weight behind, why them little dab-touches on that poor thumb
goes right to the heart of him, an' hurts worse than a thousand
boils or a thousand knockouts--just hurts all over again, an'
worse, each time an' touch.

"Now suppose he an' me was boxin' for fun, out in the back yard,
an' he hurts his thumb that way, why we'd have the gloves off in
a jiffy an' I'd be putting cold compresses on that poor thumb of
his an' bandagin' it that tight to keep the inflammation down.
But no. This is a fight for fight-fans that's paid their
admission for blood, an' blood they're goin' to get. They ain't
men. They're wolves.

"He has to go easy, now, an' I ain't a-forcin' him none. I'm all
shot to pieces. I don't know what to do. So I slow down, an' the
fans get hep to it. 'Why don't you fight?' they begin to yell;
'Fake! Fake!' 'Why don't you kiss'm?' 'Lovin' cup for yours, Bill
Roberts!' an' that sort of bunk.

"'Fight!' says The referee to me, low an' savage. 'Fight, or I'll
disqualify you--you, Bill, I mean you.' An' this to me, with a
touch on the shoulder 'so they's no mistakin'.

"It ain't pretty. It ain't right. D'ye know what we was fightin'
for? A hundred bucks. Think of it! An' the game is we got to do
our best to put our man down for the count because of the fans
has bet on us. Sweet, ain't it? Well, that's my last fight. It
finishes me deado. Never again for yours truly.

"'Quit,' I says to Billy Murphy in a clinch; 'for the love of