Eagerly the conman leaped forward. His glove had barely touched Johnny’s cheek when a grip of iron pulled him back.
“There’s no referee. Then I’m one. An Irishman for a square scrap.” It was Johnny’s ardent backer.
Panting, the conman stood at bay.
In time, Johnny, having regained his breath, sat up dizzily and looked about.
“Where’s the five?” demanded the conman.
Johnny held up his right glove. “I leave it to the crowd if he gets it fair.”
“He fouled you wid his knee! He jammed it into yer stummick! A rotten trick as ever was played!” yelled the Irishman.
“Right-O! Sure! Sure! Kill him! Eat him alive!” came from every corner.
Johnny rose.
“We’ll finish the round,” he said quietly.