LEARNING TO BOX
About a week later Bill McBride appeared at Mr. Wendell’s study with two
pair of nearly new boxing gloves dangling from his hands.
“I want to learn how to box,” he said directly to the scoutmaster. “I’m
tired of trying to dope it out of a book.”
There was a rather bad bruise on one side of his face which Mr. Wendell
observed without appearing to notice it.
“I’ll teach you all I know with pleasure, Bill,” he answered, smiling.
“But I’m afraid that won’t be much more than the elements of the
science. I haven’t had the gloves on for years.”
McBride’s eyes narrowed and his lips straightened in a firm line.
“I want to know more than elements, sir,” he stated. “I want to really
know how to box.”
For a moment or two the scoutmaster stood thoughtfully silent. Then his
eyes brightened.
“Of course!” he murmured. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it at
once. I’ve a friend who’s a crackerjack with the gloves,” he went on to
McBride. “It’s Chambers down at the bank; you probably know him. I’ll
see if he won’t give you some lessons. I’ve an idea there are several
other fellows who’d like to take it up.”
There were. As a matter of fact more than half the troop were eager to
take up the new sport and for a time things were rather congested. Frank
Chambers willingly lent his aid, agreeing to give at least one night a
week to the instruction.
There was a large barn back of Mr. Wendell’s house and here the two men
met their pupils every Tuesday night. The scoutmaster undertook to coach
the smaller boys and those who failed to show especial proficiency or
interest in the art. As soon as they developed any noticeable degree of
skill, they were passed on to the more advanced teacher.
Bill McBride remained only a short time in the former class. There was
no question of his keen interest and willingness to work. He never
missed a chance to profit by instruction or to get practice. He even
bought a punching bag which he put up at home and used whenever he had a
few spare minutes.
He came in for considerable mild joshing from the others. They took to
calling him Slugger McBride, and wanted to know how soon he was going to
challenge the champion tissue-paper weight of Wharton. Micky took it all
serenely, or made some apt retort, and before long his critics were
silenced by his rapidly growing expertness at the art. Naturally quick
and clever, and a good athlete, he soon developed a skill which
surprised even his teachers. Almost from the first he could outbox every
fellow in the class save Jim Cavanaugh, and even he was sometimes hard
put to hold his own.
Cavvy, by the way, was the only person who had his confidence and knew
what he was working for. He had been furious when Micky told about that
encounter with Red Garrity, and at first was all for getting after the
fellow and giving him a lesson. But in the end he had to abandon the
idea.
“Nothing to it, old man,” declared McBride firmly. “It’s my scrap, you
know, and I don’t want anyone else butting in. I’m going to wait till I
can handle myself half way decently and then I’ll show that big piece of
cheese where he gets off. It’ll be done fair and square, too.”
So Cavvy had to give up his plan of interfering, but his dislike for
Garrity and his crowd was by no means lessened. In fact when Chick
Conners appeared shyly at the troop meeting one night and it was rumored
that he wanted to join the troop, the two friends came close to a
violent disagreement.
“What kind of an institution will this troop be anyhow, if we take in
that sort of riffraff?” the older chap demanded hotly on their way home.
“I was wrong about Tallerico, I admit. He’s a good kid. But Conners and
Garrity and that slimy McGowan and a lot more of ’em are all rotten.
They’re not worth powder to blow ’em to—”
“Listen, Jim,” cut in Micky hastily. “You’re dead wrong. Conners isn’t
that sort, anyhow. I told you how decent he was that—that day. He’s cut
away from Garrity and the rest and he wants to be a scout. And when a
fellow feels like that I believe in giving him a chance. At the worst we
can always drop him from the troop—though I’m perfectly sure we won’t
want to.”
Cavvy grumbled and protested, but in the end he gave in. The result was
that at the next meeting Chick Conners was elected, and passed his
Tenderfoot test, on which McBride had been coaching him, the same night.
He passed it well, too, and even Cavanaugh, who still viewed him with
suspicion, could find no fault with his demeanor, or the promptness and
thoroughness of his answers.
The following Tuesday evening the attendance at the boxing class was
small. Like a good many other experiments the general interest had
lessened considerably as the novelty began to wear off. Some of the
scouts found they did not care as much for it as they supposed they
would. Others were not able to take the time from lessons, especially as
preparatory details for the Liberty Loan Campaign was giving them a lot
of extra work. But there were still six or eight eager enthusiasts who
kept at it, chief amongst them Cavanaugh and McBride, who had come to be
extraordinarily well matched. Cavvy had the longer reach and slightly
stronger punch. But Micky could hit hard, too, was amazingly quick on
his feet, and his brain seemed to work like greased lightning. That
evening for the first time he held Cavvy in a bout of over fifteen
minutes, which in the end was called a draw.
More than once Mr. Wendell found himself watching the boy with curious,
speculative interest. It was McBride’s way to take up things he liked
with enthusiasm and persistence. But in this matter the scoutmaster
seemed to see a degree more of dogged purpose than usual. He felt,
somehow, that the boy was working for some definite end, but he asked no
questions. Just as the boys were leaving, however, he spoke to Micky at
the barn door.
“You certainly gave Jim a run for his money to-night,” he remarked
smiling. “You ought to be able to take care of yourself mighty soon with
almost anybody at all near your weight.”
Still faintly flushed with exercise the boy glanced up from the gloves
he was tying together. The lantern light shone on a face glowing with
justifiable pleasure at his success. Then suddenly the eyes narrowed
slightly and his lips straightened in an odd, determined line.
“That’s what I’ve been working for, sir,” he answered.