. There had been no
undue feinting, no holding, few of the tricks of the professional
ring. It was a fight to a finish, or until Harrison gave the
word. And the better man had won. But even that knock-out blow
which Reggie Wilmore had delivered after a wonderful feint, had
had little that was cruel in it.
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