and McCabe, one of which he'd have to battle within the next six months, like they was a couple of amateurs in a gym. When he taps a yawn back into his mouth, I got a chill. Before we filed out of that clubhouse I was chilled to the bone!
With a sigh of pure joy, the crowd has leaned forward at the bell, breathin' hard and set for a long, tough battle, with the result a toss-up. A man-killin' slugger against a master boxer. Scheduled for twenty frames, seven or eight rounds of bloodcurdlin' millin' before one of 'em hit the mat seemed a cinch. As they came to the center, McCabe was short with a straight left, and Enright put a wicked right to the head, scrapin' the lace of his glove on the skin as he flicked it away.
"This guy's a dirty scrapper, Kid," I whispers.
"I'll make him clean!" scowls the Kid. "It won't even be a contest when I get him. Look, he's as open as a novice—I'll stop this fellow with the first one I try!"
Again I felt a nervous shiver, but I got no chance for a comeback because the gladiators was goin' to it with a right good will, as the sayin' is. Stung by the mob's yells, McCabe shook himself and begin dancin' around the clumsy Enright, stabbin' him in the face with a long, punishin' left. A few seconds of this and Enright's features is gory and purplin', and one eye has observed the early-closin' law. He missed a couple of vicious right swings, and then, followin' the shriekin' advice of his handlers, he begins to bull his way in to close quarters. This early and prob'ly unlooked-for success made McCabe a bit too
