LOYALTY
The freshman’s smile had returned, and he stood with the gloves swinging by the strings from his hand. Siebold, who really was no piker, was slipping on his gloves and having them laced up. Gus wished Bill to talk for him—and Tony too—not that he needed moral support, but it was pleasanter to have good friends along than to be entirely surrounded by opponents. However, he felt quite equal to the physical task, and as ready to stand his ground morally.
“See here, you sophs,” he said. “I’ll box and gladly, but not in the way Siebold wants to.”
“Aw, what do you care how the other fellow feels? It’s a bout just the same; isn’t it?”
“But Mr. Gay doesn’t want us to show any hard feelings,” Gus urged, “and he’s decent to us. I don’t believe Siebold really thinks I’m yellow—do you?”—this last to his intended opponent.
“Looks like it,” growled Siebold, showing more indignation than he really felt. Had he permitted himself to use his reason, he would only have admired Gus and would not have quarreled with him. Probably it was nothing more than an uneasy conscience that now asserted itself and made him add, in self-defense: “I guess you’re yellow enough.”
Gus had but one reply to make to that—and his answer was not verbal. He did not again take his eyes from Siebold, but he pulled on the gloves, laced the right one with the clumsy stuffed thumb and his teeth. Then he stepped forward. Siebold made a feint of extending his hand for the customary shake; but Gus ignored it and the next moment the two were at it in a way that showed clearly the desire to hurt each other and to disregard the mere matter of points. It was a slugging match from the first.
Siebold was no mean antagonist, and he had some tricks worthy of the prize ring. Moreover, he was a little taller, a little heavier and had a longer reach than Grier. Immediately it became apparent that he was trying for a knock-out—he meant to put Gus away and to do it as quickly as possible.
But Gus did not mean to be put out, and it became as quickly evident that he was quite capable of making Siebold work hard even to hit him. Siebold would bore in, drive for the jaw or stomach, and either miss or land lightly; but he would nearly always get a stinging crack in return—delivered at the same instant that his own blow was blocked, or in the fraction of a second after he had only struck the empty air. Still, these blows of Gus’s were not paralyzers—they were just weakeners. They made Siebold angry enough to spend his strength in getting back at the chap who could land in just when and where he wished.
Siebold’s nose ached and bled; his eyes smarted, and one was closing. His stomach, too, was sore, and somehow he could not help but feel that his blows were growing futile. At the end of the fifth round, as he sat back on a bench, letting some of his would-be handlers fan and sponge him, he looked across at Gus, standing there, refusing all half-hearted offers of attention and gazing at him with a smile on his unmarked face, the sophomore champion began to wish he had not got into this fuss. Then he grew furious at the thought that he was not making good.