“It is a pleasure to meet you even under such inauspicious circumstances,” stammered Donald. He turned to glare at the grinning cause of his discomfiture. “I would suggest, Miss Rennie, that you have a doctor waiting at your home, as I intend to commit mayhem on the person of your brother as soon as you have gone.”
Janet laughed. “I will go now to give you the chance.” With a playful flick of her whip toward Douglas, she was off like an arrow.
Donald turned to his friend. “I hope that you are satisfied now that you have made an ass out of me.”
“Quite happy, old dear. I didn’t find it a hard job.”
Donald laughed. “I’ll race you to the gym.”
As the bout was to take place on Monday, this was to be the last day of training. The fans who had flocked to see Donald in his work-outs admitted that he had wonderful speed, but would be unable to stay the twenty rounds with the formidable Garrieau. The verdict of the knowing ones was that it would take more than a snappy left hand to lift the laurels from the champion who possessed the virtue of the terrible punch.
To the boxer training is a trying ordeal. The daily grind of road-work, bag-punching, rope-skipping and pulley work becomes monotonous. The nerves become frayed, and if the weight has to be materially reduced the boxer develops a bad temper and is anything but a cheerful companion.
As Donald prepared for bed that night he thought with relief that the morrow would be a day of rest. “I’ll be glad when it’s over,” he mused. His meditations were interrupted by a rapping on the door. In answer to his invitation to come in, the door opened and a small man of unprepossessing appearance entered.
The visitor was indeed a most repulsive man, of uncertain age, and with skin of a sickly yellow. One eye was sightless, which he ascribed to an accident during a football game. Those familiar with his shady past averred that it was caused by the vigorous application of an adversary’s thumb during a bar-room brawl.
“I’m Garrieau’s manager,” he said importantly.