"Time!"
"Wait fer 'is rush, an' use yer right."
"Foller 'im up, Chook."
"Oh, dry up! I tell yer 'e slipped."
"Not in the same class, I tell yer."
"Mix it, Chook—mix it. Yer've got 'im beat."
The last remark was true, for Stinky, in spite of his superior weight and height, was no match for Chook, the cock of Cardigan Street. It was the fifth round, and Chook was waiting for an opening to finish his man before the police came up, when a surprising thing happened. As Stinky retreated in exhaustion before the fists that rattled on his face like drumsticks, his hand struck his enemy's lower jaw by chance, and the next minute he was amazed to see Chook drop to the ground as if shot. And he stared with open mouth at his opponent, wondering why he didn't move.
"Gawd, 'e's stiffened 'im!"
"I 'eard 'is neck crack!"
Stinky stood motionless, his wits scattered by this sudden change—the stillness of his enemy, who a moment ago was beating him down with murderous fists.