  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—” His dismal reflections were arrested by the opening of Gwen’s eyes. She sat up dizzily and gazed about her as if looking upon a world unknown. “Where am I?” she faltered. “Oh!” she moaned, and held her head. Johnny’s thoughts touched the bottom of despair. But the next moment she was looking at him and actually smiling. “I suppo-pose,” she said uncertainly, “that you’d call—call that a ‘hay—hay maker’?“ Johnny grinned in spite of himself. “It was,” he agreed. “And I—I ran into your ‘hay maker.’” “Something like that,” Johnny agreed, sitting down beside her. “I hope you feel better.” She did not answer, but sat staring at the sawdust. They remained in just that position until Johnny’s watch had ticked off a hundred and twenty seconds. He knew it was a hundred and twenty for he counted them all. “I suppose,” he said, when he could endure the silence no longer, “that that’s the end of it?” “I suppose so,” she agreed. Again they were silent. There seemed nothing more to say. “And I thought we would have some grand times together,” said Johnny, at last. “I might have known though—” “Oh! But aren’t we?” There was a puzzled look on her face. “Why! You—you said that was the end of it!” “I suppose so for today. I’m really too shaky to box any more to-day. But how about to-morrow?” With a wild shout of joy, Johnny leaped to his feet. “Then—then—,” he stammered. “Why, you’re a brick!” He extended his hand and helped her to her feet. “Why? What’s so wonderful?” she smiled at him. “I ran into you and got bumped. I don’t hold that against you. Why should I? Would another boy hate you for it?” “No. He might not, but a girl—” “Fiddle! Girls are just like boys, if you let them be. Shall I see you to-morrow?” “You sure will!” For a moment Johnny hesitated before taking her hand for a farewell; the question of the diamond ring had flashed through his mind. Was this the time to ask? He hesitated; then gave it up. A moment before he had felt that he had lost her. He would risk nothing more this day. “Good-bye and good luck,” he murmured, as she turned to go her way. |
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