Hank went over to Franks’ corner while Borg bandaged his hands. Hank said, “You got enough tape.”
Franks looked up at him. “Don’t he dumb,” he said, “it’s soft enough.”
A little guy with a hand-mike got into the ring and started blowing. He got the crowd worked up all right. The only thing worth noting was Franks went six pounds heavier than Sankey.
Gurney was conscious of a dryness in his throat and his heart’s heavy thumping. He pushed his hat to the back of his head and rubbed his glistening forehead with his hand. Dillon sat like a rock, his hands limply on his knees and his jaw moving slowly, clamping on the gum.
Gurney watched the referee call the two men in the centre of the ring. Sankey came out, his dressing-gown like a cape on his shoulders. Franks only had a towel across his back.
They stood there listening to the referee giving them the same old line. Gurney wished they’d get on with it.
They went back to their corners Cigar-smoke spiraled slowly to the ceiling. The crowd was tense, silent and waiting.
Sankey shed his dressing-gown, holding on to the ropes, rubbing his shoes in the resin. The handlers bundled themselves out of the ring as the gong rang.
Franks came out cautiously, his chin on his chest. Sankey almost ran at him. He swung a left and a right, but Franks went under them, socking Sankey in the body. Sankey didn’t like it; he went into a clinch, roughing Franks round, cuffing his head with half-arm punches that didn’t worry Franks. He hung on until the referee smacked his arm, then, as he was going away, Franks caught him with a right swing to the side of his head. The crowd howled with joy. Sankey came back at him, but Franks tied him up in a clinch. They wrestled some more and again Franks caught him as he broke.
Gurney shifted, crossed his legs and uncrossed them. “What the hell’s he playin’ at?” he asked.