3
It was the energetic Mr. Burrowes who broke the spell.
"Come on, come on," he said impatiently. "Li'l speed there, Reddy."
Ginger Kemp started like a sleep-walker awakened; then recovering
himself, slowly began to pull on the gloves. Embarrassment was stamped
on his agreeable features. His face matched his hair.
Sally plucked at the little manager's elbow. He turned irritably, but
beamed in a distrait sort of manner when he perceived the source of the
interruption.
"Who--him?" he said in answer to Sally's whispered question. "He's just
one of Bugs' sparring-partners."
"But..."
Mr. Burrowes, fussy now that the time had come for action, interrupted
her.
"You'll excuse me, miss, but I have to hold the watch. We mustn't waste
any time."
Sally drew back. She felt like an infidel who intrudes upon the
celebration of strange rites. This was Man's hour, and women must keep
in the background. She had the sensation of being very small and yet
very much in the way, like a puppy who has wandered into a church. The
novelty and solemnity of the scene awed her.
She looked at Ginger, who with averted gaze was fiddling with his
clothes in the opposite corner of the ring. He was as removed from
communication as if he had been in another world. She continued to
stare, wide-eyed, and Ginger, shuffling his feet self-consciously,
plucked at his gloves.
Mr. Butler, meanwhile, having doffed his bath-robe, stretched himself,
and with leisurely nonchalance put on a second pair of gloves, was
filling in the time with a little shadow boxing. He moved rhythmically
to and fro, now ducking his head, now striking out with his muffled
hands, and a sickening realization of the man's animal power swept over
Sally and turned her cold. Swathed in his bath-robe, Bugs Butler had
conveyed an atmosphere of dangerousness: in the boxing-tights which
showed up every rippling muscle, he was horrible and sinister, a machine
built for destruction, a human panther.
So he appeared to Sally, but a stout and bulbous eyed man standing at
her side was not equally impressed. Obviously one of the Wise Guys of
whom her friend the sporting office-boy had spoken, he was frankly
dissatisfied with the exhibition.
"Shadow-boxing," he observed in a cavilling spirit to his companion.
"Yes, he can do that all right, just like I can fox-trot if I ain't got
a partner to get in the way. But one good wallop, and then watch him."
His friend, also plainly a guy of established wisdom, assented with a
curt nod.
"Ah!" he agreed.
"Lew Lucas," said the first wise guy, "is just as shifty, and he can
punch."
"Ah!" said the second wise guy.
"Just because he beats up a few poor mutts of sparring-partners," said
the first wise guy disparagingly, "he thinks he's someone."
"Ah!" said the second wise guy.
As far as Sally could interpret these remarks, the full meaning of which
was shrouded from her, they seemed to be reassuring. For a comforting
moment she ceased to regard Ginger as a martyr waiting to be devoured by
a lion. Mr. Butler, she gathered, was not so formidable as he appeared.
But her relief was not to be long-lived.
"Of course he'll eat this red-headed gink," went on the first wise guy.
"That's the thing he does best, killing his sparring-partners. But Lew
Lucas..."
Sally was not interested in Lew Lucas. That numbing fear had come back
to her. Even these cognoscenti, little as they esteemed Mr. Butler, had
plainly no doubts as to what he would do to Ginger. She tried to tear
herself away, but something stronger than her own will kept her there
standing where she was, holding on to the rope and staring forlornly
into the ring.
"Ready, Bugs?" asked Mr. Burrowes.
The coming champion nodded carelessly.
"Go to it," said Mr. Burrowes.
Ginger ceased to pluck at his gloves and advanced into the ring.
