The following Tuesday evening the attendance at the boxing class was small. Like a good many other experiments the general interest had lessened considerably as the novelty began to wear off. Some of the scouts found they did not care as much for it as they supposed they would. Others were not able to take the time from lessons, especially as preparatory details for the Liberty Loan Campaign was giving them a lot of extra work. But there were still six or eight eager enthusiasts who kept at it, chief amongst them Cavanaugh and McBride, who had come to be extraordinarily well matched. Cavvy had the longer reach and slightly stronger punch. But Micky could hit hard, too, was amazingly quick on his feet, and his brain seemed to work like greased lightning. That evening for the first time he held Cavvy in a bout of over fifteen minutes, which in the end was called a draw.
More than once Mr. Wendell found himself watching the boy with curious, speculative interest. It was McBride’s way to take up things he liked with enthusiasm and persistence. But in this matter the scoutmaster seemed to see a degree more of dogged purpose than usual. He felt, somehow, that the boy was working for some definite end, but he asked no questions. Just as the boys were leaving, however, he spoke to Micky at the barn door.
“You certainly gave Jim a run for his money to-night,” he remarked smiling. “You ought to be able to take care of yourself mighty soon with almost anybody at all near your weight.”
Still faintly flushed with exercise the boy glanced up from the gloves he was tying together. The lantern light shone on a face glowing with justifiable pleasure at his success. Then suddenly the eyes narrowed slightly and his lips straightened in an odd, determined line.
“That’s what I’ve been working for, sir,” he answered.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE BOY WHO COULDN’T SWIM
Red Garrity slouched through the wide gates of the Wharton Smelter Company and glanced indolently up and down the street. His application for a job had just been turned down by the superintendent, but that did not trouble him over much. He was used to it. In fact anything else would have surprised him after the caustic comment which had followed his last self determined vacation. He was a good worker—when he worked. But his habit of taking days off whenever he felt in the mood did not commend him to many employers of labor.
“Bum outfit to work for, anyhow,” he yawned, feeling in his pocket for a cigarette.
He neither found one nor the means of purchasing a fresh supply, and for the first time he looked annoyed. He would certainly have to land a job to-morrow and get some kale, he thought, as he strolled up the street toward Shrimp McGowan’s abode. He decided to try a certain wood working concern where he was little known, and dismissed the subject from his mind.
Shrimp was at home and responded to his yodel. As he slouched down the steps, yawning and blinking in the bright sunlight, a look of contempt came into Garrity’s eyes.