A towel soggy, bloodstained, raggedsailed over the top rope of the fight ring in Madison Square Garden, Manhattan. Sock! it landed on the canvas, right at the heels of a battered little man with a streaming gash over his right eye. The little man was rocking to and fro under showers of blows from a furious, compact human whirlwind that flew now at his head, now at his ribs, now at his jaw, now at his pounding heart.
The referee, sorry for the battered little man, had been watching for the towel. As it struck, he stepped between the fighters. Friends...
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