ONE-THIRTY-THREERINGSIDE
"The loser's end ought to be eight thousand, at least," said Avery, still looking at the ceiling. "And in case you don't get him, you've got a fine alibi — the weight stopped you. It was your stomach that bothered you in the Kelly fight, remember that."
"See here, Billy," said Charles Francis, "you want me to fight Cline, don't you? Even at one-thirty-three?"
"We need the money," said the manager simply.
"I'll gamble you!" said Healy, producing a silver half dollar. "Heads, I fight him; tails, I don't. Will you stick by it, Billy, if it comes tails?"
"Sure!" said the manager. "Will you go through with it if she comes heads?"
"It's a promise!" said Healy.
The coin spun, flickering, in the air, struck the carpet, and rolled to the fighter's feet. "Heads!" he groaned. "I lose, Billy!"
Whenever a sporting writer had reason to rake over his vocabulary for the sort of an adjective which should best fit Mike Badger, manager of "Biddy" Cline, the choice usually lay between two words. The scribes who liked Mike selected "astute." The other said he was "obstinate." Both were right.
To be absolutely fair in the matter, Mike was neither better nor worse than any other manager. Only wiser. When he made a business contract, he was prudent enough to demand at
[65]
