"'You got 'm!' the audience is yellin'. 'Go in an' finish 'm!'
'The hay for him, Bill; put her across to the jaw an' see 'm
fall!'

"'You got to, Bill, or you're a dog,' Bill says, lookin' love at
me in his eyes as the referee's grip untangles us clear.

"An' them wolves of fans yellin': 'Fake! Fake! Fake!' like that,
an' keepin' it up.

"Well, I done it. They's only that way out. I done it. By God, I
done it. I had to. I feint for 'm, draw his left, duck to the
right past it, takin' it across my shoulder, an come up with my
right to his jaw. An' he knows the trick. He's hep. He's beaten
me to it an' blocked it with his shoulder a thousan' times. But
this time he don't. He keeps himself wide open on purpose. Blim!
It lands. He's dead in the air, an' he goes down sideways,
strikin' his face first on the rosin-canvas an' then layin' dead,
his head twisted under 'm till you'd a-thought his neck was
broke. ME--I did that for a hundred bucks an' a bunch of stiffs
I'd be ashamed to wipe my feet on. An' then I pick Bill up in my
arms an' carry'm to his corner, an' help bring'm around. Well,
they ain't no kick comin'. They pay their money an' they get
their blood, an' a knockout. An' a better man than them, that I
love, layin' there dead to the world with a skinned face on the
mat."

For a moment he was still, gazing straight before him at the
horses, his face hard and angry. He sighed, looked at Saxon, and
smiled.