Before I knew where I was he got his left on the mark and
his right on my ear. I tripped over a footstool, and
then before I could get my balance he had me on the same
ear again, and my head was singing like a tea-kettle.
He was as pleased as possible with himself, blowing out
his chest and slapping it with his palms as he took his
place in the middle of the room.
"Say when you've had enough, Munro," said he.
This was pretty stiff, considering that I had two
inches the better of him in height, and as many stone in
weight, besides being the better boxer. His energy and
the size of the room had been against me so far, but he
wasn't to have all the slogging to himself in the next
round if I could help it.
In he came with one of his windmill rushes. But I
was on the look-out for him this time. I landed him with
my left a regular nose-ender as he came, and then,
ducking under his left, I got him a cross-counter on the
jaw that laid him flat across his own hearthrug. He was
up in an instant, with a face like a madman.
"You swine!" he shouted. "Take those gloves off, and
put your hands up!" He was tugging at his own to get
them off.
"Go on, you silly ass!" said I. "What is there to
fight about?"
He was mad with passion, and chucked his gloves down
under the table.
"By God, Munro," he cried, "if you don't take those
gloves off, I'll go for you, whether you have them on or
not.
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