“Morning,” he said, “do you know the fighting game?”
“You mean pugilistically?”
“Yes.”
“I used to do fights.”
Varce went on presently:
“A great series of articles is to be written on the boyhood and general atmosphere of the men who have made great ring history—big stuff, you know—well written—from a man who can see the natural phenomena of these bruisers—how they are bred and all that. Now three things go into the fighter—punch, endurance, but, most of all, instinct—the stuff that doesn’t let him ‘lay down’ when the going is rough, and doesn’t keep him from putting the wallop on a groggy opponent. Many a good fighter has missed championship because he was too tender-hearted to knock-out a helpless——”
“Do you like that story of mine you have, Varce?” Morning asked yawning.
“Oh, it’s a good enough story—a bit socialistic—what are you trying to get at?”
“No need of me furnishing diagrams, if the manuscript leaves you that way,” Morning said. “You were just saying about the last touch to a beating—yes, I’ve heard about those three things——”
“Do you want the series?”