Otherwise his skin was startlingly pale under the lavender lighting. His muscles were long rather than showy and his lower ribs were too well covered. Comparisons between the two flew, and were not complimentary to Stone. The odds were tauntingly raised against the Gringo and not so keenly accepted.
Lefty, professional, his eyes lit up, his face pugnacious, knelt by Stone whispering advice.
"Know anything about the game?" he asked.
"I used to be pretty handy at it," said Stone.
"'Ow 'andy? I got to know. This hain't no exhibition contest. You got your work cut out. Hever go hany distance? Hoo trained you?"
The Cockney's h's were piling up in his eagerness.
"I've boxed with some of the best of them," said Stone. "Don't worry about that end of it, Lefty. You'll get the hang of me in a round or so. But I was in better shape then."
"I should 'ope so," Lefty said, frankly. "Bloody lucky for you you been swingin' sledge lately. You're put up hall right but you're in a 'ell of a condition. You got to feel 'im hout. Hif we win this, hits goin' to be becoz we use our noodles. Your legs is good. You got to keep cool hand—git 'im rattled. Got to. 'E'll 'ammer you a bit hat first. You got to stand it. 'E ain't in the pink 'imself."
"He looks fit," said Stone, eyeing his man.
"'E's skinny," said Lefty. "But 'is skin hain't 'ealthy. Hand I'll bet 'is wind hain't none too good. Too gay a life, too many cigarettes, too much booze. 'E won't last. Hall them muscles popping hout don't
