Greasy with sweat, a fighter slumped in his corner. To the tense manager muttering instructions in his ear he snarled helplessly. Newspapermen in the fringe of harsh white light around the ringside heard the manager snarl something about "quitter." The fisticuffer, despairing, defiant, jumped to his short legs and went through the mill. Panting, pounding, suffering, he hammered the hard little man dancing a short arm's length away. Twice he struck below the belt and was harshly called by the referee. Even he kept the battle, head jarred, hands jabbing. After a swirling...
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