Springing across the ring with lightning quickness, Conko landed a blow on Hitch’s jaw just as he turned away from his wife; with a grunt, Hitch fell flat to the ground within reach of Goldie’s hand. But the blow had been too hastily delivered and missed the point of the jaw by an inch. In an instant Hitch was up and fighting like a panther.
The rest of the round was a nigger whirlwind finish. The darkies grappled like clumsy grizzlies, punching, biting, wrestling, growling ferociously. Around and around, they butted and pushed, bellowing and braying, striking any sort of blows, landing them everywhere they could, while the crowd cheered each man as he gained a slight advantage without partizanship.
When the men retired to their corners the crowd went mad, and the voices were yelling: “Go it, Hitch!” “Knock his block off, Conko!” “Kill him dead, Hitch!” “You’ll git him in de nex’ round, Conko!”
As for Skeeter Butts, he could have qualified for the lunatic asylum.
“Fer Gawd’s sake, Conko,” he chattered, “ef you got any hoodoo stunts to wuck on Hitch, you better wuck ’em. Dat nigger’s done had you down two times——”
“Aw, shut up!” Conko rumbled as he breathed in the air from Skeeter’s flapping towel. “I’s gwine pull dat stuff in de nex’ round. I’s savin’ it fer de third, because de third time is de charm.”
“De Lawd’ll shorely bless you fer sayin’ that, Conko,” Skeeter panted, with tears in his eyes. “My Gawd, ef us don’t win, I’ll sho’ wish I’d been borned a corn-field mule!”
The gong sounded for the third round.
Conko Mukes stepped in the middle of the ring and howled:
“In dis here nex’ roun’ I’s gwine win out. I’s gwine hypnertize dis here Hitch Diamond an’ put him to sleep. I’ll take one look at his ugly mug wid my right eye, an’ he’ll stan’ up in dis ring like a dead man on his foots——”