Beta Book

You're a' right, Bill."
"Right," commended Morton.
Armored with Satan's praise, firm but fearful in his rubber
sneakers, surprised and shocked to find himself here doing this,
Bill Wrenn squared at the rowdy. The moon touched sadly the
lightly sketched Anglesey coast and the rippling wake, but Bill
Wrenn, oblivious of dream moon and headland, faced his
fellow-bruiser.
They circled. Pete stuck out his foot gently. Morton sprang
in, bawling furiously, "None o' them rough-and-tumble tricks."
"Right-o," added McGarver.
Pete scowled. He was left powerless. He puffed and grew dizzy
as Bill Wrenn danced delicately about him, for he could do
nothing without back-street tactics. He did bloody the nose of
Bill and pummel his ribs, but many cigarettes and much whisky
told, and he was ready to laugh foolishly and make peace when,
at the end of the sixth round, he felt Bill's neat little fist
in a straight--and entirely accidental--rip to the point of
his jaw.
Pete sent his opponent spinning with a back-hander which awoke
all the cruelty of the terrible Bill.


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