III

III

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 sleepwalker 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 far 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 bathrobe, 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 bathrobe, 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.

“Shadowboxing,” he observed in a cavilling spirit to his companion. “Yes, he can do that all right, just like I can foxtrot 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 redheaded 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.