It was early in the fourth round; I measured it by the four swallows of whisky taken from the half empty pint of "Old Grandad" nestling against the palm of my left hand. The whisky produced a warm sensation that loosened my tongue, causing me to yell as did the rest of the wild beasts around me. Urged on by the mastery of alcohol, all the savageness of primitive man overshadowed the culture of civilization; and I felt the supremacy of the conqueror ruthlessly beating his victim. Each of his blows became my own; each smack of his fist slamming into soft flesh created a thrill. "Kill him," I yelled. "Kill him!"
"The Price Of Victory,"
Manuscripts: Vol. 15
, Article 28.
Retrieved from: https://digitalcommons.butler.edu/manuscripts/vol15/iss4/28