Lights flash up and the crowd roars as two men come back into the ring for the last fall. They stand for a moment in their corners, shifting their feet in the rosin, then turn upon each other as the bell clangs. They come together warily. The little man steps in suddenly and shoots a mule-kick to the pit of the stomach. The big ogre roars with pain, points a finger at the referee, implores the crowd. As he does this the little man flashes in to kick him again, harder. This time the ogre drops to the floor roaring pitifully. The crowd cheers its delight as the little man dives on top of him, pulls him up, slaps him down, jumps on him, and finally settles down to a toe hold. The ogre rolls his eyes, beats the canvas with his fists, tries to crawl to the ropes.

"Break his legs," begs the crowd, "Rub his back! Get the hairs on his stomach!"

A symphony of sadism--ended when the big man gets to the ropes and is released. He lies on the lap of the ring, rubbing his legs and making gestures of pain and helplessness. The referee begins to count. "Get back in there you yellow dog!" The ogre stands up outside the ropes, bares his teeth, climbs back into the ring. With blood-freezing deliberation he stalks his little opponent, seizes him, takes him over to the ropes and drops him out onto the concrete. As his victim is clambering back into the ring the ogre grabs him by the head and tosses him, uppercuts him as he tries to rise, brains him with a rabbit punch, kicks him in the head, picks him up, whirls him around, slams him down and falls on him to win as the crowd calliopes its approval.

A Dartmouth senior in the second row nudges the man beside him. "Hell," he says, "I could smear that big set-up in five minutes."

"Want to try?"

"Anytime."

A month later Sonnenberg and his billy-goat butt are on their way to the top.

Tonight being Friday the Vagabond plans to relax. Dinner in town and on to the wrestling at the Garden.