what the wear and tear would be on the waitin' Rob erts. He kicked and argued about every point like the fight was for the world's championship. He found fault with the referee, the paddin' of the ring, the lights, and was startin' a long argument about the way the Kid's hands was taped, when Roberts jumped up and stopped it. His nerves was shot to pieces. Not nerve—nerves. Sweet Mamma, but there's a difference!
"Come on!" busts out the Kid. "Let's get it over with!"
Lefty Murray looked him over coolly and grinned. The Kid's drawn face and quiverin' muscles told him aplenty. I knew what he was tellin' his man after they shook hands, just as if I was in Du Fresne's corner: "Get in close and play for his body. Keep on top of him—don't let him set. If you shake him up right off the bat, he's through!"
This Du Fresne looked more like a gorilla than a human bein', and prob'ly was. He was a good twenty pounds heavier than the Kid, and what would of been a face on the average guy was simply a puffed, scarred, and pulpy mass. He growled and glared ferociously at the Kid from his corner, and the crowd yelled like a pack of wolves. The Kid grinned back at him faintly and begin wettin' his lips with his tongue.
Dummy had left the handlin' of the Kid entirely up to me, with a coupla boys which had just massacred each other in a preliminary for a purse of $10, as towel wavers. Whilst I was massagin' the Kid's stomach, which felt as tough and ridged as a washboard under my hands, I let fall the remark that Du
