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All grace, and resilience, and power resided therein. He had proved it in scores of battles. His photographs were in all the physical culture magazines. A groan went up as Spider Hagerty peeled Rivera's sweater over his head. His body seemed leaner, because of the swarthiness of the skin. He had muscles, but they made no display like his opponent's.
And they were chilled, as well, with certitude that theirs was the losing corner. "Now you gotta be careful," Spider Hagerty warned him. Spider was his chief second. "Make it last as long as you can them's my instructions from Kelly. If you don't, the papers'll call it another bum fight and give the game a bigger black eye in Los Angeles." All of which was not encouraging.
Spider Hagerty talked advice to him, but Rivera knew it was wrong advice. Everybody was against him. He was surrounded by treachery. In the fourteenth round he put Danny down again, and himself stood resting, hands dropped at side, while the referee counted. In the other corner Rivera had been noting suspicious whisperings. He saw Michael Kelly make his way to Roberts and bend and whisper.
And he could see the strange evenings, when workmen, coming secretly in the dark like men who did ill deeds, met with his father and talked long hours where he, the muchacho, lay not always asleep in the corner. As from a remote distance he could hear Spider Hagerty saying to him: "No layin' down at the start. Them's instructions. Take a beatin' and earn your dough."
Kelly demanded angrily. "You lose, anyway," Spider Hagerty supplemented. "The referee'll take it away from you. Listen to Kelly, and lay down." "Lay down, kid," Kelly pleaded, "and I'll help you to the championship." Rivera did not answer. "I will, so help me, kid." At the strike of the gong Rivera sensed something impending. The house did not.
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