Barney advanced cautiously, his gloved hands out, aware of the other’s far greater reach, watching his opponent’s eyes as well as his gloves. Armando held one arm straight before him like a battering ram on a ship; his other fist was cocked at his side, ready for a roundhouse swing that would end the fight and allow him to return to the Queen’s Hotel for supper. Armando had to admire the courage of the little man, but in view of his having to fight that afternoon he had forgone dessert at lunch, and was in a hurry to get back to some food. Had the fight been held in the circus tent, and admissions charged, Armando might have considered drawing the fight out for three or even four rounds, to give the customers something for their money, but this crowd was seeing the fight free, and Armando felt no responsibility toward them. So better to get it over with and go home.
The big Angolan made a pawing motion with his outstretched glove, inviting some response, an attempt to entice the smaller man to counter and thus come within reach of his other, cocked fist. He pawed the air invitingly again, and then was surprised to receive a sharp blow to his unprotected stomach. For a moment he did not resent having missed the dessert and even wondered if all that much lunch had been necessary, but he put the thought away at once. Food was the thing that made his job interesting; besides, the blow hadn’t bothered him at all, and how had the little man gotten close enough to him to strike the blow without having been seen? He lowered his outstretched arm a bit to protect the huge and bulging expanse of his stomach and in response received a sharp and painful rap on his nose. And there, in front of him, dancing about lightly and looking as if he hadn’t moved from that spot, was his opponent.
Well, Armando thought, his feelings hurt as much as, if not more than, his nose, we can’t have much of that, can we? One good solid punch should teach the little man some respect. He moved in more determinedly, resolved to get the final blow in before the round ended; he pulled back his arm and let go with all his might at the face that was just before him, but suddenly the face wasn’t there and the big man almost lost his balance with the force of the blow. And then there was a painful blow to the side of his face followed at once by a punch in his kidneys while he was straightening up.
Armando stepped back, a bit puzzled by this unexpected style of fighting. Usually everyone he fought was of a decent size and tried to knock his head off, but only the head; and with his greater reach and greater strength he always got to the other’s head first, and that was that. But here was a little man who kept pecking away at his belly and his kidneys. We’ll have to watch that, Armando said to himself, and then heard the doctor’s whistle. He walked to his corner and sat down on the stool his second had hastily thrust into the ring. His second was the owner of the circus and he didn’t like the way the first round had gone. He didn’t like the fact that there were no admission prices going into the circus till, as well.
“I know he’s small,” he said to Armando in Portuguese, “and I know you’re soft-hearted. But enough of this nonsense! Take him this round!” The circus owner had made his own wager, after seeing Barney, that the fight would not go two rounds. He figured he had at least one round’s security in that bet; now that security was gone. It was bad enough the fight was not earning him a penny in admissions; he had no intention of losing the bet, especially since he had given extremely high odds, and to the brother of the other fighter, yet! “This round!” he repeated direly, and took the stool from beneath Armando as his fighter stood up.
“Sim,” Armando said equably, and nodded. Whatever the boss said was all right with him. It seemed a pity, though, to hurt the game little man, but without hurting him in some way how could he end the fight in that round? Still, Armando thought philosophically, that was what happened to challengers. It was the way of life. He glanced across the ring, waiting for the whistle. In the opposite corner Barney was leaning back against the ropes, completely relaxed, staring out over the crowd, apparently either unaware or unafraid of the beating he was about to take. A pity! Armando thought, and glanced about. The crowd was buzzing loudly; money was being exchanged. Apparently some had bet that the little man wouldn’t even last the single round. Armando was not sorry for them; the little man deserved to last at least one round, even with him. He bit back a slight yawn, remembering that he had not had his usual nap after his large lunch, and then straightened up as the whistle blew for the start of the second round.
Barney moved from his corner, his face still expressionless, his narrowed blue eyes steady on Armando’s big, round, peasant face. Armando wondered just how he could put the little man out of action the least painful way and still earn his boss’s approval. But he was concentrating on the matter too much. There was a quick movement on Barney’s part and Armando felt his nose sting again, this time even more painfully than the last, followed almost instantly by a hard blow to the soft, unprotected belly. And then — amazing! — the little man was away and moving again, gloves up, ready, waiting for the next opportunity.
Armando was puzzled. He was also a bit irked by this constant attention to his lower body, which was beginning to hurt. If this kept up, he might not even enjoy his supper! How did the little man move so quickly? He was like a gato, a cat! Still, other than the blows to the stomach, none of the others had bothered him overly, and if that was the hardest the little man could hit, then it was merely a matter of time. The thing to do was to crowd the little man into a corner where he couldn’t escape so quickly from one of his attacks, and then simply end the match with one blow.
Armando brought his gloved fists up into a closer approximation of his opponent’s stance and shuffled forward, bending his elbows as Barney had his bent, to partially protect that huge stomach while his large hands covered his face. So intent was the large Armando on placing his arms and fists in the best position for maximum defense that Barney had ample opportunity to catch him a stiff jab to the kidneys, followed at once by a swift cross to the stomach, before stepping smartly away. Armando could not help but grimace, but he continued to keep pressing forward, his original plan of herding Barney into a corner in no way changed. Over Barney’s shoulder the big Armando could see Dr. Mathews, the whistle in one hand, alternately consulting the action in the ring and the watch in his other hand. Then, completely to Armando’s surprise, he thought he heard the whistle sound, although from experience he felt the round could not be over as yet. Besides, the whistle remained in the doctor’s fingers, far from his lips. An echo inside his head, Armando decided; the little man had hit him harder the last time than he had supposed. He went back to his job and then saw, to his surprise, that the little man had somehow dropped his guard and was actually turning away. A mistake, Armando thought, sorry for his opponent, and his huge fist, automatically taking advantage of the unexpected opening, crashed into the side of Barney’s head. Barney dropped.
Around the ring the spectators were screaming in furious anger. Dr. Mathews was staring at the culprit, his face red with anger. “Mr. Cohen, sir! You are drunk! You blew that whistle! You will hand it over at once, sir, do you hear me?”
Some of the crowd were trying to reach the culprit, eager to avenge the unsportsmanlike conduct they had witnessed; the rest were trying in their drunken stupor to discover what had happened, what the fuss was all about. Lou Cohen, now suddenly sober, had managed to get to the doctor’s side for protection. He turned to the doctor, relieved but furious, the normal reaction of one who has managed to reach safety after a dire threat.