Andy patted Donald’s bare shoulder affectionately.
The contestants stood in their corners as they were introduced. The referee beckoned them to the centre of the ring for instructions. As Donald slipped the enveloping bathrobe from his shoulders and stepped forward, a murmur of admiration swelled from the crowd. His lean loins and broad shoulders showed to advantage in the bright light. The long, flowing muscles rippled under his skin when he moved, like those of a panther. Loud applause came from all over the arena. Garrieau, thinking the ovation was for himself, turned and ducked his head with a motion that was intended for a bow.
A rough voice near the top shouted: “Aw! that wasn’t for you, you big stiff!”
The judge and the dentist turned and looked at each other. The eyes of the latter seemed to say, “I told you so.” The judge smiled and nodded.
A fat man, who could not have been more than thirty-five years of age, yet with rolls of fat at his waist-line, a bulbous nose and florid face, bit savagely on a big cigar. “By gad!” he ejaculated, “that man is perfect.” There was a look of admiration and envy in his red-rimmed eyes. Thus do men admire the strong, well-kept body of the athlete, even though their own physical self has degenerated to mere paste.
“Two to one that Garrieau wins inside of ten rounds!” shouted a voice. Douglas covered the bet at once.
“Now, men,” instructed the referee briskly, “this is to be for twenty rounds. You are to fight clean breaks. You can hit with one arm free, but you cannot hold with one and hit with the other. When I say ‘Break’ I want you to break at once and step back. Do you understand fully? Good! To your corners.”
Donald glanced at his friends, who sat with their eyes upon him. He felt Andy’s hand upon him gently stroking his arm, yet he could not suppress the trembling in his limbs.
“Everything’s all right, Donnie,” whispered Andy softly.
Garrieau assumed the crouch Andy had predicted, his chin resting in the hollow of his shoulder, his eyes seeming to retreat into his skull under the overhanging brows. This was the champion’s famous “fighting face.”
“Pretty boy, ain’t yer?” he scoffed. “I’m goin’ to knock dose pretty teet’ down yer throat, you——” he cursed.