“Tanks,” Hoppy said — and did a take after the gibe sank in.
“Come back here!” the Saint snapped as Mr Uniatz started after the Angel’s second. “Don’t start anything now, you idiot!”
Hoppy made unintelligible gravelly noises through his bared teeth, his nuclear mind infected as much by the vibrant blood cry of the mob as by the taunt. Impending battle — his own or anyone else’s — was apt to make Mr Uniatz emotionally unstable.
Three preliminaries and a semi-final later, the Saint lay on the rubbing table, completely relaxed, listening to ten thousand throats vibrating the walls in a massive chorus of excitement. The semi-final bout had ended in a knock-out, he guessed, from the uproar. He stretched his length peacefully, his eyes closed, everything in him settled into an immeasurable stillness amid the swirling rumble of vociferation. Dimly and indistinguishably he heard the orotund bellow of the announcer introducing somebody after the roar of the crowd had died down a bit, and shortly afterwards the man who had been introduced began speaking over the audience public-address system, and he recognized Grady’s unmistakable accents even though he could not make out the words.
Hoppy stumbled into the dressing-room, breathless from battling the crowd en route.
“What a mob!” he wheezed, his eyes gleaming. “Grady’s up dere makin’ dat announcement!”
A swelling ululation rose in a gathering tidal wave of sound and broke thunderously upon their ears.
“Say,” Hoppy exulted, “sounds like dey like what he told ’em, huh?” He came over to the Saint. “Boss, what does Spangler say when Grady tells him ya goin’ in for Nelson?”
The Saint yawned.
“Oh, he raised a little stench about it at first, but Mike reminded him that my bet stated that Bilinski would be knocked out — it didn’t say by whom. So he changed his mind... By the way, did Pat get a good seat?”