jumps up and down beside the ropes, shuttin' off the view of guys which has sent in from five to twenty berries for a look, and keeps up a continued screechin' of: "Go on, kid, knock him kickin'!" "Bring up the left, you saphead! Bring it up!" "Kill the big tramp!" and the etc., is as big a handicap to their man as tonsillitis would be to Galli-Curci. When the fighter can hear their bellers at all over the roar of the gorehungry mob, it irritates and confuses him, especially when one of his seconds is yellin' for him to shoot his left and another is bawlin': "Send in 'at right!"
That type of second don't mean nothin' and is a heavy liability to a scrapper. But the other kind, these babies which has made the handlin' of fighters a science, is worth their weight in rubies, and if paid on the basis of their actual value durin' a tough battle, would get half their man's share of the purse at the least. You seldom see them birds hoppin' hithers and you and shriekin' their heads off whilst their man is in there tryin'. You'll notice they crouch as close to the ropes as the referee will let 'em and when their boy gets puzzled and flicks his head to 'em for advice, they got a intelligent answer to shout him, some crafty move to recommend which usually gets the dazed mauler out of a tough hole.
This gent earns his sugar in the rest between rounds, not whilst his boy is mixin' it up and compelled to give his charmin' opponent his undivided attention. All durin' the round the big-league handler glues his eyes on the fighters and his brain is workin' faster than the pumpin' arms of the pantin' bruisers. He picks out the most glarin' weaknesses of his boy
