Hoppy breasted the current with the irresistible surge of a battleship and returned to Simon’s side with Pat in his wake.
“’S matter, boss?”
“What is it, Simon?”
The Saint glanced at her and back at the ring. He took a final pull at his cigarette, and dropped it to crush it carefully with one foot.
“They’ve just called the Boxing Commission doctor into Smith’s corner,” he said.
Pat stared at the ring.
“Is he still unconscious?”
“Aw, dat’s nuttin’.” Hoppy dismissed Smith’s narcosis with a scornful lift of his anthropogenous jaw. “I slug a guy oncet who is out for twelve hours, an’ when dey—”
“Wait a minute,” the Saint interrupted, and moved towards Smith’s corner as Whitey Mullins leaped from the ring to the floor.
“Whitey!” Hoppy bellowed joyfully. “Whassamatter, chum? Can’t ya wake up dat sleeping beauty?”