Glendon pulled his glove away. And for the first time in the years they had been together, his manager heard him swear.
“You go to hell,” he said, and turned to hold out his hands for his seconds to pull off the gloves.
VIII
That night, after receiving the editor’s final dictum that there was not a square fighter in the game, Maud Sangster cried quietly for a moment on the edge of her bed, grew angry, and went to sleep hugely disgusted with herself, prize-fighters, and the world in general.
The next afternoon she began work on an interview with Henry Addison that was destined never to be finished. It was in the private room that was accorded her at the “Courier-Journal” office that the thing happened. She had paused in her writing to glance at a headline in the afternoon paper announcing that Glendon was matched with Tom Cannam, when one of the door-boys brought in a card. It was Glendon’s.
“Tell him I can’t be seen,” she told the boy.
In a minute he was back.
“He says he’s coming in anyway, but he’d rather have your permission.”
“Did you tell him I was busy?” she asked.