r Milt's control--only wanting to use his fists--to kill
the thing weaving in front of him.

Nappy. A grinning, weaving, lethal ghost.

He felt a pain in his right fist and saw Nappy go down. He saw Pop's
face go gray as though the old man himself had felt the force of the
blow. Saw Nappy climb erect slowly. He grinned through blood.
Frankie--ghost-catcher. He had to get him.

He was happy; happy with a new fierceness he had never before known. The
lust of battle was strong within him and when Pop weaved Nappy
desperately, Frankie laughed, waited, measured Nappy.

And smashed him down with a single jarring right.

The bell tolled ten. Pop got wearily off his stool and walked away.
Frankie strode grimly to his corner, ignored Milt, moved on into the
dressing room.

He knew Milt would come and he waited for him, sitting there coldly on
the edge of the table. Milt walked in the door and stood quietly.

"You sold me out," Frankie said.

There was open pride in Milt's eyes. "Sure--you had to think that."

"What do you mean, think? You didn't pick me up when Pop flattened me. I
saw the look between you and Pop."

"Sure." Milt's eyes were still proud. "You had to know. That's how I
wanted it."

"Milt--why did you do it?"

"I didn't do it. I just had to make you think I did."

"In God's name--why?"

"Because I'm sentimental, maybe, but I've always had my own ideas about
the kind of fighter who should be a Ten-Time winner. All my life I've
kept remembering the old greats--Dempsey, Sullivan, Corbett--the men who
did it on their own, and I wanted you to get it right--on your own--like
a real champion."

Frankie was confused. "I wanted to go on my own. Why didn't you tell me
then?"

"Then you'd have lost. You'd have gone down whimpering and moaning. You
see, Frankie, all those old fighters had a vital ingredient--the thing
it takes to make a champion--courage."

"And you didn't think I had it?"

"Sure I did. But the killer instinct is dead in fighters today and it
has to be ignited. It needs a trigger, so that was what I gave you--a
trigger."

Frankie understood. "You wanted me to get mad!"

"To do it, you had to get mad--at me. You're not conditioned to get mad
at Nappy or Pop. It's not the way we fight now. It had to be me. I had
to make you hate me."

Frankie marveled. "So when Pop looked at you--"

"He knew."

Frankie was off the table, his arms around Milt. "I'm--I'm so ashamed."

Milt grinned.