from Nappy for another round. Nobody could. Monroe smelled a knockout
and Frankie was never fast enough to run away from the burst of
viciousness that would come at him in the form of Nappy Gordon. No, Milt
would take over.

At the bell, Frankie moved out fast, waiting for the familiar feel of
Milt expertly manipulating his arms and legs and body; sending out the
jabs and punches; weaving him in and out.

But Milt didn't take over and Pop sent Nappy in with a pile-driver right
that smashed Frankie to the floor. Frankie rolled over on his knees and
shook his head groggily, trying to understand. Why hadn't Milt taken
over? What was Milt trying to do to him?

Milt's cold face waved into focus before Frankie's blinking eyes. _What
was Milt trying to do?_ Frankie heard the tolling count--six, seven,
eight. Milt wasn't even going to help him up. Sick and bewildered,
Frankie struggled to his feet. Nappy came driving in. Frankie
back-pedalled and took the vicious right cross while rolling away. Thus
he avoided being knocked out and was only floored for another
eight-count.

_Milt--Milt--for God's sake--_

The round was over. Frankie staggered, sick, to his corner and slumped
down. The handlers worked over him. He looked at Milt. But Milt neither
sent nor returned his gaze. Milt sat looking grimly off into space and
seemed older and wearier than time itself.

Then Frankie knew. Milt had sold him out!

The shocking truth stunned him even more than Nappy's punches. Milt had
sold him out! There had been rare cases of such things. When money meant
more than honor to a veteran. But Milt!

Numbed, Frankie pondered the ghastly thought. After all, Milt was old.
Old men needed money for their later years. But how could he? How could
he do it?

Suddenly Frankie hated. He hated Nappy and Pop and every one of the
millions of people looking silently on around the world. But most of
all, he hated Milt. It was a weird, sickening thing, that hatred. But
only a mentally sickening thing. Physically, it seemed to make Frankie
stronger, because when the bell rang and he got up and walked into a
straight right, it didn't hurt at all.

He realized he was on the floor; the gong was sounding; he was getting
up, moving in again. There was blood, a ringing in his head.

But above all, a rage to kill. To kill.

* * * * *

He remembered going down several times and getting up. Not caring how he
had swung unde