Apparently everything was in order in the present case; for Cluett, his hands thrust in the pockets of his bath-robe, stepped to the centre of the roped space to speak to the referee and to Masterman, his manager. Facing him, on the referee's left, stood the man who was to be his first opponent—a stocky fellow, whose calves, showing underneath the frayed edge of the old dressing-gown he wore, were more those of a football-player than a boxer.
"Nothin' but a big ox," said Miss Yockley, with a sniff; "Nick'll play with him a little, and then push him over. The gink will have some bother fallin' down, with them size feet. Maybe he'll go to sleep standin' up. Funny things happens in the ring sometimes, kiddo."
In a moment or two, the fighters stepped back to their corners, threw off their wraps, and stood forth in abbreviated trunks. It was seen that the build of Cluett's opponent bore out the promise of his calves. He was heavy-muscled and broad of chest; thick-necked, and with a hard-looking chin that moved to the chewing of gum.
About the physique of Cluett himself, as he stood at ease, his arms lightly hanging, there was nothing remarkable, except that one shoulder seemed to be a little lower than the other. His muscles flowed along his limbs instead of standing out in knots and ridges. Standing unposed, with his perennial smile and his almost sleepy expression of eye, he looked like a somewhat indolent schoolboy, about to take a dip in a peaceful swimming-pool.
"That big thing over in the other chair will hurt him," said Daisy, anxiously; "why don't they make the big fellow take somebody his own size?"
"Don't talk," said Miss Yockley, briefly, "just sit still and watch. It ain't our Nick that's going to get hurt, honey."
But Daisy exclaimed aloud, and even the confident Miss Yockley herself almost winced, as Hobday, the big man, after a bare touch of Cluett's glove in the customary preliminary handshake, struck upward immediately and without warning. As the quick treacherous upper-cut shot toward Nick's chin, Bob Masterman, who could move with a marvellous quickness for all his avoirdupois, when occasion seemed to demand speed, jumped up from his seat and thrust his head through between the ropes, ready to shout his protest to the referee.
But, before Mr. Masterman made a sound, a glove, at the end of a slim smooth-muscled arm, waved him away with a backward gesture. Nick Cluett, untouched, slid his manager a corner of a smile as he stepped lightly backward, just far enough to be missed by Hobday's left, which followed that gentleman's unsuccessful right in a brisk second try for Cluett's jaw-point. Nick's guard was languidly low, and on his face was an almost dreamy look which a group of Hobday's backers in the front orchestra seats evidently took for an expression of daze; for, "Finish him, Jim! He's all yours, boy!" they yelled lustily.
Bob Masterman stole a look at Cluett's face. In the centre of the never-changing smile, he saw the mouth-corner drawn up in a dry, calculating way. The manager's momentary flicker of anxiety passed. He leaned back, folded his arms, grinned, and waited.