wallops with was the only two guys in the world, let alone in the clubhouse.
Does the tramp rock him with a chance smash, and he curls a contemptuous lip over his shoulder at the yowlin' pack whilst he clinches to steady himself, then pushes this boloney away and, with a couple of vicious jolts, makes him back-pedal nervously, wilt, and cover up: He never gets excited, never gets mad enough to miss, never stops studyin' his man's weaknesses till the quarrel's over. Floored, he don't lose his head and bounce up before the referee can begin the arithmetic lesson, like the tramp does when he can in fear of the mob's roar of "Yellah!" Instead, he takes a long count—it uses up precious time and gives him a chance to think, and when he does get up, unless he's out on his his feet, the other guy is due for a lively couple of minutes, if not for a knockout!
From the instant this baby steps out at the openin' clang of the old cowbell, he's a student and a finished workman. He's generally got some plan of battle all doped in advance, but if that don't give him immediate results he shifts to another and another with a speed and skill that gives the real lover of boxin' more genuine thrills than a dozen knockdowns. He finds out whether the other guy don't like it in the jaw or body, and works accordin'ly. He discovers whether his little playmate wilts under rough handlin' in the clinches or if rushin' him to the ropes and pinnin' him there makes him wild with his returns. He tries talkin' to him, shakin' a wicked tongue in a effort to stir the other guy into a crazy rage which will make him throw caution to the breezes and tear in wide open, willin' to risk anything
