Benny said "Hi," and ambled off. "Well, boy, this one means a lot to both of us," Milt said. "Sure," was all Frankie could answer. "For you, the first Ten-Time Defender the heavyweight division has ever produced. For me, The Hall of Boxing Fame." "You want that pretty bad, don't you, Milt?" "Yeah, I guess I do, Frankie, but not bad enough to win it the wrong way." Frankie's head jerked up. "What do you mean, the wrong way?" Milt scowled and looked as though he wished he hadn't said that. He turned his head and stared hard at his fighter. "There's something we maybe ought to have talked about, Frankie." "What's that?" Milt struggled for words. "It's just--oh, hell! Forget it. Just forget I said anything." "You figure we win tonight?" "I think maybe we will." "You don't seem very sure. On points, huh?" "Yeah, maybe on points." Milt turned his eyes back on Frankie's eager face. "Frankie, boy--there's something about being a Ten-Time Defender that's, well--different." Milt took a deep breath and was evidently ready to tell Frankie exactly what he meant. But Frankie broke in, his voice low and tense. "Milt--" "Yes?" "When I get in there tonight--turn me loose!" Milt was startled at the words. "Release _control_?" "Yeah--sure. I think I can take Nappy Gordon on my own!" "Nappy can stick his fist through a brick wall--all night long. And Pop Monroe knows all there is to know and some he makes up himself. They'd be a tough pair to beat. Our big ace is that they have to beat us. We _got_ the Nine-Times." "I can take him, Milt!" There was a strange light in Milt's eyes. He did not speak and Frankie went on. "Just one round, Milt! If I slip you can grab control again." "You just want a try at it, huh?" There seemed to be disappointment in Milt's voice; something Frankie couldn't understand. Milt seemed suddenly nervous, ill-at-ease. But Frankie was too eager to give it much attention. "How about it, Milt--huh?" Milt had been squatting on the sand. He got to his feet and looked out across the water. "All right. Maybe we'll try it." He seemed sad as he walked away. Frankie, occupied with his own elation, didn't notice ... * * * * * In the studio dressing room, a few hours later Milt and Frankie were warming up. Frankie in the practice ring and Milt perched on a high chair just outside the ropes. Everything was just as it would be in the fight. Three minutes work, one minute rest. Frankie noticed how slowly and carefully Milt was working him, and how he watched the clock. Frankie had nothing to do now but watch, as a spectator would; watch as Milt moved him around. Milt could control every muscle, every move and every reflex of his body. It had taken them five years to perfect this routine. That was the training period at the College of Boxing, and was prescribed by law.