Then, drawing their
chairs together, they sat down, and Ravenslee, by an adroit question
or two, soon had them talking, the Spider quick and eager and chewing
voraciously, Joe soft-voiced and deliberate but speaking with that calm
air of finality that comes only of long and varied experience. So, while
Ravenslee smoked and listened, they spoke of past battles, of fights and
fighters old and new; they discoursed learnedly on ringcraft, they
discussed the merits of the crouch as opposed to the stiff leg and
straight left; they stood up to show tricks of foot and hand--cunning
shifts and feints; they ducked and side-stepped and smote the empty air
with whirling fists to the imminent peril of the owl that was a parrot,
which moth-eaten relic seemed to watch them with his solitary glass eye.
And ever the Spider's respect and admiration for the mild-eyed,
quiet-spoken champion waxed and grew.
"Bo!" said he, dexterously catching the toppling bird, glass case and
all, for the second time, and addressing Ravenslee with it clasped to
his heart, "bo," he repeated, his eyes shining, "I guess Joe Madden, the
greatest battler of 'em all, is--Joe Madden still.
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