“Pant,” Johnny shot at his friend one night, “what are you here for?”
“Same back to you,” smiled Pant. “What are you here for? You’re not a circus man. What interest can you have in learning to box a bear?”
“It’s deeper than that,” smiled Johnny. “It’s a matter of honor. There are three girls in that circus I must get on speaking terms with. The only way to do that is to become a performer.”
“Oh! It’s a skirt!”
“Not exactly—only a diamond ring.”
“A ring?”
“Yes, listen,” and Johnny proceeded to tell his story.
“That’s interesting,” said Pant, “and I think I can help you. In fact, I think I am safe in promising to tell you in time which of the three girls has the ring.”
“You tell me? How?”
“Leave that to me. I have ways of finding things out. It can’t be done here, though; on the road, perhaps, or at a one-night stand. Wait and see.
“And now,” continued Pant, “I want you to promise to help me with my own mystery. It is a much deeper and far more important affair. You know the type of people that follow the circus?”
Johnny nodded.
“Well, mixed with these little crooks is a big one—a forger, a master counterfeiter. His work is so good, as you know yourself, that it can be passed on La Salle street, and that’s going some. I have several samples of his work. I know they are counterfeits, yet there is not a defect except the slight lack of color. They are technically perfect. One would almost say they were photographs of the real thing. These bonds are being secretly passed out even here in Chicago. When we get out into the safer small cities, I have no doubt the state will be flooded with them. It’s an easy game. You know how they work it: Circus employee has a bond he has been saving, money all gone, must sell at a sacrifice. Greedy rubes snatch them up. And the worst of it is, they are so perfect that only in cases where two of the same number chance to come together will they be detected. With the vast number of genuine bonds in the country, this is likely never to happen. So there you are. Why, I doubt if even the Treasury Department itself could detect them. And this Black McCree is at the bottom of it all.”
“How do you know that?” Johnny bent forward eagerly.
Pant smiled. “He has a foolish habit of scrawling his name about. He made the mistake of scribbling it on one of the bonds which later came into my hands. He’s known to the police the country over, not so much as counterfeiter, however, as a ‘Red’—a dynamiter of the worst type. He has more than once left his scribbled name above a ghastly piece of work. That is all they know of him. He has never been identified. Just why he has decided to take up the life of a sane crook and enter the forging game, I can’t tell unless—by George! I believe I have it! Yes, sir! It’s a financial plot!”
“How’s that?” Johnny asked.
“Can’t you see? Our country is deeply in debt. Every town and city is flooded with national credit slips in the form of Liberty Bonds. A nation’s credit is its life. Now, if some slick fellow can fill the safety boxes of the land with bogus bonds, what is to become of the country’s credit? In time government bonds cannot be sold at any price, for the would-be purchaser cannot tell whether he is buying a genuine bond or a counterfeit.”
“I see,” breathed Johnny.
“And yet,” mused Pant, “it may not be a plot, after all. Perhaps this Black McCree thinks he has discovered a way to get rich quick, and has dropped his radical notions. They mostly drop them when they fall heir to a piece of money. But, anyway,” he straightened up with a jerk, “we’ve got to get him.”
“What’s he like?” asked Johnny.
“That’s what no one knows. He’s never been seen. He may be large or small. He may be, for instance, a certain husky conman with a ragged ear.”
“The very chap,” exclaimed Johnny. “He’s a crook, all right. I caught him in a crooked deal the other day. We had a little boxing match.”
“You can’t be sure he’s the man,” smiled Pant. “Small crooks seldom do big jobs, and big crooks don’t operate con games. Yet he’ll bear watching. He may be doing that as a blind.
“There’s another fellow, though,” Pant went on, “a midget clown—Tom Stick, a queer little chap. He’s the prize of the circus. Dresses like a mosquito, and drives a huge elephant around the ring. Strange part about him is, he insists on living all by himself in a little house built on wheels. Far as I know, no one has ever been allowed inside that house of his. You see the chance, don’t you? He could have all kinds of an outfit in there, and no one would be the wiser. Of course, he wouldn’t sell many bonds himself; he’d pass ’em out through others.
“There’s a third fellow, a cook, the steam kettle cook, Andy McQueen. Don’t know so much about him. What I want you to do is to get acquainted with these men and see what you can find out. You’re on the inside, so you can do it. There’s another fellow, he’s—”
At that juncture the conversation was ended by the appearance of a party rounding a sand pile, and Johnny hastened back to the tented grounds.
“I’m crazy to get in my first performance,” he told himself. “If it’s successful, it’ll put me on even ground with Gwen, the Queen. Then we’ll see what we shall see. She looks mighty interesting, to say the least.”
Late that night Johnny Thompson was reminded for the hundredth time of his position as a serf among the knights and ladies of the circus. He was just passing into the now almost deserted big top when he came face to face with Millie Gonzales. In sudden embarrassment he was about to speak to her and doff his cap when, with chin in air, she swept past him.
Setting his teeth hard, Johnny hastened on. Only when he was at a safe distance did he give vent to his feelings.
“If it wasn’t for the ring, I wouldn’t stand for it,” he raged in a whisper, “I, I’d, well, I’d make her bite her own sharp tongue. Maybe,” he reflected, “maybe some time I will.”
The incident was soon forgotten, and it was not so long after that Johnny was made to realize that not all the ladies of the circus were like Millie, not even those who ranked above her.
In a dark corner of the tent, Johnny threw himself on a pile of netting to think. Life had grown strangely complicated for him since he had joined the show. Problems great and small lay before him for solving. It was like a lesson in algebra. There was the problem of boxing the bear. His ability to solve that problem would be tested all too soon, on the day after to-morrow. In some small city he would have his try-out. Depending upon the successful solving of this problem was the other and more important one, that of the ring. Who had it? Millie, the bareback rider, Mitzi, the trapeze performer, or Gwen, the dancing queen of the tight wire? Thus far he had not the slightest clue. If one of them had it, she never had worn it while Johnny was in sight. Could it be that the one in possession of it suspected him of seeking it? That did not seem probable.
“And yet,” he reflected, “stranger things have happened. She may have seen me make that foolhardy dash for it when the elephant flicked it from the chain.”
But at once his mind swept on to the third and most important problem of all—Pant’s problem, the problem of the counterfeit bonds. Pant had named three men who might be responsible, the conman of the ragged ear, the midget clown, the steam kettle cook. Johnny Thompson was one of the kind of fellows who, when they recognize a great and important problem, set themselves to solving it, leaving all minor difficulties to take care of themselves. As he lay there now, he realized that Pant’s problem had already become his; that for the time being, the ring might be all but forgotten. And yet he hoped that, as the more important and difficult problem was being solved, this one of lesser importance would work itself out.
“Well, anyway,” he mumbled, half rising, “my success at boxing the bear comes first, for unless I put that stunt across, I will have precious little chance to discover the whereabouts of the ring, or to help Pant run down the counterfeiter. To-morrow’s my last day of training. Me for my bunk.”
But just as he was about to get upon his feet he checked himself and sank back in his place. A vision had struck his eye—a vision of lithe wonder and beauty. It was dancing along a silver wire.
It was Gwen, Queen of the circus. The great tent was totally dark, save for the corner where she practiced. She had arranged a spot light in such a manner that its brilliant rays struck squarely across the tightly drawn wire, and there in that light, which was flashed back by her brilliant costume and her tossing umbrella, she was performing all unconscious that anyone was watching her.
Johnny Thompson thought he was the only onlooker, and perhaps at first he was. If so, it was not for long. Had he but known the nature of that other spectator, he might have leaped to his feet and rushed to warn the queen of her danger. Not knowing, he sat entranced by the wonderful apparition who seemed more a being of another world, or perhaps some tropical bird, as she flitted from end to end of that silver wire. Now she rose straight in air and, seeming to soar aloft, swept down to the wire again. And now she dropped upon her hands to bend and twist in a blinding whirl, while her gleaming parasol spun above her.
“Um,” Johnny breathed; then again, “Um!”
But what was that? He thought he detected a stealthy movement to the right of him. It might have been but the swaying of a tent pole shaken by the wind, but he kept his eyes upon the spot for some time. He had concluded it was nothing, and was about to turn his attention to the girl again, when the movement came again, this time closer at hand. At the same time he heard a sound that in a place less quiet to an untrained ear would be nothing at all. To Johnny it spoke of danger—perhaps danger to himself, perhaps to the girl. He thought of the counterfeiters. Did they know he had joined Pant in the task of hunting them down, and realizing his importance as an inside man, had they decided to do away with him at once? Or was this some enemy of the beautiful dancer?
Danger, Johnny had learned, loses much of its terror when squarely faced. He now threw himself upon the sawdust and began creeping, knife in hand, toward the spot from which the sound had come.
Ten feet he crawled, then paused to listen. In the stillness he heard the occasional creak of the wire, the spatter of the spot light. Then again he caught that gliding sound. It was retreating from him, moving closer to the girl. This time he crept twenty feet or more before he paused. Again the same sounds greeted his strained ears. Again the gliding sound. The creature, whether beast or human, traveling faster than he, must be not more than thirty feet from the swinging, swaying girl.
And now, like a flash, his eyes, for a moment relieved from the dancer’s dazzling light, saw the creature—a gaunt tawny beast it was, a tiger stalking human prey. For a second Johnny shivered and shrank back. How had this creature escaped? This he could not know. Its purpose was all too evident. Attracted by the gleam of the fairylike figure dancing on the wire, it was thinking only of breaking her bones with its yellow fangs.
Johnny paused for half a minute, then resumed his forward movement. Poorly armed as he was, he would not allow the beast to have its way unopposed.
Yet, after covering another yard or two, he paused. The girl was ten feet in air. Did the tiger have the power to leap that high? For a tiger of the jungle this would be no feat at all, but for this one of the cage, Johnny was in doubt. And Gwen? Did she have the iron nerve to keep on dancing down the wire with a great yellow beast leaping madly for her feet?
It was a tense moment. Every muscle in his body quivered. The hand that gripped his knife almost crushed the hilt.
The questions that surged through his brain were not long in being answered, for now, in the dim half light about her, the girl saw the beast. For one brief second her eyes were dilated with fear. The parasol, trembling, wavering, almost slipped from her grasp.
Johnny rose on one knee. “If she falls? If she falls?” he breathed silently.
But she did not fall. Seeming to summon all her nerve and strength, she held her parasol high and once more danced gracefully down the wire.
* * * * * * * *
Two hours before this moment in our story, Pant had left the circus grounds, and, crossing a viaduct over the tracks, had made his way down the avenue toward the river. As he cut across the roadway and lost himself down a dark alley near the river, he might have been heard saying to himself:
“The bear, driven from his lair, returns; the rabbit circles back to his brush pile; sometimes crooks return to their rendezvous. I wonder if they will this time? Well, we shall see what we shall see.”
He was by this time nearing a long, low-lying building that flanked the river. Before a door which was reached by three downward steps, he paused. All was dark, silent, mysterious. For a moment he listened intently, then after a hasty glance up and down the deserted alley, he darted to a low, narrow window. His efforts to lift the sash were fruitless. Quickly drawing a thin-bladed knife from his pocket, he inserted the blade beneath the catch. There was a click. The next instant Pant had lifted the sash, dived through and closed the window after him.
The room was utterly dark, yet he appeared to have no difficulty in finding his way about the place. Whether he had a previous knowledge of the building, was endowed with an instinctive sense of location of things, or could see in the dark, would have been a question too difficult for a casual thinker to answer. An observer, had there been one, might have said that the room had a strange way of flashing crimson for a fraction of a second, then becoming inky black again.
After moving about for a time, Pant doubled himself up and, creeping into the broad lower part of a dilapidated cupboard, closed the door behind him.
Ten minutes elapsed. A rat scurried over the uneven floor. Another creeping through a hole in the base of the cupboard, began rattling a loose bit of board about. Pant kicked at it. Then all was silent again.
Five minutes more passed. Three rats had ventured out upon the floor when, of a sudden, there sounded the rattle of a key in the outer door. The rats scurried away. Pant caught a quick breath, as he whispered:
“They return!”
A match was struck. A broad, fat face appeared at the door. The man’s small, beady eyes peered about the place for a moment, then he whispered back over his shoulder:
“All right. C’m’on.”
“Safe?”
“Sure!”
Two other men followed him. One was slim, the other broad shouldered. Pant almost let fall an exclamation, as he saw that the broad-shouldered one had a ragged ear.
“Perhaps Johnny’s right,” was his mental comment.
Through a hole left by what had once been a lock on the cupboard door, he could catch every move of the mysterious three.
Gathering around the table they proceeded at once to what appeared to be the task of the night. A flat tin affair was placed on the table. A tin cup from which the handle of a brush protruded was set down close to the pan. A roll of paper was produced. It was while this was being rolled backward and then drawn across the smooth edge of the table to make it straight that Pant felt something touch his hand. Barely checking a start, he held himself rigidly motionless. In an instant he realized that it was only a hungry rat. But in a minute he knew that this was quite bad enough, for the rat began to gnaw at his finger.
In the meantime, in the room the man of the ragged ear had taken the broad brush and moved it several times over the pan. He dipped the brush each time in the cup, as if applying a liquid. The fat man held a sheet of paper as if ready to spread it out upon the pan.
The rat persevered. He had gnawed his way through the tough outer skin of Pant’s finger, and had touched tender flesh when, with a sudden quick movement, Pant’s thumb closed down. He was not quick enough. The rat, whirling about, was caught only by the tail. With a piercing, almost human scream the rat struggled for freedom.
Instantly the room went dark. In that same instant, a hand groped for the door, behind which Pant was concealed. Pant had hoped to strangle the rat without a sound. In this he had failed. Just what he was in for now, he could not even guess.
In the dim half light, as Johnny crouched in the sawdust ring, knife in hand, he saw the tiger lash his tail as he prepared for a spring. He saw the girl dancing on the wire, twirling her parasol as she danced. His mind whirled. Was this all a dream? Was it but a moving picture flashed upon the screen? He shook himself. No, there were the colors in the girl’s costume, the red that came and went in her cheek, and there were the wonderful colors in the coat of that giant cat. It was real, and the cat was preparing for a spring. Should he cry out? Attract the beast’s attention, then stand for battle? To do so meant sudden death. No man armed with a knife could hope to defeat a tiger.
On the other hand, what if he waited? Could the tiger leap ten feet in air? If he could, what then? The girl had nerve; Johnny could see that. There was a strong chance that the tiger could not reach her. He would wait.
Suddenly into that brilliant circle of light there shot upward a tawny, gleaming body. The tiger had leaped square at the girl. Johnny’s heart stood still. There came an audible gasp from the girl. The cruel fangs of the beast flashed in the light. Up, up he rose, five feet, six, seven, eight. Now his great paws flashed at the girl’s feet. An instant of suspense ended with a gasp of relief. The tiger had missed.
For a fraction of a second the girl teetered on the wire. She seemed about to lose her balance and fall, but she at once regained her composure, and, with a smile upon her lips, such as she threw to admiring spectators, she tripped again along the wire.
“Bravo!” Johnny’s lips formed the word, but he did not say it.
Again the tiger crouched for a spring. The girl was gaining self-control. Estimating the position of the tiger, she tripped away from him. Angered, the tiger roared savagely, gave two short jumps, then leaped straight and high.
With a little cry, half of fear, half of defiance, the girl sprang in air. The next instant the tiger’s paw touched the wire. One breathless second the girl appeared to hover in air, then she dropped. Her toe touched the vibrating wire. She slipped. She uttered a low moan.
Just at that moment the spot light blinked suddenly out, leaving the great tent in utter darkness.
* * * * * * * *
For a few moments after the candle was extinguished in the mysterious room down by the river Pant remained motionless. Then, as a groping hand found the door to his hiding place, he leaped into spring-steel-like action. The cupboard door banged open. A sudden flash of red light was followed by the dull thud of a body striking the floor. A second flash produced the same result. A chair clattered to the floor. The street door swung suddenly open, then banged shut again. A fugitive figure sought cover in the shadows of a dark corner of the building.
“Are you shot?” came a gruff voice from within.
“Thought I was, but guess I ain’t.”
“So did I.”
“There wasn’t any report.”
“A red flame, and a biff that floored!”
There followed sounds of movement. A match was struck. For a moment a light flickered in the room, then three heads appeared at the door. Mounting to the third step, the leader glanced quickly up and down the street. Then, followed by his two companions, he darted away.
“Some rotten luck,” grumbled Pant, for it was he who lurked in the corner.
Without a light, he again entered the room. When he came out a short time later, he was straightening out a bit of crumpled paper.
* * * * * * * *
For Johnny, after the spot light in the circus tent blinked out, an agony of suspense followed. The girl—had she dropped? The tiger—was he now about to spring? Without a light Johnny could do nothing. A sudden wave of remorse overcame him. He blamed himself for not entering the struggle when the light was on.
But what was this? Could it be that his straining ear caught the sing of the wire, as the girl’s foot touched it in her wild dance? He listened. There could be no mistake about it. Even in the darkness she had regained her footing, was dancing down the wire.
But the tiger could see in the dark. She could not see his leaps. And he would leap again, Johnny was sure of that.
In this he was not mistaken, for, with sinking sensation, he heard the cat leave the ground. There followed no sound. Breathlessly he waited till he felt the slight shock of the cat as he dropped. Or was it Gwen?
At this time of uncertainty a weird thing happened. Seeming to come from a spot in mid air, a streak of crimson light flashed down at an angle toward the floor. For an instant, it turned the costume, the parasol, the face of the girl crimson; the next, it swept the crouching tiger with a flood of blood red light. With a growl of fear the beast shrank back. The light followed him. He rose and leaped away. He paused. The light was again upon him. With a wild snarl, he sprang away toward the far end of the tent.
As he lay there staring open-mouthed, Johnny heard the sputter of arc lights. In a moment the tent was ablaze with white lights. The dynamo had been started, the light turned on.
Johnny sprang to his feet, then facing about, looked for the girl. The next instant he sprang toward the spot over which the wire was strung. He was there in time to break her fall. She had tottered from the wire.
She had not fainted, but it was in vain that she attempted to rise; her limbs would not support her.
“I, I guess I lost my nerve,” she apologized, as she sank down upon the sawdust.
“If you did, you lost a lot,” exclaimed Johnny in undisguised enthusiasm. “You were great!”
For the moment he forgot the caste of the circus, forgot he was only an ex-groom and she the queen of performers.
“Just sit right here,” he counseled. “I’ll run and get you a glass of water; you’ll be all right in a jiffy. The tiger’s safe enough; keepers have got him.”
By the time he returned, the world had righted itself again, and he was only a slave.
“I, I’ll be running along,” he stammered, “that is, if you’re all right?”
“But I’m not all right,” protested Gwen. “Besides, I need some one to talk to. Why should you go?”
“You know,” Johnny faltered, “I’m not a performer; at least, not yet.”
“Fiddle!” she puckered up her lips. “What diff does that make; you’re a brave boy. You were right near that awful tiger when I saw you, and you weren’t running away. I believe you were there all the time.”
“I was,” admitted Johnny. “I was watching you dance when he came up.”
“Oh!” She gave him a queer look. “And what did you think you could do?”
“If he had reached you, I could have put up a good scrap.”
She looked at him again. “I believe you could,” she smiled. “I saw you give that bear the knockout the other day. That was good, awful good! Say! You can box, can’t you?”
“A little.”
“Will you give me some lessons?”
Johnny’s heart leaped. Would he?
“Su—sure,” he stammered, “any—any time.”
“All right; to-morrow morning at nine. What say?”
“That suits me.”
“It’s a go,” she said, holding out her hand. Johnny gripped it warmly, and as he did so, he realized that there was nothing soft or flabby about that hand.
“You see,” she half apologized, “I have to keep in trim for my stunts, and nothing will do it quite like boxing.”
“Uh-huh!” Johnny scarcely heard her. Her hand had made him think of the diamond ring. Should he ask her about it now? It seemed what his old professor would call the psychological moment. Yet he did not want to ask her. He was already enjoying her friendship, knew he would enjoy it more and more and did not wish to risk losing it. Then he thought of Pant and his problem. Perhaps she could aid them in solving that.
“Say,” she whispered suddenly, “what was that blood red light?”
“I, I don’t know,” Johnny replied.
“Wasn’t it spooky? Came from nowhere!”
“I don’t know how it was done,” said Johnny, “but someone was behind it—someone who evidently wanted to help you.”
The girl glanced at him sharply.
“No,” he smiled, “I didn’t do it. I’m not that much of a magician. But I’m not sure but that I know the person who did it.”
“Oh!” she gasped. “Will you find out and let me know?”
“If I can,” said Johnny, smiling once more.
“Oh!” she gasped again. “I owe that person a lot. The tiger would have got me for sure. I’d do a lot for him.”
“Would you?” asked Johnny.
“Of course I would.”
“You may have a chance some time.”
“How strangely you talk!”
“That’s all I can tell you now.”
He arose and, assisting her to her feet, walked with her to the flap of the ladies’ dressing tent; then bade her good-night.
“She’s a real sport!” he told himself. “Now I’ve got to make good at boxing the bear, even if it is a rotten job.”
Johnny Thompson did not relish giving boxing lessons. Like all true artists, he was more interested in doing things than in teaching others how to do them. Especially did he dislike giving lessons to women.
Johnny had his particular ideas about the possible skill of lady boxers and his estimate was not flattering. However, he was willing to teach Gwen because he liked her, thought of her as a good sport, and hoped to profit by his acquaintance with her. He was destined to find her rather a surprise as a boxer.
Exactly at nine o’clock next morning he was on hand in the small sawdust circle at a remote corner of the “big top.” Gwen was only three minutes late and Johnny put that down as being much to her credit. “Most girls would have been fifteen minutes or half an hour behind time,” was his mental comment.
After a formal “Good morning,” Johnny helped Gwen on with her gloves. This gave him an opportunity to look her over. Naturally her hands received his first attention. He looked for rings; found none, and then laughed at himself for believing that any person would come for a boxing lesson with rings on her fingers.
Looking her up and down from head to toe, he found her good to the eye—even better than in her professional costume. She was all of a girl now. In her short skirt, blue middie and silk stockings and with her mass of hair drawn tightly into form beneath a strong net, she made a picture worth looking at. Johnny found himself catching his breath sharply as he drew on her gloves and laced them snugly about her wrists.
“You won’t strike hard—not at first, anyway—will you?” she breathed.
“Not at all,” Johnny smiled, “but you’ll have to be careful about one thing; practice calls for boxing that is as near the real thing as possible. I mean that I’ll seem to be going to deal you a real knock-out blow, but I’ll ‘pull the blow,’ as they say, just before it lands, so it will be a mere tap. The thing you’ll have to be a little careful about is running into those ‘hay makers,’ otherwise they may prove to be the real thing in spite of all I can do to avoid it.”
“I’ll try,” Gwen smiled back. “Are you ready?” She tapped him playfully on the nose.
“Ready!” Johnny squared away.
From the start, Gwen’s boxing was a baffling mystery to the boy. She seemed to fairly dance on air. Her foot movements were marvelous. Now she was here; now there; now in another corner of the ring. Johnny had been called the fastest boy of the ring, but Gwen was faster. For some time he did not reach her even with a light tap.
But time taught him new tricks and brought back to his mind many half-forgotten old ones. He began to realize that, although her face protection was perfect, she was exposing her chest.
“That’s where her lesson begins,” he told himself, and at once began tapping her over the heart with ever increasing force until she threw down her hands with a sharp, “Oh-wee!”
“Time’s up,” laughed Johnny, throwing himself down upon the mat and inviting her to do the same.
“You see,” he explained, when they had caught their breath, “you box the way you do your tight rope work. It’s great stuff. I never saw a lady boxer your equal.”
Gwen gave him a happy smile.
“But,” he went on, “you’ve got your weak points, just as the rest of us have. You play your defense too high. That leaves your chest unguarded. If you were in a real fight your opponent would deal you a knock-out blow over the heart. You’ll have to practice playing closer to the sawdust with both your hands and your feet. It’s that tight rope stuff that does it. You box as if you were tiptoeing along the rope and holding up that Japanese parasol to balance you.”
Gwen thanked him for his advice, then, as all good friends occasionally do, they lapsed into silence.
“Second round,” said Johnny, two minutes later as he pocketed his watch.
To Johnny this tight rope dancer seemed an amazingly alert pupil. It was no time at all before he found her guard lowered and her hands traveling so fast that only now and again was he able to score a point. To his great surprise, he found himself thoroughly enjoying the third round. Not only was he teaching her something about guarding and self-control, but she was giving him pointers in speed and foot work.
“You’re great!” he breathed at the end of the third round. “You really are.”
Flushed, highly excited, filled with a girlish enthusiasm, she beamed back at him. The affair was a huge success; there could be no doubt of that. Johnny saw himself safely possessed of an entirely agreeable pal, one of the very elect, of the inner circle of star performers, too. He saw himself frolicking with this wonderful pal day after day. A fine day-dream!
And just there something happened, as often is the case when one’s cup of happiness is about to overflow. In the fourth round Gwen, excited by Johnny’s praise, strove to out-do herself. Before she had not been half so airy nor so nimble and skillful in eluding her opponent’s blows. Thus challenged, Johnny brought into play his every tactic. Maneuvers which had lain dormant in his brain leaped to the forefront. It was as if he were again in a real battle in a real ring. Like live things, his gloves flashed. He leaped to the right, then to the left, then backward. He darted suddenly forward. He ducked. He leaped high. But ever the elusive Gwen escaped him.
At last, in one mad rush he found himself facing her. Her round chin was exposed. What an opportunity! He lifted himself clean off the floor; his right hand struck out and up. It would have brushed her chin—an admirably “pulled” blow—had she not at this instant leaped suddenly at him. Whether she thought she saw an opening and had herself resolved to score, or had, in the mad rush, completely lost her head, Johnny could not tell. He only knew that there came a sickening sound of impact, followed by a dull thud and Gwen lay crumpled, unconscious at his feet. His blow had found its mark. The full force of it had been expended on the girl’s chin!
Heartsick, he struggled to regain his scattered senses. The next instant he was rushing away for water. From a bucket he dipped it ice cold, and applied it to her forehead. Then with a towel he began to fan her.
All the time reflections were rushing through his troubled brain: “What a fool! Just when things were going right! All off now! Mighty funny how it happened! All my fault! Mebby hers, too! But a girl—what a wallop to give a girl! Who’d forgive it? Boss’d fire me if he knew it. What a muss! Go back to the bear if I get a chance. Bear’s about my class. What a nut a fellow can make of himself! I—why dum it anyway—”