The conman’s lips parted, but no sound came. The eyes of his pals and cappers were upon him.
“You wouldn’t let the little runt bluff y’,” suggested the young capper of the green tie.
“Oh—all, all right, brother.” The conman’s voice stuck in his throat. “All right. Somebody fetch the gloves.”
A boxing match, or even a free-for-all, is not so uncommon on the back lines of a circus, but it never fails to draw a crowd. It was upon this inevitable crowd that Johnny counted for his backing, should the three rounds turn into a rough and tumble, with no mercy and no quarter.
Once his gloves were on, he explained to the rapidly growing circle the terms of the match.
“There’s no referee, so all of you are it,” he smiled.
“Right-O. We’re wid ye,” a genial Irishman shouted.
“Go to it, kid,” a sturdy stake driver echoed.
“Are you ready?”
Johnny moved his gloves to a position not ten inches from his body. With fists well extended, the conman leaped across the ring. The blow he aimed at Johnny’s head would have felled an ox, had it landed. It did not land. Johnny had sprung to one side. The next instant he tapped the conman on his ragged ear.