“Can you do him, Murph?” he whispered.
“Sure!” said the handler. “Them kind's always as slow as dray-horses. They gets muscle-bound.”
“Give it to him,” said Gerald, “but don't kill him. He's a friend of mine.”
Then he stepped back, the same joy in his soul that inspires a riverman when he encounters a high-banker; a hunter when he takes out a greenhorn, or a cowboy as he watches the tenderfoot about to climb the bronco.
“Time!” said he.
The first round was sharp. When Gerald called the end, Orde grinned at him cheerfully.
“Don't look like I was much at this game, does it?” said he. “I wouldn't pull down many persimmons out of that tree. Your confounded man's too lively; I couldn't hit him with a shotgun.”
Orde had stood like a rock, his feet planted to the floor, while Murphy had circled around him hitting at will. Orde hit back, but without landing. Nevertheless Murphy, when questioned apart, did not seem satisfied.
“The man's pig-iron,” said he. “I punched him plenty hard enough, and it didn't seem to jar him.”
The gallery at one end the running track had by now half filled with interested spectators.