Whilst I am bandagin' the Kid's hands and my dinge helper is whisperin' sweet nothin's in his ears to take his mind off the crowd, the air is filled with shriekin' demands for Kelly to murder him. My boy is pale and nervous like as of yore, head down and both feet shufflin' restlessly back and forth in the rosin. He kept wettin' his dry lips with a shakin' tongue and tappin' the ropes with his hands, every now and then glancin' out at that ocean of sneerin' faces around him and then quickly turnin' his head away again. He was takin' a terrible lickin', and no one knew it better than me, right whilst he sat there in his corner and waited for the festivities to commence. He had nothin' on his mind but that girl Irene, his future, whether this bird wouldst mark him up or not, what wouldst happen when they all found out back home that he was a prize fighter, and, likewise, what wouldst happen when one of Special Delivery Kelly's hamlike fists bounced off his face. Yellah? You never seen him work. Once the bell rung it was all different, and that nervous energy slipped right out through his pumpin' gloves. Temperament—that's all! This big ourang outang Kelly sit sprawled out in his corner, kiddin' with friends around the ringside about the pink-cheeked dude on the other side without another care in the wide, wide world!
Fin'ly I step over to Kelly's corner to have a flash at his bandages. One look was enough! I whistled to the referee. "Why don't you give this guy a ax and be done with it?" I says, pointin' to Kelly's hands. His seconds is tryin' frantically to get the gloves on before I can crab it.
