“Yeah,” Hoppy chuckled hoarsely. “An’ guess who’s she settin’ next to!”
“Are you training for a quiz programme, or would you just like to tell me?”
“Inspector Foinack!”
The Saint considered him reverently for a moment, while the forthcoming possibilities of that supernal juxtaposition developed the gorgeous gamut of their emotional potential.
“Oh, my God!” Simon breathed. “I’d rather watch that than my own fight.”
There was a patter of footsteps and Whitey Mulling darted into the dressing-room. His face was contorted with savage glee.
“Okay,” he croaked. “You’re on, Saint. They’re waitin’ for you!” He snatched up the water bucket. “Grab the water-bottle and sponge,” he yelped at Hoppy, and went to the door.
The Saint swung his long legs off the table to the floor and stood up. He followed Whitey out of the door into the corridor, with Hoppy bringing up the rear.
“Brother, I only wisht it was that lousy crook Spangler you was smackin’ around tonight,” Mullins grated with vitriolic bitterness as they mounted the ramp into the Arena, “and not just that dumb ox he stole from me.”
Simon sensed an excitement, a temper in the crowd that was different from the usual mass tension of the ordinary fight attendance at Grady’s weekly shows. It was electric with anticipation of the unexpected, a breathless waiting watchfulness that he felt as he mounted to the apron of the ring and slipped between the ropes amid a thunderclap of acclaim. There was a slight note of hysteria in it, he thought as he seated himself on the stool in his corner and looked about the ocean of faces that spread on every side.