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Updated: April 30, 2025
He'd fight and try to think it out at the same time. He rose and coughed, sick at his stomach and sat suddenly down. But Holliday'd not hit him so hard that time, it seemed. Just pushed him maybe. That was the game let him wear himself out! He got up again. Then he noticed another thing. The crowd had been screaming, "Kill him! Kill him!" for hours and hours.
He thought it was laughter which doubled him up; then found he was deathly sick. Was this the floor he was lying upon, or a table? Because if it was the floor he'd have to get up; he didn't know whether he could make it again or not but he'd be a game guy and try. They were holding him? All right, let it go at that. Holliday'd not got up either.
Holliday'd been playing for his good eye, till that was practically closed, too, and he couldn't see distinctly, couldn't see much of anything. He'd grope for him he did it and got up again! They were shouting something else now. Could not suit 'em. "Take him out take him out!" Who, him? He cursed at them, nor knew that he merely gibbered from frightful lips.
He knew that Montague'd cut him to pieces. Holliday'd have tore off his lid. So I swung him to you. "And why? Because I thought you'd listen to reason. Oh, you don't believe it. Ask Dunham. Are you still such a hick that you don't know he was behind that match? Why, he's behind 'em all nine tenths of 'em. His bankroll is." "Whose right hand was it put Fanchette but?" asked Perry mildly.
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