There were the usual preparations.
“He’s handsome, but he’ll be meat for McGilvay.”
That was the general opinion.
The gong sounded its warning. Everything was ready. The men met in the center of the platform and shook hands. A moment later they were on guard, and then the fight began.
For a moment the men sparred and circled round each other. Then the professional rushed in. The amateur was away. He had avoided the rush with ease.
The professional followed the youth, who was smiling beneath the white glare of the arc-lights. He tried to rush Frank, but again he was baffled.
The amateur whirled and came back. Flash-flash went his white fists. He had struck twice, but the wearer of the green managed to avoid both blows.
McGilvay countered, and there was lively work in the center of the ring. At the end the amateur retreated again, hotly followed by his antagonist.
“Gil is rushing him,” flew from lip to lip. “He means to make it short.”
Neither man had been harmed. The professional did his best to corner his foe, but he was too slow. He counted on getting in a terrible blow with one of those hamlike fists.