The hurt of it! Honest, Saxon, you don't know what hurt is till you've
got a old hurt like that hurt again. What can Billy Murphy do but slow
down? He's got to. He ain't fightin' two-handed any more. He knows it; I
know it; The referee knows it; but nobody else. He goes on a-moving that
left of his like it's all right. But it ain't. It's hurtin' him like a
knife dug into him. He don't dast strike a real blow with that left of
his. But it hurts, anyway. Just to move it or not move it hurts, an'
every little dab-feint that I'm too wise to guard, knowin' there's no
weight behind, why them little dab-touches on that poor thumb goes right
to the heart of him, an' hurts worse than a thousand boils or a thousand
knockouts--just hurts all over again, an' worse, each time an' touch.

"Now suppose he an' me was boxin' for fun, out in the back yard, an' he
hurts his thumb that way, why we'd have the gloves off in a jiffy an'
I'd be putting cold compresses on that poor thumb of his an' bandagin'
it that tight to keep the inflammation down. But no. This is a fight
for fight-fans that's paid their admission for blood, an' blood they're
goin' to get. They ain't men. They're wolves.

"He has to go easy, now, an' I ain't a-forcin' him none. I'm all shot to
pieces. I don't know what to do. So I slow down, an' the fans get hep to
it. 'Why don't you fight?' they begin to yell; 'Fake! Fake!' 'Why don't
you kiss'm?' 'Lovin' cup for yours, Bill Roberts!' an' that sort of
bunk.

"'Fight!' says The referee to me, low an' savage. 'Fight, or I'll
disqualify you--you, Bill, I mean you.' An' this to me, with a touch on
the shoulder 'so they's no mistakin'.

"It ain't pretty. It ain't right. D'ye know what we was fightin' for? A
hundred bucks. Think of it! An' the game is we got to do our best to
put our man down for the count because of the fans has bet on us. Sweet,
ain't it? Well, that's my last fight. It finishes me deado. Never again
for yours truly.

"'Quit,' I says to Billy Murphy in a clinch; 'for the love of God, Bill,
quit.' An' he says back, in a whisper, 'I can't, Bill--you know that.'

"An' then the referee drags us apart, an' a lot of the fans begins to
hoot an' boo.

"'Now kick in, damn you, Bill Roberts, an' finish'm' the referee says to
me, an' I tell'm to go to hell as Bill an' me flop into the next clinch,
not hittin', an' Bill touches his thumb again, an' I see the pain shoot
across his face. Game? That good boy's the limi