“There’s your bear,” panted Johnny, wiping his face.
“No box-a da bear,” groaned the grief stricken Italian.
“I should say not,” said Johnny. “He doesn’t box fair. He scratches.”
“You kill-a da bear. I get-a your goat.”
“Oh! The bear’ll be all right,” grinned Johnny. “Just give him a lump of sugar and a sniff of smelling salts. He’s a bit dizzy, that’s all.”
“But say!” he said after a moment. “You can’t get my goat. I ain’t got any. But I have a notion that I’ve got yours right now.”
He had, but the Italian wasn’t to know it until some hours later.
As he turned to walk away, Johnny noticed a well built, wholesome looking girl in short skirt and middy standing a short distance off. She was looking his way and smiling. It was Gwen, the queen. He wanted to go over and speak to her. He was sure she had seen all that had happened.
“Can’t afford to rush things too fast,” he whispered to himself and, turning toward the bunk tent, he hastened away.
As an hour and a half remained before he must go on duty, Johnny slicked up a bit and went over to La Salle street to sell the bonds which Pant had entrusted to his care. The first two dealers he approached refused to buy; they did not purchase bonds in such small lots. The third looked Johnny over carefully, then examined the bonds. After that, he wet the tip of his right forefinger on a sponge and proceeded to count out a handful of bills. These, with some small change, he shoved beneath the lattice to Johnny.