thought. He had been a professional. I had battled around a little, but there was no doubt that he had me shaded on smartness. To offset that, his hands were lumpy and battered, while mine weren’t. And he was—or had been—used to gloves, while bare knuckles was more in my line.
Popular belief has it that you can do more damage with bare hands than with gloves, but, as usual, popular belief is wrong. The chief value of gloves is the protection they give your hands. Jawbones are tougher than finger-bones, and after you’ve pasted a tough face for a while with bare knuckles you find your hands aren’t holding up very well, that you can’t get the proper snap into your punches. If you don’t believe me, look up the records. You’ll find that knockouts began to come quicker as soon as the boys in the profession began to pad their fists.
So I figured I hadn’t anything to fear from this Chick Orr—or not a whole lot. I was in better shape, had stronger hands, and wasn’t handicapped with boxing-glove training. I wasn’t altogether right in my calculations.
He crouched, waiting for me to come to him. I went, trying to play the boob, faking a right swing for a lead.
Not so good! He stepped outside instead of in. The left I chucked at him went wide. He rapped me on the cheekbone.
I stopped trying to outsmart him. His left hand played a three-note tune on my face before I could get in to him.
I smacked both hands into his body, and felt happy when the flesh folded softly around them. He got away quicker than I could follow, and shook me up with a sock on the jaw.
He left-handed me some more—in the eye, in the nose. His right scraped my forehead, and I was in again.