"Going to argue with this gent in a way he'll understand a pile better
than the chatter we've been making so far." He stepped a long light
pace forward. "Macklin, you know what we want to find out. Will you
talk?"

A cloud of red gathered before the eyes of Macklin. It was impossible
that he must believe his ears, and yet the words still rang there.

"Why, curse your little rat-face!" burst out Robert Macklin, and,
stepping in, he leaned forward with a perfect straight left.

Certainly his long vacation from boxing had not ruined his eye or
stiffened his muscles. With delight he felt all the big sinews about
his shoulders come into play. Straight and true the big fist drove
into the face of the smaller man, but Robert Macklin found that he had
punched a hole in thin air. It was as if the very wind of the blow had
brushed the head of Ronicky Doone to one side, and at the same time he
seemed to sway and stagger forward.

A hard lean fist struck Robert Macklin's body. As he gasped and
doubled up, clubbing his right fist to land the blow behind the ear
of Ronicky Doone, the latter bent back, stepped in and, rising on the
toes of both feet, whipped a perfect uppercut that, in ring parlance,
rang the bell.

The result was that Robert Macklin, his mouth agape and his eyes dull,
stood wobbling slowly from side to side.

"Here!" called Ronicky to his companion at the door. "Grab him on one