The Saint was watching the two gladiators being given the customary libations of water and between-round advice by their handlers. He smiled thoughtfully.
“The Masked Angel has a very clever manager.”
The bell for the second round brought Torpedo Smith out with a rush. Gaining confidence with every blow, he drove the quivering hulk of the Angel back on his heels, bringing the crowd to its feet in a steady roar of excitement.
“Hoppy,” the Saint spoke into Hoppy’s ear, “has the Angel ever been cut under that black stocking he wears over his head?”
“Huh? Naw, boss! His fights never last long enough for him to get hoit.” Hoppy’s eyes squinted anxiously. “Chees! Why don’t he do sump’n? Torpedo Smith is givin’ him de woiks!”
Pat was bouncing in her seat, the soft curve of her lips parted with excitement as she watched.
“I thought the Angel was so wonderful,” she gibed. “Come on, Torpedo!”
“Dey’re bot’ on de ropes!” Hoppy exclaimed hoarsely.
The Saint’s hawk-sharp eyes suddenly narrowed. No, it was Torpedo Smith who was on the ropes now. With the Angel in control!.. Something had happened. Something he hadn’t seen. He gripped Hoppy’s arm.
“Something’s wrong with Smith.”