Two fat guys sitting behind her went off in loud, explosive sniggers.
The blonde took a look at Dillon and figgered he was too tough for her. She stood up and let him through. Morgan crowded past her quickly. They sat down.
Just above the ring lights a heavy haze of tobacco-smoke lay like a mist rising from damp ground. The hall was as hot as hell. Dillon wrenched his collar undone and pulled his tie down a little.
The two lightweights were slamming into each other murderously. Gurney leant towards Dillon. “You seen Sankey?” he asked.
Dillon shook his head. “Sankey ain’t worryin’ me,” he said. “I guess I’ll give Franks a call.”
“We got him scared,” Gurney said; “you see.”
The crowd suddenly gave a great sigh, that sounded like a groan, as one of the fighters began to buckle at the knees.
Morgan shouted, “Go after him, you little punk—nail him.”
The gong saved him.
Dillon got to his feet; he pushed past Morgan, climbed over the blonde and walked up the aisle again. At the head of the corridor leading to the dressing-rooms a little runt in a yellow-white jersey stopped him. “This is as far as you’ll get,” he said.