Donald moved toward the door with Douglas.
“Sit down, Mr. McLean, and wait until Douglas comes back,” invited Robert Rennie politely, as he pushed a chair toward Donald. He then closed the door of the outer office, where a girl sat pounding a typewriter.
When the older man turned his face was set in a broad smile and he crossed the room to seize the hand of his astonished visitor in a hearty grip. “Man! man!” he exclaimed, as he pumped Donald’s hand vigorously, “that was a great fight to-day! When you got Garrieau with your left in the second round and that d—— gong rang, I—I—heavens, but I was excited!” He was gazing at Donald with admiration glowing in his eyes.
“You—you were there!” gasped Donald.
Robert Rennie chuckled. “Top row—nigger heaven! When that brute fouled you I think I could have shot him!”
“Mr. Rennie, I’m not a professional fighter, I—I——”
“Tut! tut!” interrupted the enthusiastic fan, “I can see that. By gad! that last round was a whirlwind. That right you landed on his jaw—I got so excited that I fell down between the seats and skinned my shins.” He rubbed his leg ruefully. “I never saw such speed as you showed in that last. . . .”
Here footsteps sounded outside, Robert Rennie moved quickly to his chair, adjusted his glasses and assumed a serious expression. “Not a word to Doug,” he whispered.
“Bowser says that he told you he’d have the papers to-morrow,” informed Douglas.
“Very well,” answered his father.