Lustfully they watched. Then the inequality of the boy and the man was
at length borne in on them, and it roused their stagnant sense of fair
play.

Garrison, a small hell let loose, had risen from the turf for the third
time! His face was a smear of blood, venom, and all the bandit passions.
Waterbury, the gentleman in him soaked by the taint of a foisted
dishonor and his fighting blood roused, waited with clenched fists. As
Garrison hopped in for the fourth time, the older man feinted quickly,
and then swung right and left savagely.

The blows were caught on the thick arm of a tan box-coat. A big hand
was placed over Waterbury's face and he was given a shove backward. He
staggered for a ridiculously long time, and then, after an unnecessary
waste of minutes, sat down. The tan overcoat stood over him. It was
Jimmy Drake, and the chameleonlike crowd applauded.

Jimmy was a popular book-maker with educated fists. The crowd surged
closer. It looked as if the fight might change from bantam-heavy to
heavy-heavy. And the odds were on Drake.

"If yeh want to fight kids," said the book-maker, in his slow, drawling
voice, "wait till they're grown up. Mebbe then yeh'll change your mind."

Waterbury was on his feet now. He let loose some vitriolic verbiage,
using Drake as the objective-point. He told him to mind his own
business, or that he would make it hot for him. He told him that
Garrison was a thief and cur; and that he would have no book-maker and
tout--