“Fo’—five—six—seben—eight——”
“Git up, Conko!” Skeeter Butts screamed in agony. “Fer Gawd’s sake——”
“Nine——”
Conko’s leap upward at this word carried him within striking distance of Hitch Diamond, and the crowd yelled wildly at a whirlwind rush which sent Hitch slipping and leaping like a flying shuttle to guard himself from the wild insurgence of that furious onslaught.
The end of the round found both combatants laughing.
Skeeter Butts, for his part, was alternately sweating cold and hot, and as nervous as a cat amid a pack of pop-crackers.
The two men sat down in their corners, lying back with outstretched legs, resting their arms outstretched upon the ropes, gulping in the air fanned at them from the towels of the seconds. Their eyes were closed, and the roar of the crowd was a mighty thunder in their ears.
The gong struck, and Conko Mukes stepped to the middle of the ring.
“I done got dis here Hitch Diamond’s number!” he bawled. “Hitch ain’t nothin’ but a big gob of meat, an’ I’s gwine fry him in his own grease! Ef you got any money to bet, bet it all on me. I’s de wild ole ram of de Georgia swamp, an’ no nigger cain’t pick de cockle-burs outen my wool!”
He bent his huge body, ducked his head in excellent imitation of a sheep, and bleated loud enough to be heard a mile.