“Don’t talk,” he called back over his shoulder.
I kept plugging along. My legs felt as though they were weighted with metal. We were jogging slowly enough so I could manage my breathing, but I was tired, terribly tired. It seemed as though we’d run miles before Louie swung around abruptly, looked me over with the eye of a professional trainer, said, “All right, walk awhile.”
We started walking along briskly, sucking in great lungfuls of the cool, clean air. My legs were tired, but the change in muscular action was a relief.
After several minutes, Louie started jogging again, and I fell in behind him. The cabin showed up a quarter of a mile ahead. It seemed to take hours to reach it.
Louie wasn’t winded. I could see that he was breathing more deeply, but that was all.
“Try opening up the bottom part of your lungs,” he said. “Suck the air way down into the lowest part of your lungs. Okay, we’ll go through a few moves now, just some of the preliminary stuff.”
He brought out a set of sweat-stiffened boxing-gloves and put gloves on my hands. “Now then,” he said, “the most deceptive blow and the hardest to deliver is an absolutely straight punch. Now, let’s see a straight left.”
I lashed out with a left.
He shook his head. “That ain’t straight.”
“Why not?”