Freedman said, “Your boy okay?”
Gurney poured himself out a shot and tossed it down his throat. He said, “Sure, he’s all right.”
“I got my money on him,” Freedman said. “I’d like to see him win.”
“He’s goin’ to win, you see.”
Wilson lounged to the bar. “Franks ain’t so bad,” he said; “I guess I fancy Franks.”
Gurney looked him over. Just a small-town wise-guy he thought, maybe not so small-town. He said, “Hell, someone’s got to back him.”
The others laughed.
Wilson’s face reddened angrily. “Yeah?” he said. “Sankey’s gettin’ nerves. That guy’s goin’ to be stiff before he gets in there. Franks’ll beat hell out of him.”
Gurney turned to fill his glass. He thought this line of talk wouldn’t get him anywhere. He tapped Wilson on his coat-front. “Get wise, sucker,” he said. “Ain’t you heard of a front? Sankey’s full of tricks. This is one of ’em. Listen, Sankey could whip Franks blindfolded. He’s springing a surprise for that palooka. Get your dough on the right man.”
Wilson began to lose confidence. “That straight?” he asked; “that on the level?”