“Go and get yourself a drink, Steve. I expect you need one.”
Steve shook his head.
“Wagon,” he said briefly. And there was silence again.
“Say, Kirk.”
“Yes?”
“What a wonder she is. Miss Ruth, I mean. I’ve helped her throw that medicine-ball—often—you wouldn’t believe. She’s a wonder.” He paused. “Say, this is hell, ain’t it?”
Kirk did not answer. It was very quiet in the studio now. In the street outside a heavy wagon rumbled part. Somebody shouted a few words of a popular song. Steve sprang to his feet.
“I’ll fix that guy,” he said. But the singing ceased, and he sat down again.
Kirk got up and began to walk quickly up and down. Steve watched him furtively.
“You want to take your mind off it,” he said. “You’ll be all in if you keep on worrying about it in that way.”
Kirk stopped in his stride.
“That’s what the doctor said,” he snapped savagely. “What do you two fools think I’m made of?” He recovered himself quickly, ashamed of the outburst. “I’m sorry, Steve. Don’t mind anything I say. It’s awfully good of you to have come here, and I’m not going to forget it.”
Steve scratched his chin reflectively.
“Say, I’ll tell you something,” he said. “My mother told me once that when I was born my old dad took it just like you. Found he was getting all worked up by having to hang around and do nothing, so he says to himself: ‘I’ve got to take my mind off this business, or it’s me for the foolish-house.’
“Well, sir, there was a big guy down on that street who’d been picking on dad good and hard for a mighty long while. And this guy suddenly comes into dad’s mind. He felt of his muscle, dad did. ‘Gee!’ he says to himself, ‘I believe the way I’m feeling, I could just go and eat up that gink right away.’ And the more he thought of it, the better it looked to him, so all of a sudden he grabs his hat and beats it like a streak down to the saloon on the corner, where he knew the feller would be at that time, and he goes straight up to him and hands him one.
“Back comes the guy at him—he was a great big son of a gun, weighing thirty pounds more than dad—and him and dad mixes it right there in the saloon till the barkeep and about fifty other fellers throws them out, and they goes off to a vacant lot to finish the thing. And dad’s so worked up that he gives the other guy his till he hollers that that’s all he’ll want. And then dad goes home and waits quite quiet and happy and peaceful till they tell him I’m there.”
Steve paused.
“Kirk,” he said then, “how would you like a round or two with the small gloves, just to get things off your mind for a spell and pass the time? My dad said he found it eased him mighty good.”
Kirk stared at him.
“Just a couple of rounds,” urged Steve. “And you can go all out at that. I shan’t mind. Just try to think I’m some guy that’s been picking on you and let me have it. See what I mean?”
For the first time that day the faint ghost of a grin appeared on Kirk’s face.
“I wonder if you’re right, Steve?”
“I know I’m right. And, say, don’t think I don’t need it, too. I ain’t known Miss Ruth all this time for nothing. You’ll be doing me a kindness if you knock my face in.”
The small gloves occupied a place of honour to themselves in a lower drawer. It was not often that Kirk used them in his friendly bouts with Steve. For ordinary occasions the larger and more padded species met with his approval. Steve, during these daily sparring encounters, was amiability itself; but he could not be counted upon not to forget himself for an occasional moment in the heat of the fray; and though Kirk was courageous enough, he preferred to preserve the regularity of his features at the expense of a little extra excitement.
Once, after a brisk rally, he had gone about the world looking as if he was suffering from mumps, owing to a right hook which no one regretted more than Steve himself.
But today was different; and Kirk felt that even a repetition of that lethal punch would be welcome.
Steve, when the contest opened, was disposed to be consolatory in word as well as deed. He kept up a desultory conversation as he circled and feinted.
“You gotta look at it this way,” he began, sidestepping a left, “it ain’t often you hear of anything going wrong at times like this. You gotta remember”—he hooked Kirk neatly on the jaw—“that” he concluded.
Kirk came back with a swing at the body which made his adversary grunt.
“That’s true,” he said.
“Sure,” rejoined Steve a little breathlessly, falling into a clinch.
They moved warily round each other.
“So,” said Steve, blocking a left, “that ought to comfort you some.”
Kirk nodded. He guessed correctly that the other was alluding to his last speech, not to the counter which had just made the sight of his left eye a little uncertain.
Gradually, as the bout progressed, Kirk began to lose the slight diffidence which had hampered him at the start. He had been feeling so wonderfully friendly toward Steve, so grateful for his presence, and his sympathy, that it had been hard, in spite of the other’s admonitions, to enter into the fray with any real conviction. Moreover, subconsciously, he was listening all the time for sounds from above which never came.
These things gave a certain lameness to his operations. It was immediately after this blow in the eye, mentioned above, that he ceased to be an individual with private troubles and a wandering mind, and became a boxer pure and simple, his whole brain concentrated on the problem of how to get past his opponent’s guard.
Steve,
