 Down through the garden where the ring was set up, there were perhaps three dozens of us, maybe 50 altogether, counting the trainers, the seconds, the referee, and all of them, of course, in on my little scheme, except just one, Mr. Stan Pierce. Fortunately, they weren't all on my payroll. They were friends, gamblers, confidence men, they're girls, anxious to do me a favor and anxious, too, to watch the fun. Fighters in the ring now, referees talking, then I have to watch them, but I have to watch Pierce, too. First round. Fighters pretending just to peel each other out.