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Short Stories , September 25, 1944
Out of the Mouths of Babes and Pugilists—! Fighting Not With Hands and Feet, But . . . . . .
RACKETY TOLL said, “Joe is a very brave man.”
Slappy Tooker did not take his eyes from the glare of the arc lights. “You can say that again. Watch for his inside right. You got to watch close. . . .”
Rackety Toll said, “I can see it. I can almost feel it!”
Conover was boring in. Joe Magan, tall and straight and a bit bloody, was behind in the fifth. Joe had been catching Conover's straight left. He had been oblivious, seemingly, of Conover's right cross, which was not a cream puff punch.
It was for the middleweight title. Rackety opened and closed his hands, itching up and down his spine, his gray eyes intent with the spark which only a bout at fisticuffs could bring. Rackety was very young and he loved everything about it—the crowd, the odors, the limelight, the exchange of blows.
Conover was the cleverest man in the middle ranks. He was two to one to cop Joe Magan's title. Everyone knew this. Big Joe was clumsy and it was the same old rapier against the bludgeon and Joe was doomed.
So Conover moved in, his hands flashing in the style which so many had praised. Many times Rackety Toll had crossed gloves with Conover. It had been fine for Rackety, training with the contender, the coming champion. Slappy had been very proud of himself for arranging it. In time, in good time, maybe when the war was over, it would be young Rackety's turn to have a shot at Conover's title.
Joe Magan's heels came down, touching the canvas. He was bruised and he breathed heavily through his mouth. He accepted another left. Conover drifted, feinting. Joe Magan stood flat-footed, waiting.
Conover came in again. He threw the load, one and two, three and four. Joe seemed powerless, overwhelmed. Conover was covering him with leather, painting him with blotches of red.
Joe shifted. Conover was flailing him. Joe stepped in. Conover's clever feet started away. The inside right dropped off Joe's chest, where it had been cocked for four rounds. Rackety saw it, plain as day. It was a sucker punch, a cinch to slip.
There was a dull boom. Conover's arms flew wide. Conover's mouthpiece dropped out. Into the challenger's eyes came an expression Rackety Toll would never forget. It was a lost, haunted, ghostlike look.
Joe Magan's heavy, stolid features did not change. Only his brows beetled slightly. He stepped easily, throwing that right. It went smack against Conover's face, spinning him. Conover's deft hands pawed without aim.
Joe Magan stopped, considered. He stuck out his left, impaling Conover upon the nose. His haymaker came from away over in Brooklyn. It slammed into Conover's pallid features.
Slappy screamed, as though in pain, “Stop it! The kid's out on his feet!”
Conover went down in sections, as though someone was lopping off portions of him with a huge, sharp axe. Joe Magan stood, watching, until a knee touched canvas. Then he walked to his corner, still unmoved, the surgeon of the ring, his job done competently if brutally.
Rackety just sat and watched Conover. The challenger had been very decent to him. Now he lay, a crumpled, broken heap, the blood running from his smashed nose. For almost five rounds he had beaten a champion. Now fate and Joe Magan had caught up, and Conover, like so many before him, was through.
The tinsel peeled off, just a wee bit, but Rackety was very young. The referee said, “Nine—ten—and Out!”
Rackety sighed. He said, “Magan is brave and he is very good. Magan is better than I ever thought. Poor Conover!”
“That inside right!” said Slappy Tooker as they edged through the crowd going out of the park. “Last time it was a left hook. That Joe Magan is a genius. He may not look smart, but he is unbeatable.” Slappy was very sad.
Rackety adjusted his greenish uniform, made sure of his cap. He wore the globe and anchor on his collar and right now he was doing some recruiting among the Broadway crowd who knew him passing well as a coming and gay young fighter. He was a marine, and that was fine, and some day soon it would be orders to move and he would go to glory or to death, probably on some Pacific isle. But right now he was thinking of Conover, whose occasional sparmate he had been, and who lay beaten in his dressing room.
He said, ''I'll see you later, Slappy.” He made a detour and walked to the dressing rooms. He saw the crowd at the champion's door, saw the empty spaces about the room where the erstwhile favorite had changed. He tapped and went in and Conover was awake, but weeping a little, tears of rage and humiliation. Rackety said, “You should have had him, pal. You did good in there.”
Conover shook his head. His nose was in splints and his teeth had torn the inside of his mouth. He said, “The man's uncanny. He takes all you've got. You smash your hands on him. Then he batters you with that strength.”
Conover was a college fighter. He had been a great one, but in his eyes Rackety saw the end. Rackety said, “I'd like to fight him.”
“You!” said Conover, “You're just a kid. You're good, Rackety, but you're not ready. Don't let Slappy fix that one for you! Stay away from Magan until age or something gets him. Go fight Japanese— but lay off Magan.”
Rackety said, “Sure, Con. I know you're right. It's just—I'd just like to fight him, is all. Just an idea.”
He spoke other kindly words to Conover and left. Out of Magan's dressing room the crowd was pouring, noisy with backslapping and I-told-you-sos, even those who had laid the odds on Conover. Joe Magan was a bulky figure among them in his sailor's whites.
Somehow they came together in the midst of it all, the marine and the gob. Joe Magan said, “Out of the way, gyrene!” and shoved a little. Joe was feeling pretty good. Joe had a right to feel pretty good, Rackety knew.
But Rackety said, “Go scrub a deck, cheese champ!” and shoved right back.
Joe Magan hurtled into the crowd, having received the hardest push. His round, scarred face turned black. He lowered his head and started forward. Rackety dug in, put up his hands. The white hat was a mark and almost Rackety smashed a fist against it. But at the last moment he paused, swung away, placed an open hand upon the hard skull and bore down.
Hands were grabbing him. He saw a chance and let a short one go on Magan's neck, but there were dozens to stop him and Sam Gazino was frantic at the sight of fight without gate.
Sam bellowed, “Get that marine outa here before my man kills him!”
Daley, the sports writer, said, “That's more than a marine! That's Toll, the fighter!”
There was a sudden silence. Joe Magan, ruffled, his white hat dirty where someone had stepped on it, his teeth showing faintly through his thick lips, said, ''I'll see you again, wise guy!”
Rackety said clearly, “In the ring, any time, you bum!”
Then he was outside in the street and he supposed he should be ashamed of himself. But he was not, remembering Conover and at least two of Magan's punches which need not have cut the challenger to ribbons after his guard was down.
Furthermore, he was thoughtful. He was twenty-one and he had been fighting since he was able to hold up his hands. He had fought a lot of folks, he thought, all along the line. Starting in the Bronx, he had worked his way to L. A. and back, fighting folks.
Slappy had made him a boxer. He had gained fame enough for a young lad, boxing in the clubs. That was why he was so popular along the Stem—because of those pleasing club fights which everyone loves so well, especially the real fight bug, the one who goes not only to the Garden and the ball parks, but to every set of bouts which he can reach.
So Rackety was a boxer, without a mark to show his trade, with two good eyes, ears of normal appearance and hands which never cracked. He had not dropped a bout in a long time now, almost two years. In the second flight of middleweights, he was on top.
He went thoughtfully to his quarters. He lay awake, going over the lessons of his experience. He thought of the risks involved, he thought of the marines and that he would soon be with the veterans of Tarawa, possibly. It would be pretty nice, he grinned to himself, if he could pull it off. He went into a healthy sleep.
SLAPPY TOOKER wailed, “You are made to order for Magan! You have been boxing with Conover! You are a fancy dan! You have always been a sweet pea!”
“That's what you think,” said Rackety. “I was once a good time Charley, too.”
Slappy said, “I can't do anything about it! There is no way to get Joe Magan into a ring with you. We have not fought the right people. You are too young.”
Rackety said, “I have been fighting all my life. As an amateur, bootleg and otherwise. Through high school, even, I fought my way. I would have made college, like Con, only for this war. Do not argue with me, Slappy. Get me on the bill with Magan. Do like I ask you.”
Slappy said sadly, “There is nothing so thick as a stubborn young un.”
Rackety said, “Look, pal. Where I am going there will be bullets. Does Joe Magan throw lead? Do like I ask, pal.”
Slappy went out into the marts of Broadway and spoke his piece. It was well known that Slappy Tooker, although a fighting manager, was not a man who spoke idly or with tongue in cheek. He was, in fact, regarded somewhat curiously by other denizens of that world as an honest and forthright citizen.
The fight world is not a dainty place, not even a very clean place, but what decency there is in it emanates from such men as Slappy Tooker. Manager of more than one champion, he had never stolen from his men, had never taken unfair advantage of a friend or an enemy. Therefore he was listened to, with respect, by the multitude.
Daley, the sports reporter who ran a syndicated column, thought he saw a story. He said, “I was there when Rackety took a punch at Joe. He landed right where he wanted. But Rackety is no hitter. You saw what Joe did to a boxer like Conover—”
Slappy answered, “We know—we know. I'm just telling you that Rackety and me have worked out a way to beat Magan. You can take it or leave it. But if Magan is going to box in September on the all-star show, who is he going to meet? Some guy he has beaten twice?”
DALEY said thoughtfully, “Let me see—who will he fight? Why, you are right, Slappy! He has beaten every challenger twice except Conover.”
“Con won't fight him again,” said Slappy, wincing despite himself, “because Con is laid up with a broken jaw and a smashed hand from the last fight.”
Daley hesitated. He said, “A system you've got? A secret punch?”
“Nemmine about that,” said Slappy. “We are fighting Cab Caltowitz in Jersey next week, Boston Deal in Yonkers the next. If we handle those boys good, will you brag us up for a shot at Magan on the all-star show?”
Daley said, “It's a charity show and you won't get a purse.”
“He—I mean we don't want dough,” said Slappy, swallowing hard, but loyal to his promise to Rackety.
Daley said, “Following the incident after the Conover fight, it'll make a story. Grudge fight and all that. Rackety having been Con's sparring partner—”
“Okay,” said Slappy. “That's it, and thanks,” But he did not seem elated. He went out and saw other people. He was a man not without influence and in him was the ability to connive to an end. His honesty helped. There were people along the Mazda Trail who began to believe in Rackety Toll.
Perhaps Slappy never believed. He certainly never made suggestions while Rackety trained, in secret, over in a Brooklyn gym. He was in Washington, talking to certain people when Rackety fought Cab Caltowitz in Newark.
Daley got the wire as the bout ended, “Okay for my boy to meet Magan— Slappy.” Daley looked at the recumbent form of the redoubtable Caltowitz and pursed his lips. He was the only metropolitan sports columnist present. Rackety was grinning down at him as the referee counted out Caltowitz.
DALEY went back to New York and filed his story. It was a good one, and it scooped the sports world in a mild way. It said that Rackety had scored a sensational two-round kayo over Cab Caltowitz in Newark and that in an exclusive interview the likable young middleweight had challenged Joe Magan to a meeting on the all-star bill, for which permission had been granted that very day to Rackety Toll.
It further related the facts of the slight scuffle between Rackety and Joe Magan upon the occasion of the Conover fight, and how Rackety had said, “Any time, in the ring, you bum!” and how Rackety really believed he had a secret weapon with which to beat the champion.
“Like radar,” said Daley semi- facetiously. “Rackety is a clever boy, reminding one of Conover himself in style. But he has worked out something new which at this time cannot of course be divulged.” Daley was careful about that. He was a man who would go out on a limb but would be wary of men carrying saws in its vicinity.
Thus are boxing matches made, as all the world knows. Thus is the tinder applied and soon the bonfire is blazing. Imitators of Daley, lesser men who envied his syndication or were jealous and sought to discredit him, picked up the story, garbled it, reprinted it until the sports pages, lolling in wartime doldrums, awakened to the controversy.
Slappy went to Yonkers with Rackety. Boston Deal, a tough veteran, was a clouter, far from fancy, a man with a small head and big shoulders, a learned ringman. Slappy said, “You were always a good kid, Rackety, but you have gone nuts. If you were not already in service I would not stand for this nonsense. Punchy is no way to go to war, either, now that I think of it!”
Rackety said, “You watch!”
He went in against Boston Deal. For three rounds it was a pretty good bout. Then Rackety somehow was standing in the middle of the ring and Boston Deal was sitting on the bottom rope, holding his head in his hands, and the referee was walking between them, signing for a tko, and somewhat surprised thereat.
Boston Deal did not get tko'd at any time, much less in Yonkers against a young, slim upstart.
Slappy said thoughtfully on the ride home, “It is not plain to me what you do. But I see you do it.”
Rackety said blithely, “It is not too plain to me. But I am doing it. Maybe I cannot do it against Joe Magan. But if I could—!” He dreamed again.
Slappy muttered, “It's a lot of hay and you are foolish in the head. Joe Magan plays no favorites, like shooting with a left always—nor swinging that right. Either way it seems right he does it. Magan is a natural, a champ. You are a comer, all right—but a punk kid.”
Rackety just went on dreaming.
THE all-star was a big show for the relief funds of all branches and all branches were represented on it. Most of them got good leaves to do their training. Rackety did not ask for leave nor did he get any. All day he recruited men for the Marine Corps and at night he boxed enough to keep his edge and let it go at that.
Daley, looking for new angles, insisted upon seeing a training season. Rackety obligingly went through his paces with four different sparmates. When it was over, Daley was first bewildered, then furious. He said, “You haven't shown me a thing! You are an ordinary young boxer with a fair punch! You got Caltowitz and Deal to do business! You're a fake!”
Rackety said, “You'd better not print that. It would make you look awful bad.”
Slappy said, “Even if it is true, you can't print it.”
Daley roared, “I'll fix you! Wait'll this is over! I'll tell enough to fix both of you!”
Rackety said softly, “You're threatenin' me? I got a one-way ticket to the war comin' up, chum. You can't threaten me!”
DALEY went out, raving to himself. Rackety went to the showers whistling to himself, but Slappy sat and held his head with both hands. Then Slappy had to take an aspirin and go to meet Sam Gazino, in a very secret place.
Gazino said, “You know what is done, Slappy. It's the same old deal.”
Slappy said, “Sure. If we win, we got to meet you again before we fight any other real contender.”
Gazino said, “Us to get 20 per cent of the net of any fights in between.”
Slappy said, “No.”
Gazino sat back in his chair, his eyes glittering. He was a patient man, not a nice fellow. “Slappy, you are out of your class. You are old-fashioned. We get 20 per cent.”
“You get nothing,” said Slappy wearily. “After we slap Joe down, there won't be anything.”
“Don't give me that guff,” said Sam. “We get 20 per cent of anything you take, until you meet us again. That is the story and there ain't no other.”
Slappy said, “The fight's made. The odds are about four to one that Joe will win. What are you beefing about? Are you scared of my boy?”
“Not scared. Not over-confident. Just careful,” said Sam. “Twenty per—”
Slappy got up, suddenly sick of it all, of the bout which he did not consider a good one for his fighter, of this slick- haired Sam Gazino, of everything connected with the fight business. He said, “Go to hell. If we win, we'll fight you again. That's a gentleman's agreement. I don't go any further than that.”
Gazino did not move. He said, “You're a hard man. The fight's made—nothin' much for me to do. I'll bet you five grand to one that we win, Slappy.”
“No!” said Slappy.
Gazino's eyes glazed, he stared at the ceiling.
He said, “I tell you what. There's no dough in this fight. I'll tell you what I will do. For five grand, payable now so that I can get it down at one to five, I will slip Joe a mickey. After all, Joe is in the navy, he could lose this time, then win the next time—what does it make? I need the dough, Slappy. I have got a bad case of the shorts.”
He was talking to a blank door. Slappy had gone out and closed it quietly, leaving Gazino to himself. Slappy was quite ill at his tummy, not because he had heard propositions like this before, but at the calm snakelike crookedness of Sam Gazino.
It was four days later that he heard about Gazino's win at the track, and that the manager of the champion had a pocketful of chips to wager on the fight. He went at once to the telephone and called Joe Magan.
This was the week of the fight, which was on a Wednesday night.
RUMORS were flying thick and fast. Daley was doing nothing to prevent them—in fact the irate reporter was willing to have outside influences cover what he believed to be a bad decision upon his part. The odds upon the fight dropped to three, to two, to even money that Rackety would win, which on the face of it was ridiculous.
Money poured in, and the odds went back to three to one and remained there. The betting commissioners had enjoyed a field day and stood to win whoever triumphed in the ring. Rackety and Slappy were worn with the worriment of what might come.
On Wednesday they were in the ball park and the moon rode a cloud high above the mob of fans and down upon second base the ring was a tiny square of light where Beau Jack was leaping about, dealing his opponent a lesson in fireworks and unorthodoxy. Slappy and Rackety stood back and watched, then moved down to the dressing rooms.
There was a colored boy near a closed door. He came forward and said, “It is okay, gannelmen.” He had bat ears and a grin and his name was Clarence.
Slappy said sharply, “Are you sure?”
“Yessir. Found it like you say. Thanks, Mister Tooker and Mister Toll. We aims to give you a good one!” The white teeth gleamed and the boy went inside the door.
Rackety said, “If he's right.”
Slappy said, “If he's wrong.”
Rackety took off his clothing and sat on the table and Slappy bandaged his hands. The bones were small in his fists, but he had taken good care of them. Slappy was very careful with the soft linen.
Outside a boy whistled, “Toll out!”
They waited, and a second named Jonas gathered the stuff and then they went out and down toward the ring. They clambered in through one side as Joe Magan entered across the splattered white canvas and the ovation was tremendous, but it was mostly for the champion, not for Rackety.
Everyone was there, and a lot of club fans, up in the cheap seats, began to tramp it out, shouting for Rackety, but they were lost in the great crowd. It was one of the biggest fight crowds of the war years and for a moment it dazed Rackety.
But Rackety was young. He listened to Slappy and then he went out and touched hands with Joe Magan while the referee droned his instructions. Magan did not meet his eye. Sam Gazino tried to interrupt the referee, got shut up, exclaimed loudly that he was there to protect his fighter and have his rights. But Joe went back to his corner and Rackety laughed and went with Slappy, and leaning on the ropes he listened some more.
Slappy ended, “It's your own fight, kid. You made it. I'll watch him for flaws. You do it your way.”
Rackety said, “He's a brave one, remember? It'll take time.”
There was a little knot of marines down front, some with wound stripes. They bellowed at him and Rackety took time to mitt them. Then the bell rang and he was around and coming out, hands high, grey eyes level. Maybe he had one little doubt then, facing Joe Magan, seeing that right cocked, remembering Conover. But if he had, it did not show, and his grin was confident and he went in, dragging his left foot a little, feinting, boxing.
If Conover had been quick, Rackety was a bit swifter. The lances of his straight lefts and clashing rights cut through and over, landing upon Joe Magan's tough and willing countenance. His feet carried him in, swept him away. For a pure moment of boxing he was perfection, landing at will, breaking the skin upon Magan's face.
Joe came on. He was ponderous, but in him was an animal quickness more deceptive than in a smoother man. His short right crashed through upon the ribs and Rackety sucked in his breath. He had never been hit that hard, not by anyone. He had never known a middle could hit that hard. His whole side felt paralyzed for a moment or two.
Joe Magan plodded on. A left hook cracked against Rackety's jaw and he saw stars. Then he saw Joe's head go down, saw the quick weave and feint of the left.
It was a rich temptation. Almost he threw down the right in an instinctive move. Only memory of Conover's smashed small bones, only the practice of the weeks and the piece of his dream it represented kept him from doing it.
He stepped away. He let Joe come in, reached out and tied up the champion. He allowed the stronger man to wrestle him, maul him. He broke loose with ten seconds of the round to go.
He stepped briskly, thumbing his nose with his right, then stabbing the left with amazing speed. Joe ran himself into the left. As Magan increased the pressure, so did Rackety, calling on every ounce of speed and strength within him. There was a bitter exchange, then Joe fell back and the bell rang ending the round.
In the corner Slappy said, “You out- timed him. Con had him licked in four.”
Rackety nodded. He bit on his mouthpiece and went out for the second. Joe was strong and patient, as with Con. He assimilated punches like a sponge. Rackety moved him around with a left, missed a right and caught a short one under the jaw which rattled his teeth. He held, looking straight down into Joe's corner. He saw Gazino's gleaming hair, the white, rodent teeth flashing. He spat deliberately upon the canvas. He shoved away and boxed some more.
Joe was holding back that right. It was a move he had made against Con. Rackety found himself coasting, winning each round by a shade on his speed. He found himself watching that right.
The second, the third, the fourth—all went by. Joe Magan was bleeding, seemingly slowing down. It became the fifth round and Slappy was leaning hard against the apron, sweating a little, his eyes hard upon Joe Magan.
Rackety was beating around the bush and the bush was standing there, taking it. The right lay coiled on Joe Magan's hairy chest. Rackety went in, landing sharp blows. He was so like Conover that ringsiders gasped, suspecting the end.
Rackety plunged on. Joe pivoted, waiting. Suddenly there was a commotion in Magan's corner. Gazino said something very loud, then turned pale. A colored boy grinned.
Joe threw the punch. It was not the right. It was a left hook, a swinging, short, Club-like left hook. It traveled only about twelve inches and it slapped against Rackety's head like a cannon ball.
Rackety went across the ring and Daley started a line to his telegrapher, “History is repeating itself. In the fifth, when Conover got his lumps—”
Joe Magan was plodding forward, in that deceptive way of his, one foot, then the other. He was a lion seeking a wounded gazelle. He was ready to deliver the coup, to end the agony. He lashed out as Rackety came off the ropes in the rebound from the punch.
Rackety's feet spurned the canvas. Head still roaring from the hook, he was inside. He was close, his forehead upon Joe Magan's chest.
Two hands were plying into Joe's middle. A spitting fighting gazelle had refused to slink to its lair. Joe Magan, his bushy brows up into his haircut, was trying to haul off, trying to get in that punch.
A right stabbed Joe's head back. A left hooked into his jaw. He sagged, his knees buckled. An uppercut from nowhere banged off his whiskers.
Joe stumbled, as though over a stone. He went down on his knees. He stayed there, still expressionless, breathing hard, taking his nine count like the veteran he was. He got up, his courage blooming like a red flower, raising his hands, waiting.
Rackety went in, thumbing his nose, shooting the left, a deceptive, old-time maneuver. His right hand feinted, then shot in. He was flat-footed, not boxing at all, fighting Joe's own game. He was shooting punches and they were unexpectedly loaded with dynamite.
Joe took them. He was fine, taking them. He fought back with a left which spun Rackety around. He tried the deadly right. He was short with it.
Rackety came in over the missed punch. He struck downward, his eyes upon the mark. He landed where he wanted, at the base of the jaw. He saw Joe rock.
He went back, measuring. Joe's hands were up. Rackety feinted him, then put the right to the chin, a free swinging blow, with all he had.
He went to his corner and paused there, knowing he had shot it all. He was limp with the strength he had put out, with the blows he had absorbed. He saw Joe wriggle, saw him start to arise.
The referee said “eight—nine—”
Joe got to his knees, made an awful effort. His neck swelled, his flat face broadened with the strain. He was all courage, he was a brave man. He fell forward and his nose crunched into the canvas.
“Ten—and Out!”
Rackety was going to the fallen man. Slappy was in the ring and the referee was helping. There was no sign of Sam Gazino. After a moment the colored boy came in and said mournfully, “I never thought it would go like this, Mister Slappy.”
THEY helped Clarence carry Joe to his corner. Daley was furiously rewriting his story. The marines were bellowing at the moon, roaring pride and defiance.
Rackety got out of it somehow. In the dressing room Daley said, “I take it all back. You had something in there, Rackety. But what? And what happened to Gazino?”
Slappy said, “Gazino bet on Rackety and was going to slip Joe a mickey. But he had propositioned me first and I called Joe, who got Clarence, his colored boy, to watch Gazino and steal the mickey. Some people got wise to Gazino betting on Rackety and it almost spilled the works. But Clarence told his story to the cops and Gazino got pinched. Right after the fight.”
Daley said, “But how did Rackety beat Joe Magan?”
The door opened. Joe Magan walked in, hand outstretched. He said, “Yeah. How about it, champ?”
Rackety took Joe's hand and shook it hard. He said, “I used to be a hitter.”
“When?” demanded Slappy. “I never knew you—”
“When I was fifteen and a feather,” said Rackety stubbornly. “Then I took to boxing. But I was always a natural sharpshooter.”
“That's no answer,” said Daley curiously.
“No,” admitted Rackety. “But I saw that Joe could lick a boxer by taking it, giving them his head to break their hands on. So I didn't do any of those things when the chips were down.” He looked helplessly around. “Don't you see?”
For a while no one spoke. Then Joe Magan said heavily. “None of them was ever fighters, champ. Maybe they'll never see. But I do.” He faced the others. He said defiantly, “This kid don't fight with hands and feet. You see? He fights from the neck up.”
Daley said, “You mean he's a genius?”
“Phooey,” said Joe Magan. “He's a champeen, you dope!” He said, “C'mon, kid. Get dressed and le's go out and fight it over again. I got to know about the fifth. I don't remember the fifth—” He laughed deep in his throat.
“From the neck up,” said Slappy softly. “Out of the mouths of babes and pugilists!”
He looked at Daley. The newspaper man looked at Slappy. The door closed on the two gladiators and their voices blended happily, going away from the dressing rooms.
There was nothing more to say. They had been in the presence of greatness, in defeat, in victory. Possibly they alone of all the great crowd of witnesses had that glimpse behind the scenes. They were not quite sure that they understood. “From the neck up,” repeated Daley, and went to write the best story his column ever ran.