“Boxing,” he told himself. His pulse quickened at the thought.
Johnny Thompson, young and vigorous, belonged to that ever-increasing army of American boys who realize that no person can fight his best in the battle of life unless he is physically fit. A strong swimmer, fast on his feet and limber as a hickory limb, Johnny was not the least skillful of boxers. So his heart was made glad by the sound that greeted his ears.
Silently he and Hardgrave entered the long low room to join the little company of watchers.
The instant Johnny’s eyes fell upon the dark, gleaming, strong and well-moulded forms of the Caribs, he felt himself admiring them.
“Black faces,” he told himself, “but real men.”
“See that big fellow over in the corner,” whispered Hardgrave, “the one with the sprinkle of gray in his hair?”
Johnny nodded.
“That’s Tivoli, the chief Carib of them all.”
A half hour later Johnny Thompson found himself facing this chief and champion of the Caribs. How had it come about? Why ask? When two devotees of an art meet, how long a time passes before they begin displaying their skill?
That he was facing no mean boxer, Johnny realized quite well. He had seen Tivoli in a sparring match with one of his own men. Tivoli thought of this bout with a white boy, who could easily have walked under his arm, as something of a joke. This was shown quite plainly by the smile that overspread his face as he seized Johnny’s hand in a friendly grasp.