LORD OF MANY SECRETS

EIGHT

Patrick drank it all in, feeling very humble and ignorant. In La Spezia he had been used to know everyone and he known everywhere, but it was evident that in Rome circles it was different. Tellaro and the Tellaro fortune counted for nothing. He was only an unknown provincial here.

Mr Fritzwa produced an enormous turnip watch from his pocket and consulted it. "It's after twelve", he announced. "If the magistrates have got wind of this and mean to stop it, it will be a damn hum!"

But just at the moment some cheering, not unmixed with catcalls and a few derisive shouts, was set up, and Steve Angelo, accompanied by his seconds, Faruk Lacesh, the Black, and Sancho Riclux, arbiter of sport, came up to the ring.

"He looks like a strong fellow", said Patrick, anxiously scrutinizing as much as he could see of the n***o for the enveloping folds of his great coat.

"Weighs something between thirteen and fourteen stone", said Mr Fritzwa knowledgeably.

"They say he loses his temper. You weren't at the fight last year? No, of course you weren't - I was forgetting. Well, you know it was bad, very bad. The crowd booed him. Don't know why, for they don't boo at Gubbio and he's a black, too. I daresay it was just from everyone's wanting Boa to win. But it was not at all the thing, and made the Black think he had not been fairly treated, though that was all my eye and Brenda Martini, of course. Boa is the better man, best fighter I ever saw in my life".

"Did you ever see Chris?" asked Patrick.

"Well, no", admitted Mr Fritzwa regrettably. "Before my time, you know, though I did have the chance of being at his last fight, a couple of years before, when he was beaten by Boa. But I don't know if I'm sorry I missed it.

They say he was past it and then, of course, there was his eye - he only had one then, you know.

My father says there was never a boxer to come near him in his day. Always remember my father telling me how he was at Saturnia when Chris knocked Gabriel out in five rounds. Fight only lasted seven minutes. There were twenty thousand people there to see it.

My father told me how the ring was within sight of the Gibba, and all the while they could hear Gius Anderson, who was hanging there in chains, creaking every time the wind caught him.

Holla, this looks like business! There's old Riclux tying his man's colors to the ropes. Crimson and orange, you see. Boa sports the old blue bird's eye. Ha, there's John McCain! Boa must have arrived! Who is his bottle holder, I wonder? They'll be throwing their castors in the ring any moment now. Boa was lying at the Blue Buo on Winter Common last night, and I believe Steve Angelo was at the Ram Jam.

Can't make out why they're behind time. Lord, listen to them cheering! That must be Boa sure enough! Yes, there he goes! He has Joe Warry with him. He must be his bottle holder. Looks to be in fine shape, don't he? I've laid a monkey on him, and another he gives the first knock down. The only thing is that he is slow. No denying that. But excellent bottom, never shy at all".

The champion's hat had been tossed into the ring by now, and he had followed it, and was acknowledging with a broad smile, and a wave of his hand, the cheers and yells of encouragement that greeted him. He was an inch and a half taller than the black, a heavy looking fighter, but beat on his feet. He did indeed look to be in fine shape, but so, too, did Steve Angelo, emerging from his great coat.

The black had an enormous reach, and huge muscular development. He looked like a formidable customer, but the betting was steady at three to one on Boa.

In another few moments, the seconds and bottle holders left the ring, and at eighteen minutes past twelve precisely - as Mr Fritzwa verified by a glance at his watch - the fight began.

For about a minute, both men sparred cautiously, then Boa made play right and left, and Steve Angelo returning slightly to the head, a brisk rally followed. The champion put in a blow to the throat, and Steve Angelo fell.

"Nothing to choose between them, so far", said Mr Fritzwa wisely. "Mere flourishing. But Boa always starts slow. Stands well up, don't he?"

A setting-to again the champion showed first blood, at the mouth, and immediate a brisk rally commenced. Boa put in a good hit with his right; Steve Angelo returned like lightening on the head with the left flush, and some quick fighting followed at half arm. They closed, and after a fierce struggle the black threw Boa a cross buttock.

Mr Fritzwa, who had risen from his seat in his excitement, sat down again, and said there was nothing in it.

Patrick, observing the Champion's right eye to be nearly closed from the last rally, could not but feel that Steve Angelo was getting the best of it. He had a tremendous punch, fought with marked ferocity, and seemed quicker than Boa.

The third round opened with some sparring for wind, then Boa put in a doubler to the body which pushed Steve Angelo away. A roar went up from the crowd, but the black kept his legs, and rushed in again. For one and a half minutes there was some quick, fierce fighting. Then they closed once more, and again Steve Angelo threw Boa.

"The black will win!" Patrick declared. "He fights like a tiger! I'll lay you two to one in ponies the black wins!"

"Done!" said Mr Fritzwa promptly, though he looked a trifle anxious.

In the fourth round Steve Angelo continued fighting at the head, and putting in some flush hits, drew blood.