Kells looked at the ring. “Your guess is as good as mine. Get down on Gilroy.” He walked away with an extravagantly mysterious and meaningful look over his shoulder.
Back in his seat Kells tapped Brand’s shoulder. “If you gentlemen would like to get out from under,” he said, “you can copper those bets now.”
Brand turned to Kells’ wide smile. His drawling friend was engrossed in the last waltz of the Filipinos.
“I have information...” Kells widened his smile.
Brand shook his head, matched his smile, said: “No — Shane’s good enough for me.”
“That’s what I thought. That’s the reason I made the offer.”
Beery was yelling at one of the Filipinos. He glanced at Kells without expression, shouted at the ring: “Ask him what he’s doing after the show.”
The last preliminary was declared a draw. The semi-wind-up came up: six rounds — a couple of dark smart flyweights, one on his way to a championship. It was a pretty good fight but it was the favorite’s all the way.
The main event followed almost immediately. The announcer climbed into the ring — the referee, Shane, Gilroy, a knot of seconds. Shane got a big hand. Gilroy got a pretty good reception too — the black belt was well represented and Gilroy was well liked. The disk was tossed for corners, taping was examined and the referee’s instructions passed.
“Ladies and gentlemen... Ten rounds... In this corner — Arthur Shane — the Texas Cyclone... Two hundred an’ eight pounds... In this corner — Lou Gilroy... A hundred ninety-six...”