"So do I. I'd hate to have to ship you back to Philly, Al."
He took another step, turned around very slowly, rested a shoulder against the wall, let his eyes get sleepy, and grunted:
"Huh?"
"If you were smacked down in the sixth or any other round by a palooka like Kid Cooper, it'd make me peevish," I said. "Don't do it, Al. You don't want to go back to Philly."
The youngster put his chin down in his neck and came back to me. When he was within arm's reach, he stopped, letting his left side turn a bit to the front. His hands were hanging loose. Mine were in my overcoat pockets.
He said, "Huh?" again.
I said:
"Try to remember that―if Ike Bush doesn't turn in a win tonight, Al Kennedy will be riding east in the morning."
He lifted his left shoulder an inch. I moved the gun around in my pocket, enough. He grumbled:
"Where do you get that stuff about me not winning?"
"Just something I heard. I didn't think there was anything in it, except maybe a ducat back to Philly."
"I oughta bust your jaw, you fat crook."
"Now's the time to do it," I advised him. "If you win tonight you're not likely to see me again. If you lose, you'll see me, but your hands won't be loose."
