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matter pays as big dividends in the prize ring as it does in any other game, and many's the battle-scarred old veteran is in there now takin' on the top-notchers for big guarantees and stallin' off these hard-hittin' but slow-thinkin' young bruisers by simply outguessin' 'em, just as Christy Mathewson pitched winnin' ball long after he was past his prime by usin' his head as somethin' more than a convenient place to hang his cap. It's a real treat to watch the master ring artist (not the knock-'em-dead slugger) at work. Fast as wireless, cool as a January breeze, merciless as a famished tiger, he can do with a pair of four-ounce gloves what the average guy might accomplish with a baseball bat and a ax. He goes around his man like a co-oper around a barrel, makin' him dizzy with lightin' feints and slashin' him to ribbons with jabs that cut and sting like the flick of a bull whip in the hands of a master mule skinner.

The razzin' of the mob which resents his cleverness and craves blood and knockdowns worries him the same way they worry in Hades over the price of foot warmers. He's there for business, and from his expression you'd think him and the guy he's swappin'