“To him I do owe it. He one granda master with the feest.”
“So? Expert electrician, mechanic, sport spoiler and bruiser, eh? Some combination.” And Siebold turned away with something too much like a sneer on his fine face. Gus was hurt, but smiled, as usual. Tony resented the slur.
“For all which,” he said, “the cervel—the brain, is required, eh? Maybe, Soph, if you brain ancora had you could beata heem—but no so now.”
“No? I’ll bet a sardine that you could put it all over him,” Siebold said, desiring to mollify an upper classman. Tony laughed.
“No; not coulda you ancora, nor any other one in this school.”
Siebold turned away, as he added: “You won’t have a chance to prove that. I pick my company. But you will get another go at Sadler after I give him some more pointers.” It was evident that the leader among the sophomores was something of a snob. A little later his prediction came true regarding Sadler and Tony.
Gus was again a witness to the bout. It had become noised around and the gym held a goodly crowd of students. At such times the instructor, though interested and often a witness, dodged participation because of the slugging tendency and its possible effect on the school if he encouraged such a thing.
Tony went into the game with a smile. Sadler, though generally good-natured, was serious and determined from the start. He got a number of stinging cracks on his ribs and in the stomach, Tony hardly being able to reach his head. Beaten again at points, landed on five times as often as he landed, he began to resort to a waiting game, for there was no doubt he could stand punishment. Stand it he did until Tony got enough confidence for infighting, though he should never have attempted to swap punches with such a big fellow.
Suddenly Sadler caught the smaller man starting a short arm upper cut for the jaw and he took it open, delivering at the same instant a hook that no man when giving a blow could hope to block. He caught Tony coming in and that lent additional momentum to the blow which got Tony on the side of the neck, over the artery, and it was as clean a knock-out as could be given. They carried the Italian to a wrestling mat, fanned and bathed his face, and when he came to and sat up, Siebold was there with his ready tongue.
“He’s too heavy for you. No fellow could hope to stand up to Sadler at his own game. I told you so.”