Once more they sparred. This time Drew seemed determined to deal Johnny at least one smacker on the face. In this he was singularly unsuccessful. Johnny was never there when the blow arrived. He ducked; he wove right, wove left, sprang backward, spun round.
Then of a sudden, something happened. In making a desperate effort to reach Johnny’s chin, Drew exposed the left side of his face. Johnny swung hard, but planned to pull the punch. Drew suddenly leaned into it. Johnny’s blow came in with the impact of a trip hammer, just under Drew’s ear.
Drew dropped like an empty sack.
He was out for the count of five. Then he sat up dizzily, stared about him, caught Johnny’s eyes, then grinned a crooked grin that lacked nothing of sincerity as he exclaimed:
“That was a darb!”
Half an hour later, after a second shower, the two boys sat in the small lunch room of the club, munching cold tongue sandwiches on rye, and drinking coffee.
“Boy!” said Drew. “You should train for the ring.”
“Doesn’t interest me,” said Johnny. “Fine thing to box, just to keep fit. But when it comes to making a business of a thing that should be all pure fun—not for me!”
“Guess you’re right.”
“But tell me,” said Johnny. “Is it hard to become a city detective?”