“Enough, noble Sire!” Nielsen interrupted with a mysterious air. “Thou hast spoken. Enough!” Luckily, his head and shoulders disappeared just in time.
Breen slammed the door.
VII
Wednesday morning was a particularly noisy morning in the rear dining room of Landsmann’s. Jimmy Allen was the hero. On the night before, he had knocked out his opponent toward the close of the first round. Some of his admirers had met at Landsmann’s to discuss and celebrate the event, and one who had been present was supplying the others with the details.
“An’ toward the end o’ the round,” he was describing, “Jimmy ducked under the poor ‘Kid’s’ flabby guard an’ caught ’im an awful soak in the guts, an’ as ‘the Kid’ doubled up, Jimmy swung the finisher—it was a terror!—right on the point o’ the jaw. ‘The Kid’ hit the mat deader than a door nail. An’ they carried ’im away, a smashed hope inside o’ three minutes.”
The listeners clamored for more, and one of them queried: “But I thought ‘the Kid’ was such a clever sidestepper?”
“He is, but he couldn’t sidestep Jimmy. Jimmy’s a terror in the ring. He’s a good-natured feller outside, but the sight of another feller in front of ’im kind o’ riles ’is blood. He can’t rest till he’s battered the guy away, an’ let ’im see a little blood, like ‘the Kid’s’ mouth bleedin’, an’ it’s all off ’cept the count, for Jimmy goes wild. He got to ‘the Kid’ by constant borein’ in. Half a dozen fierce body taps weakened the poor guy, then a couple o’ face smashers, an’ then the finish. Oh, it was awful.”
The listeners sighed with awe. “An’ Jimmy?” requested the interlocutor.
“Oh, he got a scratch or two. But he was ’is smilin’ self soon’s it was over.”
Standing near the doorway, listening to every word with feverish interest, was Erna. Her eyes shone, and her heart beat with joyous pride.