Bush’s back was to me. He wrestled Cooper around, shoving him into the ropes, so he⁠—Bush⁠—faced my way.

From somewhere far back in another part of the house another yelling voice came:

“Back to Philly, Al.”

MacSwain, I supposed.

A drunk off to one side lifted his puffy face and bawled the same thing, laughing as if it were a swell joke. Others took up the cry for no reason at all except that it seemed to disturb Bush.

His eyes jerked from side to side under the black bar of his eyebrows.

One of Cooper’s wild mitts clouted the slim boy on the side of the jaw.

Ike Bush piled down at the referee’s feet.