Course, it was kind of a low down game to put up on anybody; but Curlylocks wa'n't outclassed any in height, nor much in weight; and, seein' as how he'd kind of laid himself open to something of the sort, I didn't feel as bad as I might. All the time, Chester was tryin' to keep the grin off his face, and his chums was most wearin' their elbows out nudgin' each other. "Now," says I, when I've got Curlylocks ready for the slaughter, "what'll it be--two-minute rounds?" "Quite satisfactory," says Sylvie; and Chetty nods. "Then let 'er go!" says I, steppin' back. One thing I've always coached Chester on, was openin' lively. It don't make any difference whether the mitts are hard or soft, whether it's a go to a finish or a private bout for fun, there's no sense in wastin' the first sixty seconds in stirrin' up the air. The thing to do is to bore in. And Chester didn't need any urgin'. He cuts loose with both bunches, landin' a right on the ribs and pokin' the left into the middle of Sylvie's map; so sudden that Mr. Poet heaves up a grunt way from his socks. "Ah, string it out, Chetty," says I. "String it out, so's it'll last longer." But he's like a hungry kid with a hokypoky sandwich,--he wants to take it all at one bite. And maybe if I'd been as much gone on Angelica as he was, and had been put on a siding for this moonlight po'try business, I'd been just as anxious. So he wades in again with as fine a set of half arm jolts as he has in stock. By this time Sylvie has got his guard up proper, and is coverin' himself almost as good as if he knew how. He does it a little awkward; but somehow, Chetty couldn't seem to get through. "Give him the cross hook!" sings out one of the boys. Chester tries, but it didn't work. Then he springs another rush, and they goes around like a couple of pinwheels, with nothin' gettin' punished but the gloves. "Time!" says I, and leads Sylvie over to a chair. He was puffin' some, but outside of that he was as good as new. "Good blockin', old man," says I. "You're doin' fine. Keep that up and you'll be all right." "Think so?" says he, reachin' for the towel. The second spasm starts off different. Curlylocks seems to be more awake than he was, and the first thing we knows he's fiddlin' for an openin' in the good old fashioned way. "And there's where you lose out, son," thinks I. I hadn't got through thinkin' before things begun happenin'. Sylvie seems to unlimber from the waist up, and his arms acted like he'd let out an extra link in 'em. Funny I hadn't noticed that reach of his before. For a second or so he only steps around Chester, shootin' out first one glove and then the other, and plantin' little love pats on different parts of him, as if he was locatin' the right spots.