Perry took a face full of punishment to get Travis where he couldn't circle, and he rocked him with a right hook to the jaw and dropped his left fist half-way to the wrist into his body. Travis staggered, quickly recovered and fought back with dogged ferocity.
Both were battling now, their hardest. Travis forgot his jabs as they squared away in the center of the ring. And, head burrowed between his thick shoulders, Perry answered him with flying fists.
Dimly, through the great pain, he could hear the screaming of an ambulance siren in the distance.
Travis folded quickly. Perry ripped a short left into his solar plexus and left him gasping. The kid's hands dropped. Perry splashed rights and lefts into his face, drove him across the ring. A crisp left hook straightened Travis up and a whistling right uppercut dropped him for a nine count. He struggled to his knees, raised one foot under him, then sprawled forward on his face.
Perry was exultant as he slipped through the ropes, bathrobe thrown over his shoulders, the tumult of the mob roaring in his ears. He couldn't wait to phone Florence, to hear her happy congratulations over not losing his temper; he was going to retire after a good clean fight.