I grinned down at him. “How’s the head?” I asked. “Aching?”
“It always aches. I guess that’s why I take up the booze. I’ve had a headache so long now I’m used to it. I always tried to give the customers a run for their money. I’d stay in there and swap punches when I should have been down on the canvas, listenin’ to the birdies. And now here I am, a drunken bum with a headache all the time.”
“You’ll feel better after a while. Want to go back to sleep again?”
“No. I’m goin’ to get up and drink lots of water. What happened to the rest of that bottle of whisky?”
“I left it in there.”
“It was paid for,” he said regretfully.
“It’s better in the saloon than in you.”
“You’re right,” he said, “if I can get my mind off’n it, but I’m afraid I’ll be thinkin’ of that half bottle of whisky — you’d better kick me out, pal, before I get you in a spot. I ain’t worth it.”
“Snap out of it. You’ll feel better when you get your stomach back into shape.”
His bloodshot eyes stared up at me. “Tell you one thing,” he said, “I’m going to teach you everything I know, every little trick of the ring. I’m going to make you a fighter.”