God, Bill, quit.' An' he says back, in a whisper, 'I can't,
Bill--you know that.'

"An' then the referee drags us apart, an' a lot of the fans
begins to hoot an' boo.

"'Now kick in, damn you, Bill Roberts, an' finish'm' the referee
says to me, an' I tell'm to go to hell as Bill an' me flop into
the next clinch, not hittin', an' Bill touches his thumb again,
an' I see the pain shoot across his face. Game? That good boy's
the limit. An' to look into the eyes of a brave man that's sick
with pain, an' love 'm, an' see love in them eyes of his, an'
then have to go on givin' 'm pain--call that sport? I can't see
it. But the crowd's got its money on us. We don't count. We've
sold ourselves for a hundred bucks, an' we gotta deliver the
goods.

"Let me tell you, Saxon, honest to God, that was one of the times
I wanted to go through the ropes an' drop them fans a-yellin' for
blood an' show 'em what blood is.

"'For God's sake finish me, Bill,' Bill says to me in that
clinch; 'put her over an' I'll fall for it, but I can't lay
down.'

"D'ye want to know? I cry there, right in the ring, in that
clinch. The weeps for me. 'I can't do it, Bill,' I whisper back,
hangin' onto'm like a brother an' the referee ragin' an' draggin'
at us to get us apart, an' all the wolves in the house snarlin'.