Nobody heard what was said, but the implication was patent. At the Polo Grounds, Manhattan, the referee, bending above Pugilist Tom Gibbons, had looked with shrewd and not unkindly eyes at his split mouth, puffed face, smashed nose, blotchy body, put a question to him. In 30 seconds more, the bell would start the twelfth round of Gibbons' battle against Eugene Tunney, a handsome fellow with a pompadour, a mild face, who sat facing him from the opposite corner of the ring. Tiered in darkness, 40,000 watchers perspired freely. They saw the...
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