“Knock him out, Hitchey! Den us’ll all be rich!”
Hitch ducked through the ropes and walked to his corner, where he sat down upon a folding stool.
Vinegar Atts, the referee, came over and shook Hitch by the hand. Atts was a broken-down pugilist whom the Lord had called to preach after his last K. O., and he and Hitch were great friends.
“How you feelin’, Hitchey?” Vinegar wanted to know.
“Feel as sweet as a fly in a vat of merlasses,” Hitch grinned.
“Don’t let yo’ knock-out punch git sour,” Vinegar grinned. “I got all my loose change on you.”
There was another roar of applause, and Conko Mukes emerged from his plum-thicket and came through the crowd, his knotty, shaved head shining in the sun like a block of ivory. His scarred and villainous face, with its mashed lips and broken nose and iron jaw, glowed with excitement and enthusiasm.
The mob applauded without partizanship as he climbed through the ropes and sat down in his corner.
Each pugilist eyed the other curiously, but neither could see much, for both were swathed in horse-blankets.
Prince Total and a scar-faced negro named Possum, Hitch Diamond’s seconds, slipped on Hitch’s gloves and laced them tight, while Skeeter Butts and Figger Bush performed the same office for Conko Mukes.