Instantly upon re-entering the ring he rushed Johnny for a clinch. Taken by surprise, the boy could not avoid it. Yet, even here, he was more than a match for his heavier opponent. Gripping hard with his left, he rained blows on the other’s back, just above the kidney. That, in time, made a break welcome.

The conman’s game was to clinch, then to force his opponent back to a position where he could land his right on Johnny’s chin. This would win his point. More than that, it would enable him to break Johnny’s neck, if he chose, and he might so decide.

Three times he clinched. Three times he received trip-hammer blows on his back, and three times he gave way before his plucky opponent. When, at last, time was called, he fairly reeled to his corner.

There was a dangerous light in his eye as he stepped up for the third round.

“Watch him, kid. He’ll do you dirt,” muttered the Irishman.

“Keep your guard,” echoed another.

Johnny, still smiling, moved forward. His face was well guarded. He was confident of victory.

Twice the conman feinted with his right, struck out with his left, then retired. The third time he rushed straight on. Johnny easily dodged his blows, but the next second doubled up in a knot. Groaning and panting for breath he fell to the earth.

Eagerly the conman leaped forward. His glove had barely touched Johnny’s cheek when a grip of iron pulled him back.

“There’s no referee. Then I’m one. An Irishman for a square scrap.” It was Johnny’s ardent backer.

Panting, the conman stood at bay.

In time, Johnny, having regained his breath, sat up dizzily and looked about.

“Where’s the five?” demanded the conman.

Johnny held up his right glove. “I leave it to the crowd if he gets it fair.”

“He fouled you wid his knee! He jammed it into yer stummick! A rotten trick as ever was played!” yelled the Irishman.

“Right-O! Sure! Sure! Kill him! Eat him alive!” came from every corner.

 Prev. P 14/98 next