"C'mon, you yellah false alarm, like it!" sneered O'Cohen, pounding Mike's reddened body with horrible blows.
"Oh, oh—why don't they stop it?" weeps Hazel.
The gong ending that fearful first round found Mike on the floor, the referee counting over him and the place in an uproar. Mike's seconds ran out and dragged him to his corner, where they worked over him furiously. Ammonia was held under his nose, he was sponged and fanned, caustic was applied to his innumerable cuts, a half orange was thrust into his gaping mouth. Silent Sam, a wreck himself, leaned down over the ropes and looked at me, sorrowfully shaking his head.
"If this kid's old man could see him takin' this pastin' without even punchin' back, he'd turn over in his grave!" he says.
"Was his father a fighter too?" I asked, for want of something to say.
"No," says Sam, "the old gent was a blacksmith."
"A blacksmith?" I repeated thoughtfully.
A wild idea struck me and I immediately went into action! Jumping up, I leaned over and pinched Mike's sagging arm, which dangled through the ropes. He looked down at me hopelessly.
"You little quitter!" I hissed. "You believe in signs, eh? Well, you're letting this fellow beat you just be-
