“Strike me lucky!” whispered Andy hoarsely, “you’re punchin’ me meal-ticket. You’re makin’ a blinkin’ boob out of me ’eavyweight.”
“You told me to knock him out of the ring,” reminded Donald.
“Sure I did. But ’ow the ’ell did I know that you were a blinkin’ cyclone? Strike me blind, a left ’and like that I ’aven’t seen since I ’andled Young Griffo.”
“What shall I do the next round?”
“Tyke a punch and go down—’urt your ’and—anything to quit. But for ’eaven’s sake don’t mess up me ’eavyweight any more! If the public ever ’ears of this our big fight is all off!”
In the next round Donald dropped to the floor as they broke from a clinch in the centre of the ring. He rose to one knee, holding his hand and making a wry face.
“Too bad,” sympathized Andy as he ordered him to the dressing-room.
As Donald stepped from the ring he was intercepted by a curly-haired youth whose brown eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. “By golly, I want to know you. My name’s Douglas Rennie. My, but that was a wonderfully fast exhibition you gave us!” he ejaculated, gazing at Donald with undisguised admiration.
Donald flushed. “I appeared fast,” he explained modestly, “as I was against a very slow opponent. I know nothing of Garrieau, but he won’t have to be very clever to beat the Australian.”
“Garrieau is fast and carries a knockout in either hand.”