Almost naked, they wandered round the arena,
mountains of flesh glistening in the electric light. A little man, all
puffed up like a poulter pigeon, then advanced into the middle of the
arena, and was greeted with wild applause from the gallery. To this he
bowed and then announced in a terrific voice, "Gentlemen, you are about
to see some of the most magnificent wrestling in the world. Allow me to
introduce to you the combatants." He then shouted out the names: "Ivan
Strogoff of Kiev--Paul Rosing of Odessa--Jacob Smyerioff of
Petrograd--John Meriss from Africa (this the most hideous of
negroes)--Karl Tubiloff of Helsingfors...." and so on. The gentlemen
named smirked and bowed. They all marched off, and then, in a moment,
one couple returned, shook hands, and, under the breathless attention
of the whole house, began to wrestle.
They did not, however, command my attention. I could think of nothing
but the little crushed figure next to me. I stole a look at her and saw
that a large tear was hanging on one eyelash ready to fall. I looked
hurriedly away. Poor child! And her birthday! I cursed Lawrence for his
clumsiness.
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