He felt a pain in his right fist and saw Nappy go down. He saw Pop's face go gray as though the old man himself had felt the force of the blow. Saw Nappy climb erect slowly. He grinned through blood. Frankie—ghost-catcher. He had to get him.
He was happy; happy with a new fierceness he had never before known. The lust of battle was strong within him and when Pop weaved Nappy desperately, Frankie laughed, waited, measured Nappy.
And smashed him down with a single jarring right.
The bell tolled ten. Pop got wearily off his stool and walked away. Frankie strode grimly to his corner, ignored Milt, moved on into the dressing room.
He knew Milt would come and he waited for him, sitting there coldly on the edge of the table. Milt walked in the door and stood quietly.
"You sold me out," Frankie said.
There was open pride in Milt's eyes. "Sure—you had to think that."
"What do you mean, think? You didn't pick me up when Pop flattened me. I saw the look between you and Pop."
"Sure." Milt's eyes were still proud. "You had to know. That's how I wanted it."
"Milt—why did you do it?"