Naturally, the listening crowd was torn by conflicting emotions. Cheers and groans marked the utterances of the two gifted romancers. Eventually, when the multitude had grown in numbers until the pressure of its bulk threatened to break down the netting, the conspirators decided to bring their joke to a climax.
Mercer, cocking his head above an instrument as though the better to hear, began reciting, somewhat after this fashion:
“Round-seven! At-the-sound-of-the-bell-the-two-men-leap-to-the-center-of-the-ring! They-exchange-a-whirlwind-of-jabs-and-upper-cuts! The-fighting-is-the-fiercest-ever-seen-in-a-heavyweight-contest! Suddenly-the-knockout-blow-is-delivered-full-upon-the-point-of-the-jaw! The-defeated-man-drops-like-a-log! His-seconds-drag-his-unconscious-form-into-his-corner! The-maddened-throng-acclaims-the-winner-and-pandemonium-reigns-supreme!”
Here he paused with the air of one who has completed a hard job.
From a thousand throats behind him one question arose in a mighty chorus:
“Who wins?”
Dramatically Mercer raised his hand for silence. A deep hush befell.
“The dispatches do not state,” he said, simply, and sat down.
§ 42 In Permanent Storage
Once upon a time, in the middle part of Georgia, there lived a banker who was known far and wide as the Human Safety Clutch. In his day he was accused of many things, but nobody ever charged him with being a spendthrift. His home was on a plantation a mile from town. One Sunday he remembered that he had left some important papers on his desk, and he gave an aged negro servitor on the place his keys and sent him for the documents.