“Relax, chum. This isn’t the fight we came to see, anyway.”
The dream with the spun-gold hair on Simon’s right smiled.
“Never,” admonished Patricia Holm, “look gift horses in the mouth.”
“To coin a phrase,” the Saint observed dryly.
“Huh?” Hoppy stared at the Saint’s lady in open-mouthed perplexity. “Horses?” His face, which bore a strong family resemblance to those seen on totem poles designed to frighten evil spirits, was a study in loose-lipped wonder. “What horses?”
“After all,” Pat said, “we’re here as guests and—”
The clanking of the bell terminated both the fight and the need for further explanation. The sound pulled the trigger on a thunderclap of boos as the unfatigued gladiators were waved to their respective corners to wait the decision. It came swiftly. A well-booed draw.
“What a clambake,” Hoppy muttered.
“No hits, no runs, no fight,” Simon murmured sardonically.
“They had a lot of respect for each other, hadn’t they?” Pat observed innocently.