The Italian’s dark eyes flashed fire, but he smiled and came back. The instructor refused to let the bout continue, saying that Tony must gain more experience. Gus called Tony over.
“I don’t want to butt in,” he said, “but I didn’t like that. You could learn that game. Would you mind if——” he hesitated modestly.
“Could you show me? Everything you do so verra good.”
Tony was so eager that Gus consented. They agreed to come to the gym at a time when no one, not even the instructor, was there. Then, in addition, Tony bought a set of gloves so that the two could practice in the shop now and then. A month went by. Cold weather came; then the Christmas holidays. Bill and Gus went home for the one big day, and came back to study and to continue their shop work; but Tony was away for ten days, during which he took a few lessons from one of the best teachers of the fistic art that could be found.
“He said I am now there,” gleefully announced Tony when the three got together again; “and that I can learn one poco, for I did puncha him times several and he no hit me sempra. I think you,” his dark eyes appraised Gus, “are quite—no, I not throw bouquets—are gooda as he.”
“Oh, not so good as Ben Duffy? I know all about him. I went once with my city uncle to see him fight. He’s a crackerjack, sure.”
“But he not poka me more as you do,” argued Tony.
“Well, I’ve been studying your defense longer—it’s mine too, you know. That’s the reason.” The generous Gus smiled. “Anyway, let’s go to the gym to-morrow. I want to see how you mix it up now with Sadler.”
Tony did “mix it up” much to Sadler’s discomfort. Siebold stepped up:
“Say, Italy, where did you get it?” And Tony, proud, ever eager to give credit to a friend, nodded toward Gus.