“Sure, I’ll put them on,” Johnny grinned. “What do you say, Joe? I’ll box you five rounds. Five friendly bouts for fun, money or marbles.”
The crowd stared, Johnny was talking not to the man who had offered the insult but to his friend the store-keeper.
For a moment Joe stood staring at him. Then, as the light of a smile spread over his face, he said, “Sure, Johnny, I’ll box you, not for money or marbles, but just, you might say, for fun.”
It will be a long time before the settlers of Matanuska Valley will again witness such a match as followed. Five rounds for fun, between friends? Yes, perhaps. And yet there were times when even Johnny doubted that. True, he was not angry for a moment, just in there doing his best. But Joe? He was wondering about him.
Though he had told no one in the valley about it, Joe had, only the year before, belonged to the U. S. Marines. The Marines neither give nor ask quarters. And Joe had been champion of his regiment. As for Johnny, well you know Johnny. If you don’t, you should have been there that night.
From the start it was leather against leather, a slap for the chin, a thrust at the heart, a bang on the side of the head, and after that a clinch.
Seldom had men been more evenly matched. Joe was older, more experienced, Johnny younger, faster on his feet.
They had not been going a minute when an involuntary ring had formed about them. In that ring, gaping open-mouthed was Jack Mayhorn.
Twice Johnny was down on a knee. Each time he was up and at it. Once, backed into a corner, Joe tripped and fell. He, too, was up before the count of three.
The fifth round was wild. Had there been an announcer, he must surely have lost his mind calling, “A right to Johnny’s chin, a left to his ear. The ear is bleeding. Oh—a! A slam on the side of Joe’s head that makes him slightly groggy. Johnny’s following through. The clinch! The referee (Blackie) separates them. They are sparring now. Now! Oh, now! Johnny takes one on the chin. He’s down. One—two—three—He’s up again.” So it went to the end.