“Ever had the gloves on, kid?” he demanded at last.

It appeared in a moment that he meant boxing gloves; not gloves in which to play golf.

“No, sir,” said Wilbur.

“You look good.  Come down to the store at three o’clock.  Mebbe you can give me a work-out.”

Quite astonishingly it appeared then that when he said the store he was meaning the low saloon of Pegleg McCarron; that he did road work every morning and wanted quick young lads to give him a work-out with the gloves in the afternoon, because even dubs was better than shadow boxing or just punching the bag all the time.  If they couldn’t box-fight they could wrestle.

So Wilbur had gone to the store that afternoon, and for many succeeding afternoons, to learn the fascinating new game in a shed that served McCarron as storeroom.  The new hero had here certain paraphernalia of his delightful calling—­a punching bag, small dumb-bells, a skipping rope, boxing gloves.  Here the neophyte had been taught the niceties of feint and guard and lead, of the right cross, the uppercut, the straight left, to duck, to side-step, to shift lightly on his feet, to stop protruding his jaw in cordial invitation, to keep his stomach covered.  He proved attentive and willing and quick.  He was soon chewing gum as Spike Brennon chewed it, and had his hair clipped in Brennon manner.  He lived his days and his nights in dreams of delivering or evading blows.  Often while dressing of a morning he would stop to punish an invisible opponent, doing an elaborate dance the while.  It was better than linotypes or motor busses.

In the early days of this new study he had been fearful of hurting Spike Brennon.  He felt that his blows were too powerful, especially that from the right fist when it should curve over Spike’s left shoulder to stop on his jaw.  But he learned that when his glove reached the right place Spike’s jaw had for some time not been there.  Spike scorned his efforts.

“Stop it, kid!  You might as well send me a pitcher postcard that it’s comin’.  You got to hit from where you are—­you can’t stop to draw back.  Use your left more.  G’wan now, mix it!  Mix it!”

They would mix it until the boy was panting.  Then while he sat on a beer keg until he should be in breath again the unwinded Spike would skip the rope—­a girl’s skipping rope—­or shadow-box about the room with intricate dance steps, raining quick blows upon a ghostly boxer who was invariably beaten; or with smaller gloves he would cause the inflated bag to play lively tunes upon the ceiling of its support.  After an hour of this, when both were sweating, they would go to a sheltered spot beyond the shed to play cold water upon each other’s soaped forms.

There had been six weeks of this before the boy’s dreadful secret was revealed to Winona; six weeks before he appeared to startle her with one eye radiating the rich hues of a ripened eggplant.  It had been simple enough.  He had seen his chance to step in and punish Spike, and he had stepped—­and Spike’s straight left had been there.