"Better shed the parlour clothes," says I. "You're liable to get 'em dusty," which last tickles the audience a lot.
He didn't want to peel off even his Tuxedo; but jollies him into lettin' go of it, and partin' with his collar and white tie and eye glasses too. That was as far as he'd go, though.
Course, it was kind of a low down game to put up on anybody; but Curlylocks wa'n't outclassed any in height, nor much in weight; and, seein' as how he'd kind of laid himself open to something of the sort, I didn't feel as bad as I might. All the time, Chester was tryin' to keep the grin off his face, and his chums was most wearin' their elbows out nudgin' each other.
"Now," says I, when I've got Curlylocks ready for the slaughter, "what'll it be—two-minute rounds?"
"Quite satisfactory," says Sylvie; and Chetty nods.
"Then let 'er go!" says I, steppin' back.
One thing I've always coached Chester on, was openin' lively. It don't make any difference whether the mitts are hard or soft, whether it's a go to a finish or a private bout for fun, there's no sense in wastin' the first sixty seconds in stirrin' up the air. The thing to do is to bore in. And Chester didn't need any urgin'. He cuts loose with both bunches, landin' a right on the ribs and pokin' the left into the middle of Sylvie's map; so sudden that Mr. Poet heaves up a grunt way from his socks.
"Ah, string it out, Chetty," says I. "String it out, so's it'll last longer."
But he's like a hungry kid with a hokypoky sandwich,—he wants to take it all at one bite. And maybe if I'd been as much gone on Angelica as he was, and had been put on a siding for this moonlight po'try business, I'd been just as anxious. So he wades in again with as fine a set of half arm jolts as he has in stock.
By this time Sylvie has got his guard up proper, and is coverin' himself almost as good as if he knew how. He does it a little awkward; but somehow, Chetty couldn't seem to get through.