“Right,” said Johnny.
“Rusty,” said MacGregor, “do you ever box?”
“Oh yes, often.” The girl’s face flushed. “Often. Daddy and I box by the hour.” She gave Johnny a strange, fleeting look.
“Good!” MacGregor exclaimed low. “Tonight we’ll have an exhibition match, just you and Johnny. Two boys showing these Orientals how to play.
“And now,” he nodded his head toward the door.
Johnny opened it ever so softly, peered through the crack, and was gone.
At the same moment the old man lifted the shabby sou’wester from the mass of lovely hair, blew on his scissors, heaved a heavy sigh, then slashed with apparent ruthlessness at a great handful of perfectly natural, copper-colored curls.
A half hour later the door opened a crack.
Taking the cue, Johnny stepped inside. He stopped short when he looked at Rusty.
It was with the greatest difficulty that he suppressed a smile at what he saw. The sou’wester was no longer needed. Good old MacGregor had done his work well. Rusty’s hair looked like a real boy’s.