paratively fresh. He feels the sting leavin' the kid's frantic punches; he sees he's losin' heart by his shiftin', worried eyes, and the next minute the crowd is on its feet, goin' crazy, as this bloody wreck tears in, smashes the falterin' kid with a wild haymaker, and it's all over!
Them guys is prouder of their capacity for takin' a maulin' than Dempsey is of his record as a knockerout. Their cauliflower ears, busted noses, and dented faces is to them the Croix de Guerre of their trade. A example of this was Bat Nelson, which held the lightweight title against some of the greatest boxers that ever fought in that class, for no other reason on earth than the fact that them guys broke their hearts, and frequently their hands, tryin' to put him away. Bat used to brag that he wasn't human, and for a long time it looked like that was the answer. If he could box, I can make a automobile. He rarely come out of a scrap without lookin' like he had been run through a meat chopper—the worst tramps which ever stuck their hand in a glove used to paste him with everything but the box office, and then when they was so tired they couldn't even feint him, the grinnin', gore-covered Bat would step in and knock 'em for a goal.
This class of fighter is duck soup for the babies which claims the prize ring brings out gameness that would make a paralyzed arctic explorer or a legless deep-sea diver seem faint-hearted. They point to these guys gettin' up after each knock-down, ripped and slashed to pieces, blinded by their own blood, but still borin' in bravely for more punishment. Well, I don't doubt that a lotta these boys has showed more courage than a sightless bullfighter, but my own experience has
