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over and spoke to him.
    “We’d better hurry, Marty, or we’ll be late for supper.” I thought she must be his sister and I was right.
    He introduced us: “Frankie, this is my sister, Ruth.” “Hello,” I said.
    She smiled at me. “Glad to meet you,” she said. She was about fifteen and really
    lovely—blonde hair combed in a semi-boyish crinkly cut and blue eyes like Martin’s. And like Martin she had a way of looking straight at you when she spoke. She had a neat, trim figure and was in the sixth term high. I was about half a head taller than she, and when Marty asked me how old I was, I told him I was almost sixteen, hoping to make an impression on her.
    Martin told her what had happened that afternoon, and she looked at me rather strangely and then walked away. I wondered what was eating her but said nothing to Martin.
    Marty looked at me and said: “Women are funny. About what you said this afternoon about fighting—I got a pair of boxing gloves home; how about your coming over and giving me a lesson?”
    “Tonight?” I asked.
    “Sure,” he said, “after supper. Why don’t you go home to eat and then come over to my house and we can box?”
    “I don’t think I can,” I said. “I live in the orphanage. If I go over for supper I don’t think I’ll be able to get out.”
    “Oh,” he said. He frowned for a minute and then brightened up. “I got an idea. Wait here a minute.” He ran into the back of the store. I could see him talking to his father through the glass partition. He pointed towards me. Then his father said something, and he came out and back to me.
    “I fixed it,” he said. “You’re going to come home to supper with us. Then we can have our lesson.”
    At first I didn’t want to but I gave in.
    His father and mother had gone out that night. The three of us, Marty, Ruth, and me, were given supper by the maid, a young woman of about twenty-two named Julie. She was a French-Canadian and spoke with a funny little accent. She sat down to eat with us. The meal was a simple one and we were through quickly. Afterwards we went into the parlour. They had a new radio and we were able to get some music on it. It was the third time I had ever heard a radio and it was very interesting. An hour after supper Martin suggested we go to the den and box.
    It was O.K. with me. Ruth stayed in the parlour. She said she was going to read.
    The den was a nice room with books lining the walls and a couch and some chairs scattered around. We pushed the chairs to one side and laced on the gloves.
    “Put your dukes up,” I said. “Lead with your left. Keep your right back here near your chin—like this.” I fell into the fighting pose. He copied me. I stepped back and looked at him. I moved his left out a little and his right elbow down a little closer to his side. “O.K.,” I said, “now all you’ve got to do is hit me.”
    “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. “Don’t worry,” I said, “you won’t.”
    He dropped his left and swung with his right. I blocked it and stepped in close.
    “Nix,” I said, “that’s not it. You left yourself wide open. When you drop your left I can step in and hit you like this, see?” I faked a punch. “Jab with your left. It keeps the other guy away from you.”
    “I see,” he said. For a few seconds he remembered and then he forgot. I let him swing a couple times and miss; then I stopped.
    “Don’t forget to keep your left up,” I said.
    We had begun to box again when the door opened. Automatically I looked over his shoulder. Without thinking, I crossed with my right and popped him in the eye. Down he went.
    Ruth ran over to him. He sat there on the floor. She looked up at me. “You filthy beast! Why can’t you pick on a guy your size?” she snarled at me.
    I was so dumbfounded I couldn’t speak.
    “It’s not his fault, Ruth,” Marty said, “I asked him to teach me how to fight.” “But your eye,” she wailed. “Look at it. It’s