"Are you crazy, Jingle?" roared the apoplectic Commissioner Jergen. "I can't get myself wrapped up in ring politics! I'm a fight commissioner, not a goddam promoter!"
Charlie took a few steps toward the Commissioner, leveling a finger at him in indictment.
"Now you lemme tell you somethin'. You run the fight game, but the only thing you're interested in is your own goddam reputation. The only time you ever get up off your fat keister is when somebody publicly pulls a quick deal that looks phony. Then you roar up from the saddle and start screaming 'foul'—only because it makes you look bad if you don't!"
"I can have you cited for contempt—"
"I don't give one damn in hell what you can have me cited for! I thought you were one square guy. But all you are is a bloody politician like all the others! You're here to make sure the fight racket gets a fair-deal. Well I'm getting the old freeze-away, and you still sit on your keister and don't do a damned thing!"
"You damn midget!" croaked the Commissioner, and Charlie Jingle whirled, fists cocked, his face working up a nice purple color. "What'd you call me, Fatso?"
"I called you a damn midget, and if you don't like it, I dare you take a poke at me!" said the Commissioner, and coming around his desk he thrust his jaw out toward Charlie Jingle's cocked fists.
Jingle drew his fist back and stopped. Slowly he dropped the cocked hand by his side.
"Oh, no! Oh, no you don't! You'd just love me to do it, wouldn't you? A half-hour later I'd lose my license for conduct unbecoming a fight trainer."