THE COUNT 
 
 CHARLES E.VAN LOAN 
 
 ^ 
 
CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
„„ Cornell University Library 
 
 PS 3543.A59T13 191S 
 
 Taking the count :prize ring stories.For 
 
 3 1924 021 713 015 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tlie Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924021713015 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 PRIZE RING STORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES E. VAN LOAN 
 
 FOREWORD BY 
 
 mVIN S. COBB 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
 MCMXIX 
 
COPYBIGHT, 1916, 
 BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
 Copyright, 1913, 1914, by The Qortis Publishing Company 
 
 PRINTED m THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
 
FOREWORD 
 
 BY mVIN S. COBB 
 
 His full name was Charles Emmet Van 
 Loan, a name to make a mouthful. He signed 
 himself in his private correspondence C. B. Van 
 Loan and in his published writings, Chas. E. 
 Van Loan. But I never knew anybody who 
 knew him but called him "Charley" or more 
 often still, "Van"; and I imagine that to those 
 of his readers who did not know him except as 
 they felt his personality showing through the 
 printed page he was "Charley" Van Loan, 
 nearly always. We employ those shortenings 
 of the proper name only for those we like and 
 for those we love, or for those we feel we would 
 love did we come to know them; they are the 
 slangy diminutives of an universal regard; be- 
 cause no man ever gained an affectionate abbre- 
 viation of his baptismal title and kept it who 
 in the estimation of his contemporaj:ies had not 
 earned it by right of friendly conquest. We 
 nickname our geysers, but not our glaciers ; the 
 one typifies that which flows, which bubbles, 
 which has motion and sparkle and quickness; 
 the other typifies that which is frozen and slow 
 and hard. What is true of nature's wonders is. 
 
 [vii] 
 
FOKBWOBD 
 
 true of nature's human products. And so Van 
 had to be Van and it is as Van that I love now 
 to think of him. He was Van here ;, I'm sure he 
 is Van over there on the Other Side where he 
 is gone to be one of the blest brotherhood of 
 those who in life loved their feUowmen and 
 made their feUows happier because they had 
 lived. 
 
 My task here is to write a foreword for one 
 of the books of this edition of his collected writ- 
 ings, but it is hard for one who knew him, as I 
 did through a period of years, to deal with any 
 of his works and at the same time forbear say- 
 ing something on the personal side regarding 
 their creator. 
 
 He was so much a man and yet so much a 
 "boy. Nor do I appraise this estimate as having 
 a paradoxical sound. He was all the more the 
 man for being so entirely the boy. 
 
 It is easy to speak praise of the dead. They 
 cannot answer back for themselves and it ill 
 becomes those who live to refute the kindly 
 word. Nobody ever yet took public issue with 
 an epitaph or gave the loud-voiced lie to the 
 gracious wording of a funeral piece. But of Van 
 Loan dead I can say in all truth what I could 
 have said of Van Loan alive, with none to con- 
 tradict me: I never knew him to say a cruel 
 thing or any undeservedly harsh thing of any 
 creature; I never knew him to write a cruel 
 thing or a dirty thing; I never knew him to do 
 a cruel thing. I do not believe he ever thought 
 one. His wit was never barbed with venom ; no 
 [viii] 
 
POBEWOBD 
 
 yellow trace of envy or jealousy or spitefulness 
 underlaid the currents of his mind ; no savor of 
 smuttiness ever muddied up in the wake of his 
 smoothly flowing pen. If fpr those who in the 
 flesh were kindly, were generous, were sweet- 
 tempered, were brave and self-sacrificing — ^if 
 for those who as they walked this earth, found 
 joy in giving and glory in serving — ^there is 
 eternal reward hereafter, I know full well 
 where my friend is to-day, and what fellowship 
 he keeps; and in that thought lies my accept- 
 ance of the stroke of fate which took him away 
 while still he was lusty and young, and before 
 his work was done. 
 
 Being so essentially a red-blooded man, it 
 was natural that he wrote most often of the do- 
 ings and the sayings of the red-blooded folk, 
 their sports, their pastimes and their pleasures. 
 And how well he did it, — ^with such a whimsical 
 insight into their pretensions, with such a keen 
 perception of their virtues ; with such a marvel- 
 ous reportorial ability to make you see his cre- 
 ations not as figments of fiction, but as flesh and 
 blood realities, true to type and truly typed, 
 making you feel that when he put words into 
 the mouth of one of his characters of prize-ring, 
 or race-track, or ball field, or "movie" studio, 
 the words were just exactly the words which 
 that particular character would inevitably 
 speak at that particular time and place. His 
 gift for dialogue has been praised as masterly, 
 and so it was, but to my way of thinking his 
 highest power lay in the art he had of present- 
 
 [ix] 
 
FOEEWOED 
 
 ing a complete likeness of an individual in a 
 single stroke. Plenty of men can write the 
 Lord's Prayer on a postage stamp. Van Loan 
 had a craftier knack than that — ^he could paint 
 a portrait in a paragraph. 
 
 Take some extracts from this present volume, 
 — for example, — where ia the story called ' ' The 
 Spotted Sheep ' ' he introduces you to one of his 
 heroes after this wise : 
 
 "Billy Allison was not exactly a black sheep 
 nor yet a white one. Both colors were woven 
 into the fabric of his character, the black spots 
 representing the bad impulses and the white 
 spots representing the good ones ... a moral 
 snap shot of Billy Allison's soul would have 
 resembled a piece of shepherd's plaid." 
 
 Or this one : 
 
 "Isidore Mandelbaum did not fight because 
 he loved fighting. A stiff jab upon his promi- 
 nent nose had no charms for him; a well-timed 
 hook to the point of the chin roused in him no 
 wild enthusiasm for the conflict. Isidore was a 
 gladiator for revenue only. The jingle of the 
 shekels in the box-office made a strong appeal 
 to his nature; the soft rustle of currency was 
 soothing to his soul. Propose an engagement 
 to the average boxer of Isidore's caliber, and 
 the first question would never vary: 'Who 
 with?' Propose one to Mandelbaum, and he 
 would ask 'How much?' " 
 
 Prize fighting is full of Isidore Mandelbaums 
 but it took Van Loan to portray a common type 
 in six short illuminating sentences. And who 
 
 [X] 
 
FOEEWOBD 
 
 in fewer words ever summarized more com- 
 pletely a situation than Van Loan did when he 
 wrote : 
 
 "The American prize ring has produced hun- 
 dreds of sports, four or five genuine sportsmen 
 and a genius or two. " 
 
 But he did not unduly burden his tales with 
 character sketches nor yet make them staccata 
 with dialogue. For descriptions of scenes of 
 action he had a talent which was more than a 
 talent ; it was a genius. Eead here any one of 
 his accounts of ring battles and you are bound 
 to tingle to the vividness of the bold, accurate 
 drawing of the fight, even as, subconsciously, 
 you marvel at the versatility of the narrator. 
 
 Van Loan's stories will live among those who 
 speak our tongue and appreciate our sporting 
 institutions. For that matter, the stories of 
 many a writer will live on after that writer is 
 gone and forgotten. Van is gone, but he will 
 not be forgotten. He still lives, and in the 
 memories of those who loved him, which means 
 a multitude, he always wUl live. 
 
 If I were writing the words which will be 
 carved upon the stone above his grave; if in 
 writing those words I were restricted to but 
 a few words, I think I should write : 
 
 "A man's man all over — ^but children loved 
 him." 
 
 [xi] 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 PAOB 
 
 The Spoeting Docjiob s • • 9 
 
 ONE-THIETr-THBEE— RiNGSIDB 
 
 
 . . 
 
 
 B 
 
 
 
 . 62 
 
 The Spooted Sheep .... 
 
 
 :. . 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 91 
 
 On Account of a Lady. . . 
 
 
 > • 
 
 
 , 
 
 i 
 
 
 . 122 
 
 No Business 
 
 
 » • 
 
 
 , 
 
 
 
 .[147 
 
 Out of His Class .... 
 
 
 * • 
 
 
 
 * 
 
 
 , 174 
 
 Scrap Ihon 
 
 
 • 
 
 < 
 
 
 
 
 203 
 
 The Peael Brooch .... 
 
 
 • 5 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 242 
 
 The Revenge of Km Morales . 
 
 
 • 
 
 
 
 
 
 267 
 
 FiAST Picking . 
 
 1 
 
 • ■ 
 
 
 
 J 
 
 
 289 
 
 Fob the Picotiees ...;,: 
 
 
 i • 
 
 
 
 * 
 
 
 315 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
THE SPOETING DOCTOE 
 
 WHEN the ligMweiglit champion of the 
 world went to his comer after the 
 eighth round, he was puffing badly, and 
 his knees were shaking. 
 
 "What are you stalling for, Billy?" de-. 
 manded "Tacks" McLowrie, the champion's 
 manager, chief second, and adviser. "Why 
 don't you tear into this stiff and show him how 
 to take a joke?" 
 
 "I — ^I ain't stalling," panted the champion. 
 "This is a tough fellow — strong as a bull — can't 
 seem to get started, somehow." 
 
 "You copped him nice with that right swing," 
 said McLowrie, realizing that encouragement 
 was needed. ' ' It set him back on his heels. ' ' 
 
 "Yes, and he laughed at me — didn't hurt him 
 a bit — just as strong in the clinches as ever — 
 I'll get him — ^when I get started." 
 
 "Aw, there's lots of time," said McLowrie 
 soothingly, "Make him lead more, BUly. PuU 
 him out of position, and cross him with the 
 right. Hands hurting you any?" 
 
 The champion nodded. In spite of the soft 
 bandages, the old dislocations were bothering 
 
 [9] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 iim. A fighter, like a baseball player, a short- 
 card dealer, or a pianist, is no better than his 
 iiands — and "Billy" Wade's hands were bad. 
 The right, which he had damaged on "Buck- 
 skin" Kelly's head two years before, was throb- 
 bing painfully. 
 
 "Use your left more," said McLowrie. "Keep 
 him away from you. Nix on the infighting; 
 make him box. You've had every round so 
 far. ' ' 
 
 "Think so?" 
 
 "Why, a thousand miles !" Thus do seconds 
 and advisers stimulate confidence at the expense 
 of veracity. 
 
 In the other angle of the ring, "Frankie" 
 Brady, a freckled, shock-headed young thunder- 
 bolt, was also listening to counsel. 
 
 "I knew this sucker wasn't half trained," 
 said "Bo" Brooks, his manager. "Go right 
 after his body; there's where he's weak. For- 
 get that he's got a jaw at all; cave in his belly, 
 and he's yours." 
 
 "Leave it to me," said Brady. "Did you 
 hear him when I sunk that right into his 
 stomach? Grunted like a pig. I tell you, he 
 don't like 'em down there!" 
 
 "Yes," said Brooks, "and the fellow that 
 does is a fool. He's tired, and he wants to 
 stall. Keep right on top of him all the time — 
 anake him fight himself out. Eough him up in 
 the clinches." 
 
 Back in the third row of the reserved seat 
 {Section, a fattish young man peered through 
 
 [10] 
 
THE SPOETIJTG DOCTOR 
 
 his glasses. He was watching the champion's 
 corner intently, noting every move. He saw the 
 heaving chest, the drawn look about the mouth, 
 and the distress in the half -closed eyes. 
 
 "I think BUly has hung it all over Brady so 
 far," said a red-faced man, sitting beside the 
 one with the glasses. "He's a slow beginner 
 you know. Doc." 
 
 "My friend," said the fattish young man 
 calmly, "the champion is all through. He shot 
 his bolt in the first six rounds." 
 
 "Huh!" said the red-faced man. "He ain't 
 started yet!" 
 
 "Take a good look at him, and tell me when 
 you think he's going to get started. In the 
 first place, he's in no sort of shape for a hard 
 fight, and in the second " 
 
 The red-faced man sputtered incoherently as 
 he fished out a thick roll of bills. 
 
 "Fifty will get you a hundred if you think so, 
 Doc! Two to one that Wade wins!" 
 
 The fattish young man smiled sadly. With 
 thumb and forefinger he extracted several paste- 
 boards from his vest pocket and spread them 
 fanwise, like a hand at whist. 
 
 "I'm sorry I can't take you, Joe," said he. 
 "I'm already down — and out." 
 
 The red-faced man glanced at the pool-room 
 tickets, and his face grew redder than ever. 
 
 "Why, what the Say! You got eight 
 
 hundred bet on him, and you're quitting al- 
 ready?" 
 
 [11] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 The fattish young man solemnly returned the 
 tickets to his pocket. 
 
 "Not quitting," said he, "merely conceding 
 that I haven't got a chance. I never allow my 
 bets to influence my judgment, Joe, and I'm 
 afraid in this case that I didn't allow my judg- 
 ment to influence my bets. There will be a new 
 champion of the world inside of fifteen' min- 
 utes." 
 
 "Bet you ten to one there ain't!" 
 
 The young man with the glasses explored 
 his pockets and brought forth some halves, 
 quarters, and dimes. 
 
 "Your price is all out of line, Joe," said he; 
 "and, besides that, you're betting on sympathy. 
 I never hedged before in my life, but if 
 you insist — four dollars and eighty-five cents 
 against forty-eight-fifty that before ten-twenty- 
 one p. m. Frankie Brady will be the lightweight 
 champion of the world." 
 
 "Why not five against fifty?" 
 
 "Because," said the fattish young man, "I 
 make it a rule never to bet more than I can 
 pay. Four-eighty-five just taps me, Joe, and if 
 you win I'll have to hold out breakfast money." 
 
 "All right, shoot the four-eighty-five," said 
 •Joe, "but it seems to me that if I had eight 
 hundred iron men bet on a fighter I'd be root- 
 ing my head off for him to win instead of wait- 
 ing for his finish. ' ' 
 
 "There's no virtue in rooting," said the 
 other, opening his cigarette case. "All the en- 
 
 [12] 
 
THE SPORTING DOCTOR 
 
 couragement in the world, vocal or otherwise, 
 won't take the place of stamina." 
 
 During the ninth round, Brady landed a solid 
 right-hander to the stomach, and the champion 
 wilted under it. The challenger, aware that his 
 man was weakening, followed his advantage 
 with a vicious streak of infighting. "Wade tried 
 to clinch and blanket the piston-like blows, but 
 Brady would not have it so, and crowded the 
 champion along the ropes, driving in short, 
 punishing jolts to the body. Wade was weak 
 and gasping when the bell rang. 
 
 '*I don't know what's the matter with me," 
 he wailed, when he reached his corner. "I 
 can't seem to get started!" 
 
 "You'd better start pretty soon," said Mc- 
 Lowrie. 
 
 Eeddy Burke was swinging a towel in Wade's 
 corner. A sturdy little boxer who just escaped 
 the top-notch flight of lightweights, he had 
 attached himself to Wade's fortunes in the 
 capacity of sparring partner, and the boys were 
 inseparable companions. 
 
 "Aw, go git him, Billy!" said Burke. "He 
 ain't got a thing. Tear his block off!" 
 
 The tenth round saw the champion on the 
 floor twice, and the second time he took nine 
 seconds before rising. 
 
 The fattish young man nodded at the red- 
 faced one during the interval between the tenth 
 and eleventh rounds. 
 
 ' ' Smelling salts and brandy, "said he. " It 's 
 about over. Good-by, Billy Wade." 
 
 [13] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 The red-faced man did not answer. His 
 lower lip was trembling, and there were tears 
 in his eyes. 
 
 "I know how you feel, Joe," said his friend. 
 "I hate to see him whipped, too, because he's 
 been a great little fighter; but — they all get it 
 sooner or later. ' ' 
 
 "He ain't fighting his fight!" groaned Joe. 
 "If he only had a flash of his old form — ^just 
 a flash! Doc, he used to murder fellows like 
 this Brady. There wasn't a lightweight that 
 could stand up to him at infighting; but Brady's 
 licking him at his own game. What's wrong 
 with him? Can he be doped or something?" 
 
 "Yes," said the fattish young man; "doped 
 with alcohol and nicotine. The stamina isn't 
 there. That was all that ever made Billy Wade 
 a champion. He's lost it, and now he's a mark 
 for a second-rater. Too bad!" 
 
 The sting of brandy in his throat, and the 
 pungent odor of aromatic spirits of ammonia 
 in his nostrils, the champion was helped out of 
 Ms corner at the beginning of the eleventh 
 round. His arms hung like leaden weights, and 
 he shuffled rather than walked to the middle of 
 the ring. Brady rushed to meet him, smothered 
 a last dying flurry in a clinch, and the crowd 
 rose to watch the passing of one of the blue rib- 
 bons of the athletic world. After the third 
 knock-down. Tacks McLowrie picked up a 
 sponge and fingered it thoughtfully. Eeddy 
 Burke snatched it from his hand. 
 
 [14] 
 
THE SPOETING DOCTOE 
 
 "Not that way!" said lie fiercely. "He's a 
 cliainpion yet, and a champion never quits ! ' ' 
 
 Billy Wade did not quit, nor was the sponge 
 thrown into the ring. Brady measured the reel- 
 ing figure carefully, plumped a right-hander 
 home under the heart, and followed it with a 
 short hook to the chin. This time Wade did not 
 attempt to rise, and Frankie Brady's first act 
 as a champion was to carry the defeated man 
 to his corner, where he placed him gently upon 
 his stool. 
 
 "Poor old scout!" said Brady. "He gave- 
 me a tough battle. ' ' 
 
 "Yah!" sneered Eeddy Burke. "You was. 
 lucky to catch him out o' condition! Wait till 
 we get you again, that's aU!" 
 
 Brady grinned, and, recalling his ring man- 
 ners, shook Wade's limp right hand. Then the 
 advance guard of hero worshipers poured 
 through the ropes and surrounded the winner^ 
 patting him on the back and showering him 
 with florid compliments. 
 
 "Oh, you Brady!" 
 
 "Didn't I tell you he'd be soft for you?" 
 
 "Hooray for the new champion!" 
 
 The fattish young man pulled out his watch. 
 
 "Not quite eleven minutes," said he coolly. 
 "Joe, I'll trouble you for that forty-eight-fifty. 
 I'm going to need it." 
 
 It was some time before the arena was 
 cleared. The fattish young man climbed upon 
 his chair and watched the defeated champioa 
 as he was assisted toward the dressing room.. 
 
 [15] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 His arms dangled at his sides, his shoulders 
 sagged, and he was mumbling to himself : 
 
 "Couldn't get started — don't know why — ■ 
 Brady can't hit hard enough to stop me." 
 
 The fattish young man took the pool-room 
 tickets from his pocket, tore them small, and 
 tossed the bits into the air. 
 
 "Serves me right!" said he. "It'll be a les- 
 son to me." 
 
 n 
 
 In every college class there is one beloved 
 youth who wins the engaging pseudonym of 
 "Sport." 
 
 Arthur Phelps had been "Sport" Phelps 
 from his grammar-school days. Happy-go- 
 lucky, irresponsible, open-handed, and gener- 
 ous to a fault, whether his own or another's, 
 the name clung to him through medical college. 
 
 The poker-playing freshmen soon discovered 
 that Phelps would draw four cards to an ace, 
 or stand a back-raise upon a pair, no matter 
 how small. This is not a system which recom- 
 mends itself to those who desire to profit at 
 cards, but it is very certain indication that the 
 man who follows it gambles because he loves 
 the game and not because he has any great 
 desire to win. 
 
 A brilliant student when he felt there was 
 need of study, Phelps managed to squeeze 
 through the medical course and pass his final 
 examinations. The winning of a diploma did 
 not seem to interest him nearly so much as the 
 
 [16] 
 
THE SPORTING DOCTOR 
 
 winning of several bets at seven to five — Phelps 
 on the short end — that he would be "plucked" 
 by the examining board. 
 
 His average was not particularly high, apro- 
 pos of which he remarked : 
 
 "Three deuces beat aces and kings — not very 
 much, fellows ; but just enough to take the pot. 
 Send in." 
 
 He gave an elaborate dinner to the losers, 
 who presented him with a loving cup which was 
 almost silver, addressed him ceremoniously as 
 "Doctor," and grieved very much at parting 
 with him, for Phelps had announced that he 
 was going West to "establish himself in the 
 profession, ' ' 
 
 Time was heavy upon his idle hands in the 
 Western city, and an empty office is a lonely 
 place in which to wait for a practice. Phelps 
 joined a few clubs of the sort where cards are 
 played and checks passed underneath the table, 
 thus circumventing the house committee and 
 the strict rules against gambling upon the 
 premises. He came to spend a great deal of 
 time at auction bridge, which he found a perma- 
 nent investment, for he could never resist the 
 temptation to "kick" a strong bid. 
 
 His associates, idle young men for the most 
 part, welcomed him joyfully as "Doc." Some 
 pretematurally grave young men with pin- 
 feather whiskers are "Doctor" to their inti- 
 mates, and rather insist upon this form of 
 salutation. The only difference which a diploma 
 
 [17] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 made in Arthur Phelps was that he ceased to 
 be "Sport" and became "Doc." 
 
 Absence from office during office hours is not 
 good for a budding practice, nor does it help a 
 practice which shows no signs of flowering. Un- 
 fortunately for Phelps, he had an assured in- 
 come — ^not as large a one as he would have liked, 
 perhaps, but still enough to keep the wolf at a 
 respectful distance. Lacking the spur of neces- 
 sity, he fell into careless habits of life and of 
 mind. He did not worry over the fact that his 
 date book was a blank, and that the steady 
 plodders who stayed in their offices were build- 
 ing up paying practices. 
 
 Doc Phelps was a drifter, in danger of becom- 
 ing a moral derelict and a victim of fatty de- 
 generation of the ambition. He was idle, and 
 the worst thing about an idle man is that he is 
 seldom fit to choose his amusements. Anything 
 which involved physical exercise was out of the 
 question, for he had the short breath of the 
 cigarette smoker, and every muscle and tissue 
 in his body was overlaid with soft, unwholesome 
 fat. A brisk run up a single flight of stairs 
 was enough to set his heart to drumming, so he 
 chose sedentary amusements and took as much 
 of his pleasure as possible sitting down. 
 
 The city in "wrhich he was located was the 
 logical center of the boxing world, and Phelps, 
 interested in all forms of sport, fell into the 
 habit of driving his runabout out to the differ- 
 ent training camps to watch the men at work. 
 It was a pleasant way to pass an afternoon, and 
 
 [18] 
 
THE SPOETING DOCTOE 
 
 eertamly a better one than sitting in a leather- 
 chair at the club, playing bridge at five cents 
 a point and taking a drink every fourth hand. 
 
 The boxers came to know this amiable loafer 
 with the double chin, the glasses, and the ready 
 smile, and as time went on, they honored him 
 with their friendship, and gave him their con- 
 fidence. All the members of the Queensberry 
 brigade are not seasoned and sophisticated; 
 many of them are honest, earnest youngsters, 
 simple and direct as children and untutored as 
 Hottentots. Doc Phelps found them entertain- 
 ing, and their quaint philosophy of life inter- 
 ested him. 
 
 One day "Laddy" McGrath, a preliminary 
 boy of more than ordinary ability, showed 
 Phelps a badly swollen right hand. 
 
 "These bum trainers around here have been 
 fooling with it. Doc, but they don't seem to do* 
 it much good. I hurt it six months ago, and it 
 hasn't been right since." 
 
 Phelps made a careful examination of the^ 
 hand. 
 
 "When do you fight again, Laddy?" 
 
 "Next week — the "Washoe Kid." 
 
 "H'm! Well, if I were you, I'd cancel that 
 date, son. You've got two dislocated joints here, 
 and if you keep on boxing with your hand in this 
 shape, you'll have to quit for keeps pretty soon. 
 I can fix this up for you, but what it needs most. 
 is rest. Come to my office at eleven o'clock to- 
 morrow morning. ' ' 
 
 "I ain't got no dough. Doc. 
 [19] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 "Who said anything about money? Do you 
 "want that hand fixed up or not?" 
 
 "I sure do," said the hoy. "I'll be there, 
 Doe." 
 
 That was the beginning of Phelps ' pork-and- 
 bean practice, as he called it. Laddy McGrath, 
 his right hand as good as new and his nose 
 slightly remodeled so that he could breathe with 
 his mouth closed, was a walking, talking adver- 
 tisement of the virtues of his friend, Doc 
 Phelps, and the other preliminary boys flocked 
 to him with their troubles. Broken hands, 
 sprained thumbs, flattened noses, and the vari- 
 ous mischances of battle — they took them all 
 to the sporting doctor, and he patched them up. 
 Not the least of his treatment was the sound 
 advice which he gave them, explaining simple 
 hygienic principles in words of one syllable. 
 
 "The Doc is all right," said the pork-and- 
 bean fighters. "He always tells you why you 
 ought to do things, or why not, and he knows 
 how a feller can keep in shape. Some gambler, 
 too! He'll bet 'em as much money as they'll 
 take whenever he thinks he's right." 
 
 It was Phelps' habit of betting them as much 
 money as they would take which put a serious 
 crimp in his bank account — ^wiped it out alto- 
 gether, in fact. Like many followers of the 
 boxing game, the Doc was a firm believer in 
 supporting a champion as long as he bore the 
 title, and the Brady- Wade battle laid him low 
 for several months, during which period his bets 
 :were small. But it was only because they had 
 
 [20] 
 
THE SPOETING DOCTOB 
 
 to be, and compulsory virtue does not strength- 
 en the flabby tissues of the soul. 
 
 "It'll be a lesson to me," said he; but in his 
 heart he kne"w" that the lesson would not last 
 beyond the lean period. 
 
 m 
 
 Another young man naight have learned a 
 profitable lesson from that battle, but it is the 
 hardest thing in the world to convince an ex- 
 champion that he is entering into the physical 
 decline which leads to the Queensberry scrap 
 heap. A prima donna may admit that she has 
 lost her top notes; a matinee idol sometimes 
 drops gracefully into character parts, but the 
 passing of a champion is a thing which must be 
 demonstrated upon his stubborn jaw. Defeat 
 wrought in Billy Wade nothing but a wild, un- 
 reasoning rage and the firm belief that he was 
 the victim of a widespread conspiracy. 
 
 "Here's all the papers hollering that I'm 
 through — down and out," said he to Tacks Mc- 
 Lowrie. "You'd think I had whiskers a foot 
 long, the way these sporting editors pan me. 
 Brady is afraid to fight me again — says I'll 
 have to wait, eh? All right. Go get any of 
 these lightweights for me; I'll meet 'em all. 
 After I've trimmed up the bunch. Brooks and 
 Brady won't have a chance to give me the go- 
 by. The public wiU force that stiff to fight 
 me again!" 
 
 So Tacks McLowrie, who was no intellectual 
 [21] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 Sando-w himself, stepped into tlie open market 
 and hawked the services of the late lightweight 
 champion of the world. Promoters were per- 
 fectly willing to give Wade matches, because lie 
 was a drawing card;, but they pointed out to 
 McLowrie that he was no longer in a position to 
 demand the promoter's right eye as a bonus, 
 a piggish, habit into which, champions' man- 
 agers have fallen. 
 
 "Well, that's all right!" fumed Wade. 
 "What we want is the fight. I want to show 
 these knockers where they get off. ' ' 
 
 Tacks made the first match with Eddie 
 Mahoney, a dazzling boxer who had been trying 
 for several seasons to jab his way to a cham- 
 pionship. Wade had beaten him before quite 
 handily, and with the bright light of the cham- 
 pionship still in his eyes, he held Mahoney 
 cheaply and refused to train as if for a hard 
 match. 
 
 "I got him before in a punch, didn't I?" was 
 his argument. "Watch me do it again." 
 
 Honest training is hard work, and Billy was 
 fond of long, black cigars, cocktails, late hours, 
 and other energy destroyers. He liked to have 
 people pat him on the back and tell him how 
 great he was, consequently he haunted the 
 places where people of this sort could see him. 
 A few runs on the road, a week of boxing with 
 the faithful Eeddy Burke, and Wade announced 
 himself as ready to put up the battle of his life. 
 
 Eddie Mahoney ran rings around the ex- 
 ichampion for fourteen rounds, and then fought 
 
 [22] 
 
THE SPOBTING DOCTOE 
 
 him to a standstill in the remaining six periods, 
 winning the decision with but one dissenting 
 voice, and that came from the loser's corner. 
 
 The sporting pages commented that "Wade 
 was indeed far gone when a cream-puff boxer 
 like Mahoney could stand and fight with him, 
 toe to toe, and mourned the downfall of a once 
 great two-handed fighter. Billy Wade took vio- 
 lent issue with these statements. 
 
 ' ' I wasn 't in shape, ' ' said he. "I didn 't half 
 train. ' ' 
 
 He did not train for his next fight either, and 
 in this case the sponge was thrown into the ring. 
 
 "He fights like an apple woman," said the 
 critics. "Two fast rounds and he blows up." 
 
 At the end of a year, Billy Wade was the joke 
 of the lightweight division. He had honest 
 friends who begged him to retire while he had a 
 shred of reputation left, but Billy shook his 
 head. He was too stubborn to make a public 
 acknowledgment of failure, and conceited 
 enough to believe that he could win back his 
 place as the idol of the lightweight brigade. 
 Each time he was defeated he had a new excuse, 
 and, though he promised faithfully to train for 
 his next opponent, he never did it. Training 
 was hard, dry work, and meant no cigars and 
 no cocktails, and Billy Wade had reached the 
 point where he leaned heavily upon stimulants. 
 
 He quarreled with Tacks McLowrie over a 
 division of the spoils, and they parted. Tacks 
 hitching his wagon to a rising star of the mid- 
 dleweight constellation, whereupon the loyal 
 
 [23] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 Eeddy Burke remarked that he never did like 
 that stiff MoLowrie nohow, and expressed the 
 opinion that badly made matches had been re- 
 sponsible for all of the trouble of the past year. 
 
 "I'll lick a few fellows, and then I'll get 
 going," said Wade. 
 
 "Sure you will!" said Burke. 
 
 One morning. Doc Phelps, who had just fin- 
 ished treating a cauliflower ear, looked up to 
 see Billy Wade in the doorway, with Eeddy 
 Burke close behind him. The ex-champion was 
 heavier than a lightweight has any right to be, 
 and he was puffing at a fat, oily cigar. 
 
 "Good morning. Doc," said he. "I think I 
 met you once over to Doyle's. These pork-and- 
 bean kids tell me you're a bear when it comes to 
 fixing up bad hands. I want you to see if 
 you can do anything with these. I've got a 
 fight next month — only ten rounds — and I want 
 you to patch me up for it." 
 
 "All right, Billy," said the doctor. "Come 
 in, Burke. Now, then, let 's have a look at 'em. ' ' 
 
 The ex-champion removed his overcoat, 
 tossed his gold-headed cane into a corner, and 
 extended his hands. Phelps examined them 
 minutely, whistling between his teeth. 
 
 "Ouch!" said Wade, as the doctor pressed 
 hard upon the back of his right hand. 
 
 ' ' Tender, eh? How in the world do you fight 
 with your hands bunged up like this?" 
 
 "Well," said Wade, "I have to pull a lot 
 of punches to keep from hurting 'em, that's a 
 fact." 
 
 [24] 
 
THE SPORTING DOCTOR 
 
 "Yeh," said Eeddy Burke, "that's why we 
 didn't stop the dago last month." 
 
 Phelps released Wade's hands, and leaned 
 back in his chair. 
 
 "I'm going to talk straight to you, Billy,"" 
 said he. "You want the truth, I suppose?" 
 
 "Shoot!" 
 
 ' ' All right. I 'm going to ask you a question •.. 
 Are you making these cheap matches because- 
 you need the money?" 
 
 "No!" said Billy shortly. "I can live the 
 rest of my life if I never see a boxing glove. I 
 got some dough laid away." 
 
 "Then what is your excuse for not quitting? 
 Why are you fighting third-raters with your 
 hands in this shape? Don't you know that 
 any tramp lightweight in the country can lick, 
 you now unless you drop him inside of two 
 rounds ? Why don 't you get out of the game ? ' * 
 
 "Say!" exploded Eeddy Burke. "We come 
 here to get our hands fixed up, not to be inter- 
 viewed, see?" 
 
 Phelps smiled, and lighted a cigarette, ignor- 
 ing the satellite. 
 
 ' ' That's one trouble with you, Billy, ' ' said he. 
 ' * You 've been letting people string you. You 'd. 
 rather hear a lie than the truth because it's 
 easier to listen to. Now I'm a doctor, and 
 you've come to me for treatment. Part of a 
 doctor's job is to tell people the truth, whether 
 they like it or not. The carpenters left a hole 
 over there for people who don't care to listen."' 
 
 He paused and beamed upon Eeddy. 
 [25] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 "See what you get for homing in?" said 
 Wade. ' ' Go ahead, Doo. Get it all out of your 
 system. Shut up, Eeddy!" 
 
 "That's better," said Phelps. "Now, then, 
 you won't train any more ; you're full of poison, 
 your hands are in terrible condition, and you're 
 ^ wreck at twenty-three years of age. You've 
 got every physical excuse for quitting, and you 
 don't need the money. Why do you stay with 
 it, Billy?" 
 
 The boy took his cigar from his mouth'so that 
 it would not interfere with a remarkable flow of 
 profanity. 
 
 "I'll never quit until I get another wallop at 
 that stiff of a Brady! There's a guy that I'll 
 train for — ^I wouldn't care if it was a year! If 
 I ever get him in the ring again " 
 
 "Leave it to us what we'll do to 'm!" said 
 Eeddy Burke. 
 
 "Ah!" said the doctor softly. "So that's 
 the bug under the chip, is it? Do you really 
 mean what you said about training for a year?" 
 
 "Doc," said Wade earnestly, "there ain't 
 anything I wouldn't do to get that fellow in 
 the ring with me again. He ain't a champion 
 ■of the world, and you know it. You can tell it 
 by the way he picks the soft ones and side-steps 
 the real fighters. I can lick him, I tell you !" ■ 
 
 "Not the way you are now," said Phelps. 
 "Peel off that coat and vest; I'm going to look 
 you over." 
 
 "Yeh," said Eeddy Burke. "Let him take 
 ;a slant at you, boy. You 're sound as a nut. ' ' 
 
 [26] 
 
THE SPORTING DOCTOR 
 
 The physical examination was a long one, 
 and when it was over the doctor announced him- 
 self as satisfied. 
 
 "There's nothing organically wrong with 
 you," said he. 
 
 "What did I tell you?" cackled Eeddy. 
 "Sound as a nut!" 
 
 Phelps shook his head. 
 
 "Billy," said he, "you're about the worst 
 wreck of a fine piece of fighting machinery that 
 I ever saw — and I get to look at quite a few of 
 'em. You're twenty-three, and you've been 
 fighting six years. By rights, you should be 
 just beginning, but as a matter of fact you're 
 nearer thirty than twenty — physically I mean — 
 and you'll be forty in a couple of years if you 
 keep on at the pace you're traveling. You're 
 full of nicotine and alcohol, you've got a lot of 
 rotten teeth in your mouth, you're clogged up 
 with soft, unhealthy fat, and your hands aren't 
 worth a damn as fighting tools. If you had 
 deliberately gone about to destroy your physi- 
 cal efiiciency, you couldn't have done a finer 
 job. As you stand now, I wouldn't give a 
 nickel for you." 
 
 Billy Wade rubbed his fingers over the back 
 of his right hand, and there was silence in the 
 room for perhaps fifteen seconds. 
 
 "If that's straight goods," said he, "there 
 ain't much more to do but haul me to the bone- 
 yard. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Eats ! ' ' said the doctor. " I 've heard every- 
 thing else about you, Billy, but nobody ever 
 
 [27] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 accused you of being a quitter. All the game 
 fights in the world aren't pulled off in a ring. 
 You need to be made over again from the 
 ground up. It'll be the toughest battle of your 
 life, old son, but the main point is that you can 
 win if you'll stay with it." 
 
 For the first time since the loss of the cham- 
 pionship, Wade virtually admitted retrogres- 
 sion. 
 
 "Do you think I can come back, Doc?" 
 
 "I know it. Whether you do or not is a 
 matter that is up to you. You'll have to be 
 cleaned out from top to bottom — all the poison 
 that you are loaded,up with must be eliminated. 
 Those hands must go into plaster casts, and 
 stay there for a month or six weeks, and then 
 we '11 tackle the rebuilding process. It won't be 
 any joke, but if you're as game as I think you 
 are, I can send you back in shape to flail the 
 everlasting daylights out of Frankie Brady — 
 yes, even a better man than he is. I agree with 
 you that he 's not much of a champion. You can 
 do this, or you can take the easy way, and go 
 on being licked by every pork-and-beaner in the 
 country. With your hands the way they are 
 now, you won't last more than six months. 
 Think it over, Billy. It's up to you." 
 
 The ex-champion studied the pattern of the 
 carpet for some time, but at last his head went 
 up, and he thrust out his hand. 
 
 "You've got a customer, Doc!" said he. 
 
 ' ' Two of 'em, ' ' said Reddy Burke. * ' Because 
 [28] 
 
THE SPOETING DOCTOR 
 
 I'm with the old champ at every jump in the 
 road." 
 
 "That's the right spirit," said the doctor. 
 "We might as well begin eliminating poison 
 now. Hand me that cigar case of yours. You 
 won't have any further use for it." 
 
 "Aw, say!" pleaded Wade. "I've got to 
 have my smoke after dinner. Doc!" 
 
 "Not after dinner or any other time. If you 
 mean business, we '11 chop the tobacco and booze 
 right here. I want you to get your teeth fixed 
 up first; you've got some rotten cavities there 
 that would poison a dog. Everything that gets 
 into your body has to go through your mouth, 
 so we'll begin the cleaning-out process at the 
 port of entry. When you get the tartar off 
 your teeth, those spongy gums wiU harden, and 
 
 they won't bleed so easy By the way, 
 
 what do you drink, mostly?" 
 
 "Oh, anything that the gang is drinking," 
 said Wade, reluctantly surrenderirig his cigar 
 case. 
 
 "Conviviality is your trouble, eh?" mused 
 Phelps. "In that case, the farther you can get 
 from the bright lights the better. I know a 
 man who's got a ranch about eighty miles from 
 here and thirty miles from nowhere. He's been 
 after me to pay him a visit and bring some 
 friends along. It would be a great place for 
 you because you wouldn't be tempted to sit up 
 nights or fill yourself with booze. How does 
 the idea strike you?" 
 
 "Fine!" said Reddy Burke. "Listen to me 
 [29] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 a minute, Billy. We'll call this ten-round 
 fight off, see? Then we'll take to the woods 
 without tipping it to a soul where we 're going, 
 or why. You can do all this work under cover. ' ' 
 
 "Why under cover?" asked Phelps. 
 
 "Because," said Eeddy, "when we get this 
 bird primed to fly again, the less people know 
 about this rebuilding stunt the better. We can 
 get two to one for every dollar we want to put 
 up." 
 
 ' ' By George ! ' ' said Phelps. ' ' There 's some- 
 thing in that!" 
 
 IV 
 
 "Doc," said Fred Haynes, the proprietor of 
 the Sundown Eanch, "now that our distin- 
 guished guests have retired, would you mind 
 explaining this latest lunacy of yours? Why 
 are you hooked up with a dead one like Billy 
 Wade?" 
 
 The men were sitting on the veranda of the 
 ranch house, overlooking a broad sweep of 
 California hills, sepia and silver in the moon- 
 light. Close at hand was the loom of giant 
 sycamores, and the intervals of silence were 
 filled with the whisper of running water. 
 
 "Great place you've got here, Fred," said 
 the doctor. 
 
 "Don't stall, Doc! Answer the question. I 
 know that you're a bug on fighters, but I always 
 gave you credit for picking live ones. Why 
 Billy Wade? He's been licked by everybody 
 
 [30] 
 
THE SPOBTING DOCTOR 
 
 since he lost the championship. I think I could 
 clean him myself," 
 
 ' ' That 's why I brought him here. ' ' A touch 
 of seriousness was in Phelps' usual bantering 
 tone. ' ' Fred, this fellow is one of the greatest 
 fighting machines in the world, gone all to smash 
 through ignorance and neglect. He's not 
 fought out, and he 's not burned out like so many 
 of 'em; but his hands are in awful shape and 
 he's full of poison. He thinks he can come 
 back " 
 
 "They all do," grunted Haynes. 
 
 "He thinks he can come back," repeated 
 Phelps patiently, "and I'm going to help him. 
 To-morrow I 'm going to give him a light anaes- 
 thetic, reduce those dislocations, force the joints 
 back into position, and put both hands in plaster 
 casts. Then I'm going to start in to get rid 
 of the poisons and the broken-down tissues by 
 a general stimulation of the eliminative organs. 
 I'll clean out his skin with protracted warm 
 baths, and I'll flush him with good, clean drink- 
 ing water. I '11 reduce the unhealthy fat around 
 the abdominal viscera and heart and then " 
 
 "Eave on, little one, rave on," said Haynes 
 soothingly. 
 
 "Light exercise will bum up that fat," re- 
 peated Phelps, "and he can be doing that while 
 his hands are in the casts. I'll put him on a 
 properly balanced diet — all energy-producing 
 foods and no sugars or starches ; he '11 sleep in 
 the open air and go to bed with the chick- 
 ens " 
 
 [31] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 "I've got a tintype of him doing it," said 
 Haynes. "Billy Wade won't stay here ten 
 days. He's a city boy; I know the type. His 
 feet will get to itching for sidewalks, and he 'U 
 miss the pink sporting extras. The simple life 
 will bore him stiff, and he'll beat it. Bet you 
 fifty dollars he doesn't last two weeks!" 
 
 "I'll take that bet," said Phelps. 
 
 "But what's the idea? What's it all for? 
 Are you getting a chunk of money from him?" 
 
 "Come to think of it," said the doctor, "I am 
 entitled to a fee for this. There isn't any ar- 
 rangement about money, though." 
 
 "Well, then, what have you got up your 
 sleeve ? ' ' persisted Haynes. ' ' You 're not doing 
 this out of charity, or because you think you 
 owe something to your profession." 
 
 "No-o," said Phelps. "You might say I'm 
 taking it on purely as a sporting proposition. 
 It's this way: Billy wants to get another crack 
 at Frankie Brady. Frankie isn't a great light- 
 weight by any manner of means, but he's the 
 champion of the world just the same. He's 
 such a poor fighter that I bet eight hundred on 
 Wade when they met last year. I thought 
 Billy's stamina would carry him through. You 
 remember what a ripping, slashing little devil 
 he used to be? He won all his fights because 
 he could set a terrific pace and hold it. That's 
 stamina — energy. That's what Billy has lost, 
 and, without it, anybody can whip him. The 
 general opinion is that when a man's stamina 
 goes back on him, he 's through for good. I be- 
 
 [32] 
 
THE SPOETING DOOTOE 
 
 lieve that theory is wrong — ^in this case, at least. 
 Billy is only a kid yet, and if I can get him 
 cleaned out and trained and his hands in shape 
 so that he can hit with 'em again, I'll guarantee 
 that he'll lick all the Frankie Bradys that you 
 can pile into a ten-acre lot!" 
 
 "Oho!" said Haynes. "I'm on, Doc. You're 
 going to make a clean-up in the betting !" 
 
 Phelps' round face flushed slightly. 
 
 "Not that, either," said he, "though it can 
 pe done, Fred. I want to make this boy over 
 again — ^physically. In a way, I've taken a lik- 
 ing to him. He's too fine a piece of machinery 
 to be allowed to go to smash. I'm going to 
 reform him — that's it! Laugh and show your 
 ignorance ! It can be done, as sure as you live. ' ' 
 
 "I wasn't laughing at that," chuckled 
 Haynes ; "only it strikes me that you're a beau- 
 tiful specimen to be preaching physical regen- 
 eration to athletes — a cigarette-smoking, booze- 
 fighting ball of butter like you are! 'Do as I 
 say, but not as I do,' eh?" 
 
 "Huh!" snorted Phelps, slightly nettled, 
 for the shot had gone home. "I don't have to 
 depend upon my physical condition to make a 
 living, thank the Lor&." 
 
 "No," said Haynes, "and a mighty good 
 thing for you. "When you get to handing this 
 boy a sermon on the evils of rum and tobacco, 
 he's liable to come back at you with the line, 
 'Physician, heal thyself.' I would, if I were 
 in his place. You 're smoking too many of those 
 
 [33] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 rotten Turkish, cigarettes, Doc. They'll get 
 you. ' ' 
 
 , "Oh, you go to the devil!" said Phelps. 
 "Let's have one more high.ball and go to bed." 
 
 It is no simple matter to uproot one habit 
 overnight, but to alter the whole current of a 
 life is really a serious undertaking, and one to 
 be approached with extreme caution. 
 
 For several years, Billy Wade had done ex- 
 actly as he pleased, with no one to offer advice 
 or issue orders. Tacks McLowrie had endeav- 
 ored to "handle" him, after the crude fashion 
 of managers, but had retired after colliding 
 with a will stronger than his own. Softened 
 by indulgence and spoiled by an overdose of his 
 own way in everything, Billy Wade entered 
 upon the regenerating process with no appre-' 
 ciation of the hardships entailed. 
 
 At first the novelty of the thing interested 
 Mm, but at the end of the third day the plaster 
 casts upon his hands became irksome, the long 
 days and the dark, quiet nights bore heavily 
 upon his nerves, and he missed his cigars and 
 cocktails more than he would have thought pos- 
 sible. At every turn, he was met by a fattish, 
 good-natured taskmaster, who regulated his life 
 to the last detail and would not compromise by 
 so much as an inch. 
 
 "Nothing ever happens here but just morn- 
 ing and night," complained the victim, sure of 
 one faithful ear into which he could pour his 
 troubles. "The Doc won't let me eat anything 
 
 [34] 
 
THE SPORTING DOCTOR 
 
 but the things I don't want, and he's got my 
 hands sewed up in a pair of stone gloves so 
 that I can't even deal a deck of cards. If he 
 don't loosen up on me a little bit, I'm going 
 to beat it back to town." 
 
 "Aw, stick a while longer," advised Eeddy 
 Burke. * ' All the boys that got their hands fixed 
 up had to wear them things. I ain't stuck on 
 associating with cows and chickens myself, but 
 I'd give the sawbones a chance if I was you." 
 
 ' ' I think I was a sucker to pass up that Johan- 
 sen for ten rounds, ' ' said Wade. ' ' There 's one 
 guy I can lick." 
 
 ' ' And what would it get you ? ' ' argued Eeddy. 
 "Johansen is only a pork-and-beaner. Brady 
 is the bird we 're after. You better stick, Billy. 
 I think this sawbones knows what he's doing." 
 
 " I 'U stay till Monday, "said Wade. ' ' This 
 place has got my goat. ' ' 
 
 On Sunday, a neighboring Mexican brought 
 the mail from the nearest town. The three vis- 
 itors hurled themselves hungrily upon the 
 packet of newspapers. The flaring headlines 
 on the sporting pages, the baseball scores, the 
 week-old news added the finishing touch to Billy 
 Wade's feeling of isolation from the world. 
 
 "I've had enough of this," said he to Eeddy. 
 "I'm going to tell the Doc to-night. He'll be 
 sore, but if I pay his bill that ought to satisfy 
 him. I'd go off my nut if I had to stay in 
 this place another week." 
 
 Doc Phelps saw more through his thick 
 glasses than most people imagined. He had 
 
 [35] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 observed Wade 's growing nervousness, his sud- 
 den flashes of irritation, and his long periods 
 of sullen quiet, and when the fighter came to 
 him after supper, plainly feeling for an opening, 
 the doctor was prepared. 
 
 "There's a little article here that I want to 
 read to you," said he. **Do you know Bill 
 Horton?" 
 
 "Uncle Bill?" said Wade. "I should say I 
 do ! He's one of my best friends. There's one 
 sporting writer that knows the game from top 
 to bottom. When Uncle Bill says a thing is so, 
 you can go put a bet on it. ' ' 
 
 * ' Can you ? ' ' asked the doctor. * ' Then listen 
 to this, ' ' and he began to read aloud. This was 
 the opening paragraph : 
 
 "Billy Wade has canceled his date with Johansen, and dis- 
 appeared from his usual haunts, leaving no address behind 
 him. He made no explanation or excuse and none was necea- 
 sary. In all probability, this marks the passing of one of the 
 great figures of the Queensbury world. In the history of box- 
 ing, there has never been a more sudden or complete downfall 
 of a champion. For nearly a year Wade's friends have been 
 trying to persuade him to retire, but with the stubbornness 
 which always characterized him, Billy refused to listen. It is 
 another victory for wine, women, and song, but never has this 
 dangerous combination wrought more havoc than in the case 
 of the former lightweight champion of the world. His friends 
 believe that he has at last come to a realization of his physical 
 condition, and given up hope of regaining the stamina which 
 won him a high place in the affections of the sporting popula- 
 tion. His career should serve as a warning to all ambitious 
 young men who are tempted to try their speed on the primrose 
 path." 
 
 Doctor Phelps paused, and glanced at Wade. 
 "Did Uncle Bill say that— honest?" asked 
 the fighter. 
 
 [36] 
 
THE SPORTING DOCTOR 
 
 The doctor passed him the paper, and Wade 
 glanced at the headlines and verified the signa- 
 ture. 
 
 "I thought he was my friend!" said he bit- 
 terly. "It just goes to show that they all take 
 a kick at you when you're down!" 
 
 "Billy," said Phelps, "your real friends are 
 the men who tell you the truth, every time. 
 Uncle Bill has put your case in a nutshell. 
 You've gone a long way down the wrong side of 
 the hill, but if you're game and patient and will- 
 ing to work, you can get back to the top again. 
 You're tired of this place, and you want to go 
 back to town. You want to smoke your head 
 off, and take a drink once in a while. Your wUl 
 power is just as weak as your body. Now it's 
 up to you. Are you willing to stand the gaff 
 and give me a chance to prove that this article 
 is all wrong, or shall we pack up and go back 
 to the bright lights and let everybody say, 'I 
 told you so?' " 
 
 "It sounds easy," was the sulky response, 
 "but I notice that you take a drink whenever 
 you want one, and you've always got a cigar- 
 ette in your mouth. You talk to me about being 
 game and standing the gafff Why, Doc, you 
 don't know what it's like to want to take a drink 
 or a smoke and not do it!" 
 
 There was a long silence, broken only by the 
 rustling of the newspaper as Billy twisted it in. 
 his fingers. Somewhere near at hand, a rock- 
 ing-chair ceased creaking. 
 
 ' * That may be true, ' ' said Phelps slowly, * ' but 
 [37] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 I'm not a fighter, and you are. You make a liv- 
 ing by keeping yourself in good physical con- 
 dition; I make mine by keeping other folks in 
 shape." 
 
 "What difference does that make? Nicotine 
 is a deadly poison; you told me so, but there's 
 more nicotine in those coffin nails that you smoke 
 than in cigars. Booze will play hell with my 
 Uver and kidneys, but you drink twice as much 
 as I ever did. It's all a question of will power, 
 you say, and easy if you make up your mind. 
 Seems to me, if it's such a cinch, you'd quit, 
 yourself!" 
 
 Silence followed this outburst, and after a 
 time Phelps heard a low chuckle. It proceeded 
 from an open window, making it plain that Fred 
 Haynes was an invisible listener. 
 
 Shall we say that the words of an angry boy 
 cut through the fat, and reached Arthur Phelps ' 
 soul? Shall we say that he was shamed into a 
 desire to rid himself of two bad habits, in order 
 that he might set a right example to a patient? 
 No ; this is not a Sunday-school tract. The truth 
 is often nearly as good as a lie. It was Haynes' 
 chuckle that did the work. It reminded Doe 
 Phelps of the fifty-dollar bet, and he knew that 
 if Billy Wade went back to town Haynes would 
 laugh out loud. So he spoke up immediately. 
 
 "Look here, Billy," said the doctor, "you're 
 a sport and I'm a sport, and we liie to go 
 through with things when we start 'em, don't 
 , we ? All right. Now I want to see you a cham- 
 pion again, and I can make you one if you'll 
 
 [38] 
 
THE SPOBTING DOCTOR 
 
 stick. You try it for two more weeks, and 
 I'll agree to take this cleaning-out process with 
 you, just to show you how easy it is. No cigar- 
 ettes, and no booze. Are you with me ? " 
 
 There was no answer. 
 
 "Of course," added Phelps shrewdly, "if 
 you're willing to admit that Uncle Bill's dope is 
 correct and that you can't come back, and you're 
 going to quit without making a fight, that's an- 
 other matter. Some other fellow will lick 
 Brady." 
 
 "Oh, rats !" said Billy Wade. "I'll stick for 
 two weeks more, but I wish I had these things 
 off my hands!" 
 
 Half an hour later, Fred Haynes came out on 
 the porch, and found the doctor sitting there 
 alone, puffing reflectively at a cigarette. 
 
 "Throw that thing away!" commanded 
 Haynes sternly. "That's a nice way to swear 
 off. You talked me out of winning a fifty-dollar 
 bet, but I'm going to see to it that you live up 
 to your side of the contract. Hand over the rest 
 of those coffin nails." 
 
 ' ' By George ! ' ' ejaculated Phelps. " I lit one 
 without thinking. Force of habit." 
 
 "Your will power is just as weak as your 
 body," quoted Haynes. "You've gone a long 
 way down the wrong side of the hill, Doc, but 
 if you're game and patient- 
 
 "Oh, shut up !" snapped Phelps. 
 
 "At that," said his host, "I think you'll find 
 it worth while. And if you could get rid of some 
 of that unhealthy fat — light exercise will bum 
 
 [39] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 it up, Doo — you wouldn't look so much like a 
 Brownie. Not sore, are you? Well, good 
 night." 
 
 For the first three days of the second week, 
 the ranch house was anything but a pleas- 
 ant habitation. One of the long winter rains 
 set in, and the "inmates," as Haynes persisted 
 in calling his guests, were cooped up indoors 
 with their unhappiness. 
 
 Billy Wade continued to fret about the plas- 
 ter casts. He also complained bitterly of the 
 food, and attributed his sleepless nights to the 
 hardness of his bed — ^which was the best one 
 in the house. He took a certain malicious sat- 
 isfaction in the misery of Doc Phelps, who was 
 suffering acutely from nerves and a physical 
 craving for the things which he had so lightly 
 renounced. Eeddy Burke mooned about the 
 premises with the air of a martyr, and even 
 Haynes was affected by the atmosphere of 
 gloom. There were times when a carelessly 
 dropped remark produced an effect not unlike 
 that which follows the tossing of a piece of raw 
 meat into a bear pit. 
 
 "It's a swell little party. Doc," said Haynes, 
 on the third night, after Wade and Burke had 
 retired. ' ' Did you hear what your patient said 
 about the grub? Considering that this isn't a 
 hotel, and that he isn't being charged anything 
 for it " 
 
 Doc Phelps, who was sitting by the open fire 
 [40] 
 
THE SPORTING DOCTOR 
 
 with his head in his hands, grunted, but made 
 no other comment. 
 
 "Old man Job got too much credit," mused 
 Haynes. 
 
 "Eh— what's that?" 
 
 * ' They say Job was a patient man, ' ' explained 
 Haynes; "but in my opinion Noah had him 
 skinned to death. Be a good fellow, Doc, and 
 ask me why." 
 
 "I'll bite," said Phelps wearily. "What's 
 the answer, Mister Bones?" 
 
 "Well, that time when it rained so long, 
 wasn't Noah shut up in the water wagon with a 
 lot of hyenas and things, and wasn't one of his 
 sons a drinking man? I'm for the fellow who 
 said that Ham never should have been let into 
 the ark!" 
 
 The doctor grinned in spite of himself. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Fred," said he, "but this period 
 of mental depression is part of the cure. I've 
 started it, and I'm going through. It won't last 
 much longer." 
 
 ' ' Bully for you, old horse ! ' ' said Haynes. * * I 
 don't care a whole lot for this fighter of yours, 
 Doc, but if this treatment straightens you up, 
 I guess I can put up with the hyenas a few days 
 more." 
 
 The next morning the sun came out, and the 
 sufferers crept into the open. There is'no tonio 
 like clean California air, washed by a long rain. 
 Eeddy Burke pranced like a colt. 
 
 "Come on!" he challenged. "Let's take a 
 hike over the hills!" 
 
 [41] 
 
TAKING THE COTTNO? 
 
 "Go on, Billy, it's wliat you need," said the 
 doctor. 
 
 "I will if you'll go, too," said Wade. 
 
 It was a tired, sweaty trio which, returned at 
 noon, but peace had been declared somewhere on 
 the road, and there was no squabbling over the 
 lunch table. The doctor complained of being 
 stiff and sore — and small wonder, for they had 
 walked him ten miles at a brisk pace ! — so Eeddy 
 Burke, who knew all the tricks of the training 
 camp, gave him an alcohol rub, after which the 
 doctor fell asleep in the hammock. That night 
 Billy Wade slept ten hours without turning over 
 in bed, and even Phelps awoke with a breakfast 
 appetite — something which he had not known 
 in years. The turning point had been reached. 
 
 "Now, Billy," said the doctor, "we'll begin 
 taking off that fat. Eoad work in the morning, 
 shadow boxing and rope skipping in the after- 
 noon. I want you to get up a good sweat twice 
 a day, and I think I'll do some sweating my- 
 self. I sleep better when I'm tired." 
 
 There ensued the regular routine of light 
 training, and at the end of ten days Haynes had 
 three clear-eyed, sun-burned, and ravenous 
 boarders, who ate everything in sight three 
 times a day and yawned shamelessly over th^i 
 supper table. 
 
 ' ' Say, why can 't you fellows keep awake ? " he 
 complained. "Doc, I hope I may choke if you 
 haven't got a jaw-bone, after all! I thought it- 
 was only a jowl and a dewlap. The fat is melt- 
 ing off you in streams." 
 
 [42] 
 
THE SPOETING DOCTOE 
 
 "Yes, and maybe I don't feel better for it!" 
 crowed Phelps, passing his fingers along the 
 angle of his jaw. 
 
 "Yeh," said Eeddy, "keep following us on 
 the road. Doc, and we'll make a featherweight 
 of you. I'm feeling a little bit of all right my- 
 self these days. "When we start the boxing, I'll 
 give the old champ here an awful ride. Hey, 
 Billy, do you remember that day at Sheehan'a 
 place when I dropped you with a right hook?" 
 
 "You bet!" said Wade. 
 
 "I always had a notion," continued Eeddy, 
 "that with just us two in a bai^ somewhere, I 
 could lick you. Somehow I never could fight 
 in public, but I'm a wolf in private. Why is 
 that, Doc I" 
 
 * * I don 't know. Jack Jeffries couldn 't fight in 
 a rigg, but he used to give Jim the toughest bat- 
 tles of his life." 
 
 "Maybe it comes from knowing a guy and not 
 being afraid of him," said Eeddy. "Hurry up 
 and get those things off Billy's hands. I want 
 to give him a trimming." 
 
 "We'll take the casts off when the soreness 
 is all gone," said the doctor, "and you needn't 
 worry about the fighting. You'll get enough of \ 
 it, I promise you. We're not going to gamble 
 on Billy's condition; we're going to know what 
 he can do." 
 
 "What are you figuring on?" asked Haynes. 
 "A real fight is the only test. ' ' 
 
 "We'll give him three real fights," said the 
 doctor. ' ' First, we '11 train him for a six-round 
 
 [43] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 go, and then we '11 let him rest for a few weeks. 
 Then we '11 shape him up for ten rounds, and the 
 last time we'll send him to a finish." 
 
 " To a finish ! " said Eeddy. ' ' With me ? " 
 
 "With you," said the doctor. 
 
 Billy Wade rose and side-stepped about the 
 room, swinging his bandaged hands in short, 
 vicious circles and hooks. 
 
 "You'd better get ready, kid," chuckled the 
 ex-champion, "because I'm going to make you 
 think a grizzly bear is after you!" 
 
 ' ' Huh ! ' ' sneered Burke. ' ' You 're the fellow 
 that had better be in shape!" 
 
 VI 
 
 Billy Wade's mysterious disappearance was 
 a nine days' wonder in the athletic world, and 
 ^whenever material ran short, the sporting writ- 
 ers fell back upon it as a topic, and all sorts of 
 wild guesses and rumors found their way into 
 print. Wade was in a sanitarium; Wade was 
 married, and living upon a farm in Wisconsin; 
 Wade was in Australia ; Wade was dead. 
 
 Since everybody's guess is nobody's certain- 
 ty, the real truth was not even suspected, much 
 less revealed. Nobody hinted at his "coming 
 back"; everybody took it for granted that the 
 former champion had gone the way of all fight- 
 ing fleSh. Billy Wade slipped into the past 
 tense, and after six months he was no more than 
 a memory. Tacks McLowrie's middleweight 
 was slashing his way to a title, a new white hope 
 
 [44] 
 
THE SPOBTING DOCTOR 
 
 had been discovered, and not yet exposed as 
 hopeless, and attention was diverted from the 
 lightweight division. Frankie Brady was on 
 tour with a burlesque troupe, and, unless ru- 
 mor wronged him, more interested in a certain 
 strawberry-blond actress than in risking his 
 crown against any worthy opponent. 
 
 Joseph Porsano, a shrewd young man who 
 managed a "club" and promoted boxing con- 
 tests, received a letter one day which caused him 
 to rub his nose thoughtfully for the better part 
 of half an hour, during which time he read the 
 letter again. Then he closed his desk, packed 
 his valise, and departed from the city. The end 
 of Porsano 's railroad journey was a small town 
 in an interior county, where a trim, brown young 
 man with eyeglasses was waiting on the depot 
 platform. 
 
 "Hello, Doc!" said Porsano. "You're look- 
 ing fine. I wouldn't have known you. Where's 
 the front porch and the double chin?" 
 
 "Gone," said Phelps. 
 
 "You look as if you might be this mysterioua 
 lightweight you're trying to put over on me. 
 "Where do we go from here?" 
 
 "Jump in the runabout," said the doctor, 
 "and I'll tell you all about it as we go along." 
 
 They were well into the open country before 
 Porsano began to ask questions. 
 
 "In the first place," said the promoter, "who 
 is this kid? Has he ever done any real fight- 
 ing — ^with good ones, I mean?" 
 ■ "Some," said Phelps. "I didn't tell you 
 
 [45] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 who he is because I know how strong you fel- 
 lows are for publicity, and we're under cover 
 with our man. It 's Billy Wade. ' ' 
 
 "The devil you say!" ejaculated the astound- 
 ed Porsano. "Billy Wade! Do you mean to 
 teU me that he's been here all the time?" 
 
 "Ever since he dropped out of sight." 
 
 "The old stuff, eh? He's trying to come 
 back?" 
 
 ' ' Not trying, Joe. He 's done it. ' ' 
 
 The promoter shook his head. 
 
 "Don't fool yourself. Doc, A beaten cham- 
 pion never comes back. The last time I saw 
 Billy Wade fight, a bantamweight could have 
 licked him. No, Doc ; they never come back. ' ' 
 
 "They never went at it the right way," ar- 
 gued the doctor. "Joe, I've taken that boy all 
 apart and put him together again. You remem- 
 ber how bad his hands were ? I put 'em in plas- 
 ter casts for five weeks, and now you can't tell 
 that there was ever anything wrong with them. 
 He hasn't had a drink in seven months — or a 
 cigar. He's been working every day and going 
 to bed at nine o'clock. If ever a fighter had a 
 systematic and scientific renovating, Wade's the 
 boy. They never come back, eh? Well, wait 
 till you see him; that's all." 
 
 "You can't tell anything by looking at 'em," 
 said Porsano. "I've seen forty of 'em. They 
 look all right, and they train all right, but when 
 you get these broken-down fighters into the ring 
 they blow up. It's nerves as much as anything - 
 else. A battle shows 'em up. ' ' 
 
 [46] 
 
THE SPOETING DOCTOB 
 
 ' ' That's why you 're here, ' ' said Phelps. "^I 'm 
 not going to ask you to take my word for any- 
 thing. Eemember Eeddy Burke ? ' ' 
 
 The promoter nodded. 
 
 ' ' One tough little rat, ' ' said he. * ' If he 'd fight 
 in the ring like he fights Wade in the training 
 quarters, he 'd be a top-notcher. ' ' 
 
 "Well," said the doctor, "he fights Wade to 
 a finish to-morrow. They've already gone six 
 and ten rounds, and Billy trained for each go 
 just the same as for a real battle. He wore 
 eight-ounce gloves for the last one because we 
 couldn't take a chance on hurting his hands; 
 but to-morrow the gloves will be regulation 
 size, and it will be the toughest fight you ever 
 saw in your life. I'm not going to tell you any 
 more ; keep your eyes open and use your own 
 judgment." 
 
 * ' It listens well, ' ' grinned Porsano. * ' Seeing 
 is believing with me, and I'm getting so now 
 that I knock off about fifty per cent for eye 
 trouble. What's your plan? Who do you want 
 ;to spring him on?" 
 
 "FranMe Brady." 
 
 * 'You say it easy. Doe. There's a lot of good 
 lightweights who want that four-flusher. Bo 
 Brooks won't make a match unless he has aU 
 the best of it — ^money and every other way — and 
 iFrankie won't fight anybody but a dead one." 
 
 "That's the reason he'll jump at Billy," said 
 the doctor. ' ' So far as the money is concerned, 
 we should worry ? They can cut it any way they 
 like or they can have the whole works. We'd 
 
 [47] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 be tickled to death to make it winner take all, 
 but I suppose Brooks will insist on a long end, 
 win, lose, or draw. If Billy Wade could go 
 back four years and fight the way he did when 
 he was licking such men as Buckskin Kelly, Lew 
 Peters, and the Tonopah Kid, how long would 
 Frankie Brady last with him?" 
 
 "About as long as a cigarette," said Por- 
 sano. 
 
 "You think you know something about a 
 fighter, Joe? You can tell when a man's in 
 shape? Fair enough. I'm going to put you in 
 Beddy Butke's corner to-morrow afternoon, 
 and he'll be under your orders. He'll fight to 
 instructions, and I want you to make him lick 
 this poor old has-been — ^if he can. You can hold 
 Keddy back and make a long fight of it, or you 
 can send him in to mix — ^use your own judg- 
 ment. You've got a good little fighter in your 
 corner; see what you can do to my man. To- 
 morrow night, if you can't see a way to win a 
 pot of money at two to one, I'll send you to an 
 oculist. Tie on your hat, Joe, because I'm going 
 to step on this old boat and find out if she can 
 still do sixty miles an hour." 
 
 vn 
 
 The final test had none of the earmarks of 
 a festival; every man who was present was 
 there on business. The only witnesses were 
 Haynes, referee; Phelps, chief second and ad- 
 viser in "Wade's corner; Porsano, ditto in 
 
 [48] 
 
THE SPORTING DOCTOR 
 
 Burke 's corner, and Don Felipe Ortega, present 
 by special favor in the capacity of timekeeper. 
 
 "You know, Doc," confessed Porsano, as the 
 quiet group moved from the house toward the 
 ring, which was pitched behind the bam, "yes- 
 terday I thought this fight to a finish might be 
 a hippodrome. I've been watching Wade and 
 Burke, and they're both as nervous as cats. The 
 way they act, you'd think they were going to 
 fight a duel." 
 
 " Yes, " said the doctor. ' ' I didn 't sleep much 
 last night — thinking about it. "We 've all worked 
 hard to make this boy over again. We feel cer- 
 tain that he's right, Joe, but you never know 
 how much stamina is in a man until you pump 
 it all out. At ten rounds, he fought like a wild 
 cat ; to-day he may have to go twenty or thirty, 
 and he's against a tough game. Eeddy has 
 been with him four years, and Billy has never 
 yet dropped him for the full count. If he passes 
 this test, we can send him against anybody and 
 feel certain of him." 
 
 "I see you haven't got any towel swingers," 
 said Porsano. 
 
 "No," said Phelps. "Many a fighter is 
 mauled and manhandled to death in his own 
 comer by a lot of numskulls who won't give 
 him a chance to breathe. A tired man wants air 
 — all the air he can get. A minute of relaxation 
 and deep breathing does him more good than 
 all the rubbing and kneading and slapping that 
 you can give him." 
 
 The customs of the ring were observed, even 
 [49] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 to tine weighing in, and Joe Porsano, really an 
 excellent judge of physical fitness, opened his 
 eyes wide as the bath robe slipped from Wade's 
 shoulders. 
 
 The slight roll of fat about the waist had dis- 
 appeared, and the frontal overhang had given 
 way to horizontal ridges of muscle. Between the 
 neck and the knees Wade did not carry a spare 
 ounce ; to look at him was to get the impression 
 of a machine built for speed and endurance and 
 then stripped to the running gear. The greatest 
 change of all was in the boy's face. There was 
 no suUenness in the clear eyes, nor about the 
 mouth; every feature seemed sharpened and 
 refined, leaving no trace of the puffy, pasty ex- 
 champion of the year before. 
 
 "One thirty-one!" exclaimed Porsano, look- 
 ing at the bar. "You've got him down too fine, 
 haven't you?" 
 
 ' ' Naw, we ain 't ! " said Eeddy Burke. ' ' That 's 
 his fightin' notch, see? Load him up with more 
 weight than he needs, and he'd have to burn it 
 off in a fight. It's them bumed-up and broken- 
 down tissues what clogs a guy's blood and 
 makes him slow down. We ain 't carryin ' no ex- 
 cess fuel." 
 
 "Where do you get that stuff?" asked the 
 promoter, smiling. 
 
 "From the Doc," said Eeddy. "Believe me, 
 that feller knows something about training. I 
 always had a notion that the more weight the 
 better. The Doc says that's bunk. He's got 
 me down to where I'm six pounds lighter than 
 
 [50] 
 
THE SPOETING DOCTOE 
 
 a straw hat, but all of it is fighting weight, and 
 I can go faster and last longer than I could 
 before. You watch me root into the old champ ; 
 he'll know that he's been to a barbecue," 
 
 Fred Haynes, acting as referee, called the 
 boys to the middle of the ring. 
 
 "Shake hands," said he. "No hard feel- 
 ings?" 
 
 Billy Wade put his arm around Eeddy 's neck. 
 
 "I'm coming after you, old kid, ' ' said he. 
 
 "You won't have to get out no search war- 
 rant," grunted Eeddy. "I'll meet you some- 
 where on the way." 
 
 * ' All set ? " asked Haynes. " Go to your cor- 
 ners. Eing the bell, Ortega!" 
 
 Don Felipe, one eye glued to the doctor's stop 
 watch, smote violently upon a small anvil and 
 the battle began. 
 
 Billy "Wade darted out of his comer, head 
 down and hands low at his sides, ready to slam 
 with either one the instant he got within range. 
 Eeddy Burke, looking like a freckled little cin- 
 namon bear, trotted to close quarters without 
 hesitation, and the gloves began to fly. For 
 three minutes there was no sound but the scrap- 
 ing of shoes upon canvas, the thud of body 
 blows, and the sympathetic groans of Don Fe- 
 lipe Ortega, 
 
 "How long can he stand that kind of going?" 
 asked Porsano of his charge after the round 
 was over. 
 
 "That's what we're going to find oui," said 
 [51] 
 
TAKING THE COUITT 
 
 Eeddy. "I got in a couple of pippins to the 
 slats." 
 
 "Keep right after him," said Joe. "That 
 sort of pace will crack him if anything wiU." 
 
 " Eight 1" said Burke. 
 
 But Wade did not crack. He crowded a whole 
 battle into each round, and Porsano, watching 
 the other corner narrowly, saw no signs of dis- 
 tress. He fought in his old-time style, a head- 
 long, crouching attack directed at the body, with 
 an occasional vicious overhand chop to the head. 
 
 After the tenth round, Eeddy began to 
 weaken. His body from chest to belt was red 
 and blotched, and his lower lip was split. 
 Wade's right eye was slowly closing, in spite of 
 all the doctor could do, and his nose was bleed- 
 ing freely — evidence that the battle had not been 
 entirely one-sided. 
 
 "Gee, but he's — got a lot — ^behind those short 
 punches!" wheezed Eeddy, at the end of the 
 thirteenth round. "Some fighter yet — ain't 
 he?" 
 
 * ' You bet, " said Porsano. " I 've seen enough 
 to convince me, Eeddy. You'd better quit." 
 
 "Who, me?" and the little fellow fairly bris- 
 ;tled. "Why, the champ never knocked me out 
 yet! If I can land a couple — on his chin " 
 
 When Don Felipe struck the anvil at the be- 
 ginning of the seventeenth round, Doc Phelps 
 yelled across the ring to Porsano : 
 
 "Look out for your man, Joe! IVe turned 
 the wolf loose!" 
 
 [52] 
 
THE SPORTING DOCTOR 
 
 "If he can fight- any faster than he's been 
 fighting," said Porsano, "he is a wolf!" 
 
 Billy Wade fell upon his tired sparring part- 
 ner like a fury, battering down his guard and 
 clubbing short, savage punches into the body. 
 Eeddy wavered, gave ground, and dropped his 
 hands at his sides. Like a flash, "Wade switched 
 the attack to the jaw — ^two hooks and a swing, 
 and down went Eeddy Burke, a tangle of arms 
 and legs. Billy dropped on his knees beside him 
 and took the red head into his lap. 
 
 "Old pal, you ain.'t hurt, are you? I didn't 
 mean to wallop you so hard — on the level I Doc 1 
 Come and look at him ! He 's out yet ! ' ' 
 
 It was three minutes before Eeddy opened his 
 eyes. 
 
 * ' What come off ? " he mumbled. 
 
 "He got you, my son," said the doctor, pass- 
 ing the smelling salts under Eeddy 's nose. 
 
 Billy Wade leaped into the air, cracked his 
 heels together, and emitted a succession of 
 piercing yells. 
 
 "I never flattened him before in my life !" he 
 shouted. "Now bring on your Frankie Bra- 
 dys!" 
 
 "Yes," said Eeddy, sitting up, with a twisted 
 grin, "if you'll stick one on Brady's chops like 
 the one you just pinned on mine, there won't be 
 much to it. Why, you old champ ! I didn't think 
 you had it in you I ' ' 
 
 "Well, Joe, what do you think?" asked the 
 doctor. 
 
 [53] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 Supper was over, and the three older men 
 were sitting upon the porch in the moonlight. 
 The late antagonists were squabbling amiably 
 over a game of seven-up in the dining room. 
 
 "You're managing him?" asked Porsano. 
 
 ' ' No, ' ' said the doctor. " I 've taught him how 
 to manage himself. I can't appear in this thing ; 
 I'm only his physician." 
 
 "Well, you've done a mighty fine job. He 
 fights exactly as he used to, except that he's 
 got more zip than he ever had. Frahkie Brady 
 won't be much more than a light lunch for him 
 now. The only trouble will be to make the 
 match. I'll go back to town and sort of spill 
 the news that I've heard from Billy and that 
 he wants just one more match. No need to say 
 why; they'll all figure that he's broke and needs 
 the money. That'll be enough to start the sport- 
 ing writers after him ; those fellows have written 
 themselves into the belief that BiUy Wade can 
 never come back; half of 'em have had him 
 buried. It ought to look like a soft thing for 
 Brooks and Brady; if it doesn't, we can make it 
 worth their while. If I hook 'em for a battle, 
 you ship Billy into town about ten days before 
 the fight and let him do a little road work and 
 some light boxing — ^just enough for a stall. No 
 need to uncover him to any one ; it would hurt 
 the odds." 
 
 "You're thinking of betting on him?" asked 
 Haynes. 
 
 "Am I? This is one place where I'd hock the 
 crown jewels and mortgage the family plate!" 
 
 [54] 
 
THE SPOKTING DOCTOE 
 
 Later, when Haynes and Phelps were alone, 
 the former asked a question. 
 
 "You'll make a clean-up on this fight, won't 
 you, Doc?" 
 
 " I 've made it already, ' ' said the doctor. * * A 
 olean-up mentally, morally, and physically. As 
 to the betting, I don't believe I'll do any." 
 
 "What? You don't mean to say you'd pass 
 up a cinch like this?" 
 
 "That's the idea. Do you know what they 
 call me in town, Fred? 'The sporting doctor.' 
 It 's a bad combination. A man can 't be a sport 
 and a doctor at the same time; he's bound to 
 neglect one practice for the other. I've been a 
 sport, and it didn't get me anything; now I'm 
 going to try being a doctor." 
 
 "Why this sudden change of heart?" 
 
 "I don't know as I can explain it to you," said 
 Phelps, "because I hardly understand it my- 
 self. You know how I handled this boy Wade. 
 First, I cleaned him out physically, but I knew 
 that it wouldn't last unless I cleaned him out 
 mentally and morally as well. I took that kid 
 off by himself and preached to him ; I showed 
 him that clean living and manliness and de- 
 cency were worth more than just a means to 
 an end — such as licking Brady, for example. 
 And I talked so much to him along those lines* 
 that I guess some of the sermons struck in on 
 me. For the first time in a number of years, 
 I'm fit physically, and it has had a certain effect 
 upon my mental processes. It's a humiliating 
 confession to make, Fred, but I haven't been 
 
 [55] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 mucli of a success as a physician for the simple 
 reason that I was too busy being a sport. That 
 was another habit. I've gambled ever since I 
 can remember ; I pitched pennies when I was in 
 short pants. I learned more poker in the high 
 school than anything else. I supported half the 
 tight players in my class at college, and it never 
 got me a thing worth having. I'm done." 
 
 ' ' But — this is a cinch. It 's easy money. ' ' 
 
 Phelps yawned. 
 
 "I never did like cinches," he said. "It was 
 always the excitement and the element of 
 chance that hooked me. And easy money never 
 did me any good." 
 
 "I think you're a chump," said Haynes. 
 
 "I think I have been," was the unruffled 
 response, "but I'm going to be a regular nine- 
 to-twelve and two-to-five doctor for a change." 
 
 "More power to you!" said Haynes. 
 
 vm 
 
 Frankie Brady, lightweight champion, sat in 
 his corner, working the padding off his knuckles. 
 
 "He looks good," said Brady doubtfully. 
 
 "Didn't Jeff look good at Reno?" asked Bo 
 Brooks. "Take it from me — ^they never come 
 back. All you got to do is to stick a few good 
 hard wallops into his pantry and leave him for 
 the sweeper." 
 
 "Uh-huh," said Brady. "The poor sucker 
 ain't even got a manager. And only one man 
 in his corner. Eeddy Burke! What does he 
 know about handling a fighter?" 
 
 [56] 
 
THE SPOETING DOCTOB 
 
 "Bob Fitzsimmons used to do that one-man- 
 in-the-«orner stunt," said Brooks. "Said they 
 was in his way." 
 
 Billy Wade, introduced as the former light- 
 weight champion of the world, drew a scattering 
 volley of cheers, mixed with hoots and catcalls. 
 The Eoman populace with its ready thumb was 
 no more cruel than the average crowd which 
 attends a boxing match. Wade, the short-ender 
 in the betting, had shown nothing in his brief 
 period of training unless it was an inclination 
 to avoid careful inspection. The consensus of 
 opinion was that he was only a shell and that 
 five rounds would see his finish. 
 
 Frankie Brady was received with vociferous 
 applause, acknowledging the same with a curt 
 nod of his tousled head. Just before the bell 
 rang, a trim, bronzed young man with glasses 
 left Porsano's private box, and shook hands 
 with Wade. 
 
 "Eat him alive, old boy!" said the doctor. 
 
 "Leave him to us!" said Eeddy Burke. 
 "We're going to take that guy apart a joint at 
 a time. Look at him, Doc! He's got a lot of 
 fat to burn up, eh?" 
 
 Billy Wade introduced himself to Frankie 
 Brady with a whirlwind attack which made the 
 champion dive into a clinch. The sensations he 
 experienced may be duplicated at the cost of 
 tackling a mule's hind legs or attempting to 
 hug a thunderbolt. There was no holding those 
 brown shoulders, no blocking those driving fists, 
 and the champion extricated himself from the 
 
 [57] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 storm center anii retreated, ducking and side- 
 stepping. Wade clung to him like a shadow, 
 driving Brady into corners, hammering him out 
 of them, and mauling him along the ropes. The 
 spectators, who had settled down to watch the 
 feeling-out process, were startled into loud yells. 
 
 "Break him! Break him!" cried Brady to 
 the referee, hanging on for dear life. 
 
 ' ' Break yourself ! ' ' said the official. ' ' You 're 
 holding; he ain't." 
 
 "Four-flusher!" said Wade, hammering his 
 right fist under the champion 's heart. * ' I 'm go- 
 ing to make you jump out of the ring ! ' ' 
 
 At the end of the round, Brady hurried to 
 his corner with a wild light in his eye. 
 
 "Stay right with him," said Brooks. "He's 
 trying to win in a couple of rounds. It's his 
 only chance. The faster he fights, the sooner 
 he '11 blow up. Hang right to him ! ' ' 
 
 "YouTaade this match!" said Frankie Brady. 
 "I didn't want to fight till Thanksgiving." 
 
 History was repeating itself. This time it 
 was Frankie Brady who had failed to train for 
 a hard battle. 
 
 "Aw, can that!" growled Brooks. "Go in 
 there and jab his head off. He can 't last, I say ! ' ' 
 
 Brady tried to follow instructions, but no left 
 jab could have held Billy Wade at arm's length. 
 He was determined to cpme to close quarters, 
 and, once there, he addressed himself to the 
 champion's stomach with a resounding tattoo 
 which sent that agitated young man flying from 
 one angle of the ring to the other. Uncle BiU 
 
 [58] 
 
THE SPOETIKG DOCTOE 
 
 Horton, who had seen many things Dut who had 
 never before witnessed the second coming of a 
 champion, stroked his chin, dictating mechan- 
 ically to the telegraph operator at his elbow. 
 
 "Wade puts in solid right to body, and fol- 
 lows with left to same place — ^Brady hanging on 
 — ^Wade rushes champion to ropes, landing 
 right, left, and right to body without a return — 
 Brady clinches, and takes severe punishment — 
 Wa.de 's round." 
 
 "Don't let him get at you in the clinches," 
 cautioned Brooks. "Block those short ones." 
 
 "I can't hold him," panted Brady. "He's 
 strong as a buU." 
 
 "Box him, you fool! Stay away for a while. 
 He can't last." 
 
 Brady tried all the wiles of the seasoned 
 campaigner. He jabbed, and he ducked, and he 
 tried to "stall," but he could not smother the 
 headlong attack of the challenger. Wade shed 
 stinging left jabs and right swings with an 
 impatient jerk of his head, walking through 
 them to close quarters. He would not be tricked 
 into sparring at long range, but when he got 
 inside Brady's guard he attacked with tigerish 
 ferocity. Hitching his shoulders and dropping 
 his knees together, he sent in short, crashing 
 drives below the rib line, lifting every ounce of 
 his weight and all the strength of his legs into 
 each jolting blow. 
 
 Until the sixth, each round was a repetition 
 of the first. Early in that period. Wade knew 
 that Brady was weakening fast. He felt his 
 
 [59] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 body sag as he fell into a clineli. Immediately 
 Billy concentrated his attack upon the jaw, the 
 first gnn being a wicked overhand right, deliv- 
 ered from a crouch. It struck a trifle high, but 
 it smashed Frankie Brady's nose as flat as a 
 postage stamp and knocked him sprawling on 
 his back. He was up at once, running desper- 
 ately, but "Wade chased him into a corner, 
 feinted for the first time in the fight, and then 
 crossed the right fairly upon the chin. 
 
 Before the referee had marked the passing of 
 the first second_. Uncle Bill Horton was dictating 
 the following message which was to shake the 
 sporting world from center to circumference: 
 
 "Wade by a knock-out in sixth." 
 
 IX 
 
 Doctor Phelps sat In his office, cleaning out 
 an inkwell for which he hoped to have use in 
 the future. The door opened and in came Eeddy 
 Burke and the lightweight champion. 
 
 "You ought to stuck with us after the fight!" 
 said Eeddy. "Talk about champagne! You 
 could have had a bath in it!" 
 
 The doctor looked at Billy Wade. 
 
 "Not a drop," said the champion. "That's 
 on the level. You know how it is after a fight — 
 you got to cut into the grape to show you're a 
 good fellow. The gang got me and took me out, 
 that's all." 
 
 "And we got ten weeks on the P. & B. circuit 
 — a thousand a week!" chortled Eeddy. "We're 
 
 [60] 
 
THE SPORTING DOCTOR 
 
 going away to-night, so we want to see you and 
 fix up that bill." 
 
 "Bill?" repeated the doctor. "Oh, never 
 mind that. There isn't going to be any bill." 
 
 "Nothing doing with that kind of taJk!" said 
 the champion sternly. "Who was it fixed me 
 np? "Who was it made me win this fight?" 
 
 "That's all right," said Phelps. "Maybe I 
 got as much out of it as you did." 
 
 "How much did you bet. Doc?" asked Eeddy. 
 
 "Not a cent." 
 
 "I told you he wasn't going to bet!" said 
 Billy. "And I had a hunch that you'd run out 
 on the bill. You wouldn't refuse to take a little 
 present, would you, Doc?" 
 
 "No," said the doctor, "I wouldn't refuse." 
 
 Billy Wade drew a small jeweler's box from 
 his pocket, and opened it. 
 
 "You'll never find a better one than this, 
 Doc," said he, "and I want you to wear it to 
 remember me by. You made me win a tougher 
 fight than was ever pulled off in a ring — ^yes, 
 and a better one, too." 
 
 "I know, Billy," said the doctor. "I know, 
 because I won the same fight myself." 
 
 Some people claim that a five-karat, blue- 
 white diamond, set in platinum, is vulgar. Doc- 
 tor Arthur Phelps, whose practice is increasing 
 daily, says that the rays from such a stone 
 dazzle the eyes of a patient, and allow him to 
 charge more than his services are really worth. 
 
 But he may be joking about that. 
 [61] 
 
ONE-THIETY-THREE— EINGSIDE 
 
 CHAELES FEANCIS HEALT, known to 
 all the world as "Young Sullivan," sat 
 on the edge of his bed and stared incred- 
 ulously at Billy Avery, his manager, press 
 agent, and bosom friend. 
 
 "Naw," said Healy, shaking his head, "you 
 don't mean that, Billy. You're only kidding." 
 
 "It ain't what I mean, Charles," said Avery, 
 discouragement showing in the dispirited droop 
 of his shoulders and the flat tones of his voice. 
 "It's what Badger means that cuts the ice. I 
 talked to him for four hours — the obstinate 
 mule! — and that's the very best we get — one- 
 thirty-three at the ringside." 
 
 "But, man alive," wailed the little fighter, 
 "that's murder in the first degree! He'd be 
 getting me in the ring so weak that a feather- 
 weight could lick me ! " 
 
 "Yes," said Avery, "and he knows that as 
 weU as you do. That's what he's playing for 
 — a cinch." 
 
 "The public won't stand for it!" stormed 
 Healy. 
 
 "The public be damned!" said Billy Avery, 
 [62] 
 
ONE-THIETY-THEEE ^RINGSIDE 
 
 unconsciously quoting another and greater pub- 
 lic character. "It stands for anything — every- 
 thing. We're on the wrong side of this weight 
 question, Charles. Badger has got the cham- 
 pion, and it's just our confounded luck that 
 Cline can do one-thirty-three and be strong. 
 Cline won it from Fisher at one-thirty-three 
 ringside, and Badger says that every man who 
 fights Cline for the title must make the same 
 weight — the lightweight limit." 
 
 "Huh!" snarled Healy. "There ain't any 
 such thing as a limit ! I notice that they called 
 'Young Corbett' a champion after he licked 
 McGovem, and Corbett couldn't get within a 
 city block of the featherweight limit! They 
 make me sick! It's the champion that makes 
 the weight limit — ^not the rules!" 
 
 "All true," said Avery; "and that's exactly 
 why we're up against it. Cline can do the 
 weight. Badger opened up and talked straight 
 off his chest, Charlie. He says he isn't anxious 
 to fight ^is because he's got softer matches in 
 sight where Chne won't have to take a chance. 
 He thinks that this weight restriction will stop 
 us bothering him with challenges and chasing 
 him around the country with certified checks 
 and things. I hollered like a wolf for one-thirty- 
 five at three in the afternoon, and he only 
 laughed at me. ' We 're not fighting welters, this 
 season,' he says. 'One-thirty-three ringside, or 
 nothing. Take it or leave it. ' The Shylock ! ' ' 
 
 "Well, leave it, then!" said Healy angrily. 
 "If Mike Badger thinks I'm sucker enough to 
 
 [63] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 cut off an arm and a leg, jnst to get a fight 
 with, that hunk of cheese that he's managing, 
 he's got another guess coming. I'll go into the 
 welterweight class first!" 
 
 "Y-e-e-s," said Avery slowly, "and there 
 isn't a welter in the country to-day that would 
 draw a two-thousand-dollar house. I suppose 
 we'll have to go back to the six and ten-round 
 no-decision things, splitting the money even, 
 and agreeing to box easy ! Yah 1 A fine game, 
 that is!" 
 
 "I suppose you think I ought to grab this 
 fight with Cline?" It was more than a ques- 
 tion ; it was an accusation. 
 
 "Well," said the business manager, looking 
 at the ceiling, for he had no wish to meet Young 
 Sullivan's eyes just then, "the bank roll ain't 
 very fat, Charlie. "We could use a few thousand, 
 you know, and there's more money in losing to 
 Cline — don't get excited, kid; let me talk — than 
 we could get by winning from a flock of pork- 
 and-bean welters. That fight would draw forty 
 thousand if it draws a cent. If you win — and 
 it's no cinch that Cline will be as good as he 
 was two years ago — we can clean up a fortune 
 the first year, like shooting fish ! ' ' 
 
 " If I win ! " said Healy bitterly. ' ' I tell you, 
 it'll murder me to get down to one-thirty-three ! 
 I'd have to cut the meat right off the bone to 
 do it. You know I made one-thirty-five for 
 Kelly, and it was all I could do to outpoint him 
 in twenty rounds when I should have stopped 
 him with a punch ! ' ' 
 
 [64] 
 
ONE-THIETY-THEEE — ^RINGSIDE 
 
 "The loser's end ought to be eight thousand, 
 at least," said Avery, still looking at the ceil- 
 ing. "And in case you don't get him, you've 
 got a fine alibi — the weight stopped you. It was 
 your ptomach that bothered you in the Kelly 
 fight, remember that. ' ' 
 
 "See here, Billy," said Charles Francis, 
 "you want me ta fight Cline, don't you? Even 
 at one-thirty-three?" 
 
 "We need the money," said the manager sim- 
 ply- 
 
 "I'll gamble you!" said Healy, producing a 
 silver half dollar. "Heads, I fight him; tails, 
 I don't. Will you stick by it, Billy, if it comes 
 tails?" 
 
 "Sure!" said the manager. "Will you go 
 through with it if she comes heads?" 
 
 "It's a promise!" said Healy. 
 
 The coin spun, flickering, in the air, struck the 
 carpet, and rolled to the fighter's feet. 
 
 ' ' Heads ! " he groaned. ' ' I lose, Billy ! ' ' 
 
 Whenever a sporting writer had reason to 
 rake over his vocabulary for the sort of an ad- 
 jective which should best fit Mike Badger, man- 
 ager of "Biddy" Cline, the choice usually lay 
 between two words. The scribes who liked Mike 
 selected "astute." The other said he was "ob- 
 stinate." Both were right. 
 
 To be absolutely fair in the matter, Mike was 
 neither better nor worse than any other mana- 
 ger. Only wiser. When he made a business 
 contract, he was prudent enough to demand at 
 
 [65] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 least seventy-five per cent the best of the bar- 
 gain, and tenacious enough to hold out until he 
 got it. Mike simply did what the other fellows 
 would have done if they had been given the 
 opportunity, and every one knows what an un- 
 principled course that is to pursue. One fight 
 promoter, hoping to secure certain concessions 
 and smarting under Mike 's steady refusal to re- 
 cede from the original proposition, burst out 
 thus: 
 
 "Ain't you got any sportsmanship in you at 
 aJl?" 
 
 ' ' Not a stitch, ' ' answered Mike. * ' Sportsman- 
 ship and business are two different things. 
 I'm a business man, and you know my terms. 
 I've got something to sell — ^buy it or let it 
 slide." 
 
 In the "good old days," which some of the 
 scarred bare-knuckle veterans still mourn with 
 sorrowful pride, a fighter needed no business 
 manager for the excellent reason that fighting 
 was not then a business. It was a habit. With 
 the era of large purses and profitable theatrical 
 engagements came the shrewd business man, 
 and Mike Badger was the shrewdest of them all. 
 He could smeU a five-dollar note farther than 
 a bird dog can smell a glue factory. 
 
 A champion is the greatest asset a wise man- 
 ager can have — and vice versa. The very word, 
 "champion," is a valuable trade-mark. It 
 means easy money, free advertising, and, last 
 and most important, the right to dictate terms. 
 Every ambitious fighter dreams of winning a 
 
 [66] 
 
ONE-THIETY-THEEE ^RINGSIDE 
 
 title some day; tlie man who has one dreams 
 only of keeping it until the last dollar has been 
 squeezed out and then retiring undefeated. 
 
 It is because of the financial value of this 
 trade-mark that championships are so carefully 
 guarded. It is easier to hale a multimillionaire 
 before an investigating committee than it is to 
 get a champion of the world into the ring with 
 a fighter who has an even chance to defeat him. 
 All sorts of tactics are used in order to side- 
 step dangerous matches. Managers of heavy- 
 weights, lacking poundage restrictions, often 
 bid the ambitious challenger good-by until such 
 time as he has secured a reputation, fondly hop- 
 ing that in the process he will be soundly licked 
 and eliminated. Managers of bantams, feath- 
 ers, and lightweights insist that husky aspi- 
 rants shall "do the weight, ringside." Many 
 a man has saved his title by starving an oppo- 
 nent for a week before a match. The old-time 
 bare-knuckle warriors sneer at this sort of 
 thing. They were used to making matches, 
 "give or take ten pounds," but, as has been 
 pointed out, they were not business men. The 
 slogan, "May the best man win," has been 
 changed to "May the best-managed man win." 
 
 Biddy Cline was a great little fighter— prob- 
 ably the greatest at his weight that the ring 
 had seen during his generation. He was no 
 boxer, but a sturdy, willing, courageous chap^ 
 who began fighting when the bell rang and con- 
 tinued to fight as long as the other man could 
 stand in front of him. His record was black 
 
 [67] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 with, knock-outs, though Biddy was not the typ- 
 ical one-punch fighter. His victims succumbed 
 to the cumulative effect of a thousand blows as 
 well as the terrific pace they were compelled to 
 travel. It was a very strong lightweight, in- 
 deed, who could play Cline's game with the 
 champion and hear the gong at the end of the 
 fifteenth round. Biddy's best fighting weight 
 was slightly below one-thirty-three, he had held 
 the championship for three years, and, under 
 Mike Badger's careful guidance, expected to 
 hold it for three years more. 
 
 Charles Francis Healy had been a large, 
 sharp thorn in the champion's side for some 
 time. He was a dashing, sensational performer, 
 a clever boxer, a hard, clean hitter, and a tre- 
 mendous finisher — ^the very ideal of the average 
 fight follower. He had beaten nearly all the men 
 whom Cline had defeated — ^most of them in 
 shorter fights — but this was only natural, as 
 Healy 's best fighting weight was close to one 
 hundred and forty pounds. When he trained 
 below one hundred and thirty-eight he was sac- 
 rificing strength and stamina, and one hundred 
 and thirty-five pounds at three in the afternoon 
 was the lowest notch he had been able to make 
 with any degree of safety. In spite of this, 
 Billy Avery challenged the champion once a 
 month with clocklike regularity, and was as fre- 
 quently informed that the holder of the title 
 had other pressing matters on his hands. The 
 end of Avery's campaign had been the private 
 
 [68] 
 
ONE-THIBTY-THBEB EINGSIDB 
 
 conference with Badger and the latter's ulti- 
 matum : 
 
 "One-thirty-three, ringside, or no fight." 
 
 Then, with the hardihood of a man who gam- 
 bles when he knows he cannot afford to lose, 
 Healy had risked certain defeat on the flip of 
 a coin. 
 
 The match was made with a tremendous 
 thrumming of journalistic tomtoms, and sport- 
 ing America sat up cheerfully, for this was the 
 one great fight it really wished to see. When 
 the articles of agreement were drawn up — a 
 queer document, half legal, half sporting in ita 
 phraseology — Mike Badger dropped a large fly 
 in Billy Avery's ointment. It came with the 
 dictation of the forfeiture clause — Mr. Badger 
 speaking : 
 
 "For weight, five thousand dollars; for ap- 
 pearance — ^" 
 
 * ' Hold on, there ! ' ' yelled Avery. ' ' "Who ever 
 heard of a weight forfeit of five thousand dol- 
 lars?" 
 
 "You did — just now," said the imperturbable 
 Mike, with a grin. "I'm going to make it an 
 object for your man to do one-thirty-three. I've 
 had fighters forfeit their weight money on me 
 before this." 
 
 Avery argued and Healy glared across the 
 table at Biddy Cline, who glared back, such con- 
 duct being customary in the presence of news- 
 paper men; but Mike was firm as Gibraltar. 
 
 "Here's the point, gentlemen," said he, ig- 
 noring the sputtering Avery^ "I don't want 
 
 [69] 
 
TAKING THE COUlirT 
 
 this man to come into tke ring weighing a toir. 
 This fight is to be for the lightweight champion^ 
 ship of the world, at the lightweight limit. If we 
 are overweight, we shall expect to forfeit five' 
 thousand dollars. If Avery's man can't do 
 one-thirty-three, I want to know it now. If he 
 can make it, why should he object to a large 
 forfeit? Come on, Avery. Now's your chance 
 to spring some of those certified checks you've 
 been flashing around the country so recklessly ! ' ' 
 
 In the end Mike Badger won out, as was his 
 habit. Billy Avery had the added worry of 
 knowing that his entire fortune, as well as the 
 sweepings and scrapings of Healy's bank roll, 
 was forfeit unless the challenger reached the 
 lightweight limit. 
 
 "We're hooked," said Avery gloomily, when 
 he- was alone with his warrior. "If the weight 
 forfeit had been a thousand bucks or so, we 
 could have let it slide and still made money; 
 but now it's one>-thirty-three or bust!" 
 
 ' ' Bust is good ! " said Healy. ' ' We bust if we 
 don't, and we bust if we do. You might have 
 known that Badger would slip one over on you 
 somehow. A fine mess you 've got us in, Billy ! ' ' 
 
 "Me?" exclaimed the manager, virtuously in- 
 dignant. "Say, what's the matter with you? 
 Who offered to toss the coin? Whose idea was 
 that?" 
 
 ' ' Shucks ! ' ' growled Healy. ' ' I only did that 
 because I knew you intended to make the match 
 anyway." 
 
 "You took a chance " 
 
 [70] 
 
ONB-THIBTY-THEEE ^RINGSIDE 
 
 "Yes; and so did Steve Brodie," interrupt- 
 ed the fighter. * ' He ought to have had his head 
 examined for doing it, and I'm worse, because 
 Steve had a chance to win and I haven't. I was 
 kind of figuring on forfeiting my weight money 
 if I saw I couldn't get that low without trouble ; 
 but now I've got to hang up my hat in a Turk- 
 ish bath joint for a week before that fight, and 
 I'll. be as weak as a kitten! You're one swell 
 manager, you are!" 
 
 "And you're a grand squealer," said Avery. 
 "Your own proposition and now you blame 
 me." 
 
 Thus, with mutual reppoaehes and a general 
 disarticulation of family skeletons, the chal- 
 lenger and his manager set out to secure train- 
 ing quarters for the coming event, the shadow 
 of which loomed dark about them. 
 
 n 
 
 "Can Healy do the weight and be strong?" 
 This momentous question agitated every 
 sporting center in the country. It was dis- 
 cussed as far away as London, Paris, and 
 Melbourne. Men wrote about it, talked about 
 it, argued about it ; and all agreed that the out- 
 come of the match hinged upon the correct an- 
 swer, and nowhere was there such uncertainty 
 as in Healy 's training camp. There were only 
 two men who really knew, and they were not 
 committing themselves. Even the trainer was 
 excluded from the daily weighing process. 
 
 [71] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 The newspaper men urged that the public had 
 a "right to know"; spies from the other camp 
 nosed about daily; betting men begged the low- 
 down and on-the-level ; curious ones sought 
 to satisfy their curiosity ; close personal friends 
 went away disappointed. Billy Avery would 
 talk about everything but the weight, and when 
 that subject was mentioned, he became an oys- 
 ter, gripping tight the pearl of information. 
 Healy had but one answer: "See Billy about 
 it." 
 
 The best judges had no chance to form an 
 opinion, for they never saw Healy stripped. 
 Whenever he appeared in the gymnasium he 
 was loaded down with sweaters and woolens. 
 
 Public opinion was divided. Half the fight 
 followers inclined to the belief that Healy could 
 not make the weight and was therefore secre- 
 tive; the other half pointed out that Avery 
 might be preparing an unpleasant surprise for 
 the opposition. 
 
 "He's keeping Cline guessing," said the op- 
 timistic ones. "If he couldn't make the weight, 
 he'd have been a fool to post five thousand 
 bucks." 
 
 At the end of three weeks Mike Badger re- 
 ceived a telephone message from Billy Avery. 
 He hung up the receiver with a hard little edge 
 of a smile, for he had been expecting something 
 of the sort. 
 
 "They're on the run, Biddy," he remarked 
 to his champion. "Avery wants to see me to- 
 night — on the strict Q. T. I knew that big 
 
 [72] 
 
ONE-THIRTY-THEEE — ^RINGSIDE 
 
 sucker couldn't do the weight, or anywhere near 
 it!" 
 
 "Did he say so?" asked the literal Cline. 
 
 * * Bonehead ! ' ' retorted Mike. ' ' He didn 't have 
 to say it. What else could he want to see me 
 about? I'll call the turn now — ^he wants to rat 
 out on their forfeit. A swell chance he's got!" 
 
 "Serves 'em right for going around the coun- 
 try trying to make a rum out of me ! " said Cline 
 feelingly. ' ' Hand it to 'em good, Mike 1 ' ' 
 
 "That's the best thing I do," remarked Mr. 
 Badger, 
 
 The real heart-to-heart business of the fight- 
 ing game is transacted without witnesses, and 
 it shrinks from publicity. The newspaper men 
 were not invited to attend the moonlight confer- 
 ence of the managers, and the meeting was as 
 secret as if they had been preparing to dynamite 
 a national bank. 
 
 ' ' Hello, Mike ! ' ' said Avery. ' ' Have a cigar ? ' ' 
 
 "Thanks! Well, out with it! What's on 
 your mind?" 
 
 "I wanted to have a chat with you about this 
 weight proposition," said Avery. 
 
 "Haven't you got a copy of the articles of 
 agreement?" 
 
 "Yes," said Billy. 
 
 "Well, if I remember," said Badger calmly, 
 "it says there that the men are to do one-thirty- 
 three, ringside. Is that correct?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "That's all there is to it," said Badger. 
 [73] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 "Have you just found out that Healy can't get 
 down that low?" 
 
 "He can get down there, all right," said 
 Avery, "but it'll weaken him pretty bad. 
 Chances are it won't be a very good fight. Can't 
 we get together somehow and — and give the peo- 
 ple a run for their money? Suppose we should 
 come in a pound or so overweight. You 
 wouldn't grab that forfeit, would you?" 
 
 "Why wouldn't I?" asked Badger grimly. 
 ' ' That 's business, ain 't it ? A contract is a con- 
 tract, and it ain't my fault that you went into 
 this thing without knowing whether your man 
 could do the weight or not. You came to me and 
 asked me for this match. I wasn't anxious to 
 make it, but I turned down some good theatrical 
 offers and signed up. You mustn't expect me 
 to lose money on your mistakes. My dough is 
 posted, and I'm going to carry out my part of 
 the contract. You must do the same thing. I 
 wouldn't let you come in a pound over, or an 
 ounce over. One-thirty-three, ringside, and 
 you'll do it, or I'll claim your five thousand." 
 
 "Looking for a cinch, ain't you?" sneered 
 Avery. 
 
 "You bet I am; and if you had a champion 
 you'd be looking for cinches, too! Now, I'm 
 going to tell you something else: Don't pull 
 any of that moth-eaten stuff about breaking a 
 hand or an arm or a leg, and having to call off 
 the match. I won't stand for it. I'll claim 
 your appearance money, and I'll show you up 
 from one end of the country to the other." 
 
 [74] 
 
ONE-THIETY-THEEE — ^RINGSIDE 
 
 "Won't yon listen to reason?" begged Avery. 
 
 "I haven't heard any, yet," said Badger, 
 "and, what's more, I've said all I'm going to. 
 Better have your man down to weight if you 
 want to save that forfeit. I never make any 
 agreements on the side, and when I sign my 
 name to a thing I go through. Good night." 
 
 Avery went home, talking to himself, Healy 
 was waiting for him. 
 
 "What luck?" asked the fighter anxiously. 
 "Would he do business?" 
 
 "Of course, he wouldn't! He's got us, and 
 he knows it. Shylock was a piker beside this 
 guy!" 
 
 ' ' I can break my leg, ' ' suggested Healy hope- 
 fully. 
 
 "Yes, and he'll send out a flock of doctors to 
 examine you, and they'll all be from Missouri. 
 It'll take something more than a lot of band- 
 ages and a crutch to get by this bird. He'll 
 snatch our appearance money and put us in 
 Dutch all over the country." 
 
 "But we 've got to do something ! ' ' There was 
 a note of desperation in Healy 's voice. "Ty- 
 phoid fever might bring me down to weight ; but 
 it's a cinch sweating won't do it. One-thirty- 
 nine to-night, and I've done enough work al- 
 ready to sweat an elephant to a shadow. I sim- 
 ply can't make it, and that's all there is to it. 
 •You know what the doctor said — that this ex- 
 cess baggage is due to natural growth. It's in 
 the bone and muscle, and it won't come off! 
 
 [75] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 Why the devil didn't we think of that before 
 we got hooked in so strong?" 
 
 ' ' Give me a chance to think, ' ' said Avery. ' ' I 
 may dig up a way to wriggle out of this match 
 and save the appearance money, anyway. You 
 tear into the hay and leave it to me." 
 
 "I wish you'd done your thinking before we 
 made this match 1 ' ' sighed Healy. 
 
 "There you go again 1" mumbled Avery. 
 ' ' Always putting it up to me 1 Didn 't you toss a 
 coin, and " 
 
 "I've heard all that before," said Healy. 
 "By the way, there was a man here to see you 
 about eight o'clock. Says he'll be back about 
 ten." 
 
 "Another nut!" growled the manager. 
 
 "Not this fellow," said Healy. "He looks 
 like class, and he's got a letter for you — from 
 Jim Quinn." 
 
 "Quinn!" said Avery. "Holy cat! I wish 
 Jim was here ! He might think of some way to 
 get us out of this jam." 
 
 Promptly at ten o'clock the stranger re- 
 turned. He was small, neatly dressed, of middle 
 age, and wore a close-trimmed beard and nose 
 glasses. He presented Quinn 's letter without 
 comment : 
 
 Dear Billy: I don't know how you're fixed on the weight 
 proposition, but the last time I saw Healy he was falUng 
 away to a mere cartload, and I don't think he can do one hun- 
 dred and thirty-three ringside without the aid of a saw. On 
 the chance that you've got a bad match on your hands, I am 
 Bending Mr. George Harden to see you. George is an expert 
 in his line, knows how to keep his mouth shut, and you can 
 bank on anything he tells you being right. 
 
 [76] 
 
ONE-THIETY-THEEE — ^RINGSIDE 
 
 Of course if Healy can do one hundred and thirty-three with- 
 out weakening himself, you won't need Harden. If he can't, 
 put Harden on the job. I can't explain here, for obvious 
 reasons, but Harden can make your man a winner, and save 
 you the weight forfeit. Wire me three days before the fight 
 whether I can bet on Healy or not. Yours in haste, 
 
 Jas. Quinn. 
 
 Billy folded the letter and placed it in his 
 pocket. 
 
 "This listens well, ' ' said he slowly. ' ' What 's 
 the idea?" 
 
 * ' The idea is that I can put your man in the 
 ring as strong as he is now and save you the 
 weight forfeit. It'll cost you five hundred dol- 
 lars. ' ' 
 
 "It would be worth it," said Avery. "My 
 boy is having trouble getting down to weight. 
 We didn't figure that he has put on several 
 pounds by growth and development, and it's 
 coming off hard." 
 
 "I'll take him the way he is," said Harden, 
 "and make him weigh one-thirty-three — on any 
 scales they pick out." 
 
 "A fake?" demanded Avery suddenly. 
 
 "Yes, and a darned good one," said Harden. 
 
 Avery shook his head. 
 
 "Mike Badger is a pretty wise bird," said he. 
 "He's seen the chewing-gum trick and the little 
 chunk of lead, and all that. I'd hate to try and 
 get by him with a weight-stealing device." 
 
 "Has he seen this, do you think?" asked 
 Harden, drawing something from his pocket. 
 
 "What is it?" demanded Avery, staring at 
 what appeared to be a stiff black thread in the 
 palm of Harden 's hand. 
 
 [77] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 * ' Nothing but an innocent little piece of horse- 
 hair," said, the visitor quietly. "Do you think 
 he's seen that?" 
 
 "Horsehair is a new one to me," said Avery. 
 "How does it work?" 
 
 * ' That 's my business, ' ' said Harden. ' ' Leave 
 me alone with your weighing machine for a few 
 minutes and I'll give you a demonstration." 
 
 "Fair enough!" said Avery, leading the way. 
 
 Three days before the fight Billy Avery pre- 
 sented himself at the office of the promoter of 
 pugilistic events — a wise young man of Hebraic 
 extraction. 
 
 "Moe," said Billy, "have you made any ar- 
 rangements about the scales the men are to 
 weigh in on?" 
 
 ' ' Not yet, ' ' said Goldstein. ' ' Why ? ' ' 
 
 ""Well, this is a special occasion," said Avery,- 
 "and I want a pair of scales that there can't be 
 any question about. I've got a lot of money 
 up and I can't afford to take chances." 
 
 "You don't want to use your own, do you?" 
 asked Moe slyly. 
 
 "No, and I don't want to use Mike Badger's, 
 either!" snapped Billy angrily. "We're going 
 to be at weight, right enough, but we'll just 
 barely make it and that's all. It'll be so close 
 that there won't be any fun in it, and that 
 darned Shylock says that if we're an ounce over 
 be '11 grab the five thousand. Now, I wish you 'd 
 write a letter to some reputable hardware con- 
 cern and ask 'em to send you a brand-new 
 
 [78] 
 
ONB-THIETY-THBEE EINGSIDE 
 
 weighing machine to be used at the ringside. 
 They probably have an expert, too, and they 
 might be wUling to send him along. I want the 
 scales tested by a goverimient official and bal- 
 anced by a man who hasn't the slightest inter- 
 est in the fight either way. I'm not going to 
 monkey with 'em myself, and I want Badger to 
 keep his hands off. There ain't much that fel- 
 low wouldn't do for five thousand bucks 1 Is 
 that a fair proposition?" 
 
 "As fair as a June day!" replied Goldstein; 
 "I'll write a letter to Messmore & Jones imme- 
 diately." 
 
 Avery smoked a cigar while the letter was 
 written, and after that he chatted about the com- 
 ing fight, the advance sale, the probable "cut," 
 and kindred topics. When he rose to go, he 
 picked up the envelope containing the letter; 
 
 "I'll drop this in the mail chute when I go 
 out," he said. 
 
 The next day the office boy brought Mr. Grold- 
 stein a neatly engraved business card, bearing 
 the name of a firm of national reputation as 
 manufacturers of scales. In the lower left-hand 
 comer appeared these words : 
 
 "Presented by Mr. Henry C. Darling, "West- 
 em Eepresentative." 
 
 Goldstein tossed the card over to Mike Bad- 
 ger, who happened to be present. 
 
 "Let's see what he wants," said Goldstein. 
 
 "Mr. Heniy C. Darling" proved to be a dap- 
 per little person, with a close-cropped beard and 
 nose glasses. He spoke with the crisp, incisive 
 
 [79] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 tones of a business man, and Mike Badger, sur- 
 reptitiously running his thumb nail over the 
 pasteboard which he held, was impressed. An 
 engraved card, to ninety-nine men out of one 
 hundred, is a convincing argument ; an embossed 
 trade-mark in three colors in the upper corner 
 clinches matters. 
 
 "Mr. Darling — Mr. Badger," said Goldstein. 
 
 "I beg pardon — I didn't quite catch the 
 name," said the visitor. It had to be repeated, 
 and even then it was evident that it meant noth- 
 ing to the Western representative, who turned 
 immediately to Goldstein. 
 
 "I happened to be calling on Mr. Messmore 
 when your letter arrived," said Darling. He 
 produced Goldstein's letter and laid it upon the 
 desk. "Mr. Messmore suggested that as you 
 needed an expert, it was more in my line than 
 his. I will be very glad to accommodate you. If 
 you will tell me where you wish the scales deliv- 
 ered and when, the details will be attended to." 
 
 "I wouldn't want to take up your time " 
 
 began Goldstein. 
 
 ' ' Oh, that 's all right ! ' ' chirruped Mr. Darling. 
 "It will be a pleasure to do it, I assure you. 
 As a matter of fact, I am — ah ! — rather interest- 
 ed in the manly art myself. My son is an ama- 
 teur boxer — you may have heard of him? Peter 
 0. Darling, Chicago Athletic Club? No? Only 
 sixteen years old, but clever as they make 'em I 
 I like to see a good bout when I can. ' ' 
 
 "Of course!" said Moe. "Why not?" He 
 reached into his desk and brought forth a ticket. 
 
 [80] 
 
ONB-THIETY-THEEE — ^RINGSIDE 
 
 "Here's a box seat for the show Friday night." 
 
 Mr. Darling fairly gushed thanks as he put 
 the ticket carefully away in his pocketbook. 
 
 "Very, very kind of you, I'm sure I" he said. 
 "Now, it is understood that I am to furnish a 
 new weighing machine which shall be tested and 
 certified correct by the Board of Weights and 
 Measures on Friday afternoon. I will then take 
 charge of it myself and deliver it at the fight 
 pavilion that night. Is that satisfactory?" 
 
 "Suits me I" said Badger, thumbing the card. 
 
 Mr. Darling paused at the door, and there 
 were traces of nervous hesitation in his voice 
 when he spoke. 
 
 "May I suggest — ah — ^that the name of my 
 firm — or my own name — does not appear in the 
 newspapers ? " he asked. ' ' This is — ah — rather 
 an unusual service, and " 
 
 ' ' I understand ! ' ' said Moe heartily. * ' You '11 
 be kept under cover, all right. Only three peo- 
 ple need to know who you are — ^the other one is 
 Avery." 
 
 Mr. Darling seemed immensely relieved. 
 
 "If you are interested in seeing the scales 
 tested," said he, "come to the Bureau of 
 Weights and Measures at four o'clock on Fri- 
 day afternoon. ' ' 
 
 " I '11 be there, ' ' said Mr. Badger. ' * Moe, you 
 notify Avery. ' ' 
 
 Mr. Goldstein looked after his visitor with a 
 grin. 
 
 "Ain't it funny what some people will do for 
 a free fight ticket?" he remarked. "There's a 
 
 [81] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 traveling man whose time is wortli money, yet 
 he's "willing to go to fifty dollars' worth of 
 trouble to get a twenty-dollar seat! Can you 
 beat it?" 
 
 "It saves paying him a fee," said the frugal 
 Badger. ' ' And did you get that about not want- 
 ing his name in the paper? I'll bet he's a dea- 
 con in a chuxch or something,, when he 's home I ' ' 
 
 in 
 
 The official testing of the scales took place 
 on schedule time. The shiny, new weigh- 
 ing machine — of the portable platform variety 
 — ^balanced to a hair. Mr. Badger almost pre- 
 cipitated a fight by remarking over and over 
 again that an ounce might mean five thousand 
 dollars, and every time he said it Avery snarled.. 
 
 "Now, gentlemen, if you are satisfied," said 
 Mr. Darling, "we wiU ask that the scales be 
 placed under lock and key here until I shall call 
 for them this evening. I guarantee that they 
 will not be out of my sight from that time until 
 you are ready to use them. Is that satisfac- 
 tory?" 
 
 "Perfectly!" said Mike Badger, and Billy 
 Avery mumbled something under his breath. 
 
 "Well, old top," chuckled Badger to Avery, 
 as they left the room, "my man is under weight. 
 How's yours?" 
 
 ' ' "We may have to sweat him a bit, ' ' answered 
 Avery shortly, "but I'd cut off one of his legs 
 before I'd let you have that five thousand!" 
 
 [82] 
 
ONE-THIBTY-THEEE ^RINGSIDE 
 
 * ' Cut off his head, instead, ' ' suggested Bad- 
 ger pleasantly. "He never uses that when he 
 fights!" 
 
 "You make me sick!" growled Avery. 
 
 The weight of the contender was still a mys- 
 tery, but there was an unconfirmed rumor that 
 Moe Goldstein — sworn to secrecy — ^had been 
 present at the Healy camp on Thursday after- 
 noon and had seen the challenger raise the beam 
 at one hundred and thirty-four pounds. This 
 may have had something to do with the flood of 
 Healy money which appeared as if by magic. 
 
 Shortly after the doors of the fight pavilion 
 were opened an express wagon drove up to the 
 main entrance and the weighing machine was 
 iCarefuUy unloaded, under the personal super- 
 vision of Mr. Henry C. Darling. Moe Gold- 
 stein, who was standing in the door, cheerfully 
 contemplating the long line of humanity stretch- 
 ing away from the general-admission window, 
 waved his cigar at Darling and grinned. 
 
 "You're here early enough, I see !" remarked 
 the promoter. 
 
 "Better early than late!" said Mr. Darling. 
 "Is there a room where we can lock this thing 
 up until it's wanted? I have made myself per- 
 sonally responsible for it." 
 
 "Put it in the first dressing room," said Moe. 
 "You can't lock the door, though, except from 
 the inside." 
 
 A few minutes later the "Western represen- 
 tative" was alone with the weighing machine, 
 behind a locked door. In two seconds he had 
 
 [83] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 the wooden platform unshipped and set aside, 
 exposing the levers underneath. These levers, 
 sensitive to the touch as human ingenuity can 
 make them, are V shaped and meet in the center, 
 forming an X, the short lever passing under- 
 neath the long one. 
 
 Mr. Darling whipped a black horse-hair from 
 Ms pocket, tested it carefully for strength, and 
 then bound it about both arms of the short lever, 
 some three inches above the point of contact in 
 the center. Instead of tying the hair in a 
 knot, he fastened it with a dab of beeswax, re- 
 placed the floor of the platform, weighed him- 
 self carefully, nodded approvingly, and left the 
 room. The entire operation had consumed less 
 than a minute. The next time that Moe Gold- 
 stein looked in that direction Mr. Darling was 
 standing in front of the closed door, like a sen- 
 tinel on guard. 
 
 Two tremendous roars announced the entry 
 of the gladiators, naked, save their socks and 
 bath robes. Behind them came four strong 
 young men, carrying the weighing machine, Mr. 
 Darling trotting behind and urging them to 
 handle it as they would a crate of eggs. 
 
 Biddy Cline, grinning in his corner, looked up 
 at his manager. 
 
 "Here's where we get that five thousand!" 
 he said. 
 
 In silence and breathless curiosity the house 
 waited the weighing-in ceremony. 
 
 Mr. Henry C. Darling, fussy and important, 
 fluttered about like an old hen, commanding 
 
 [84] 
 
ONB-THIETY-THEEE RINGSIDE 
 
 every one to stand back while he demonstrated 
 that the scales balanced to a hair. At a signal, 
 the fighters rose from their corners and climbed 
 through the ropes, their handlers trooping after 
 them. 
 
 "Stand back, everybody!" chirped Mr. Dar- 
 ling. ' ' We must have room here ! Stand back ! 
 You observe that the scales balance perfectly. 
 I will set the bush poise exactly at one hundred 
 and thirty-three pounds — no more and no less. 
 On the dot. So! Now, then, gentlemen, who 
 goes first?" 
 
 Charlie Healy, who had been removing his 
 socks, slipped Ms bath robe from his shoulders 
 and stood forth, naked. 
 
 "Might as well get it over with!" he said.. 
 
 Mike Badger, his thin arms folded over his 
 flat chest, flashed a keen, appraising glance at 
 the challenger, as if anticipating the verdict of 
 the scales. Healy 's face was lean and leathery, 
 and his cheek bones stood out prominently, but 
 he had not the haggard, drawn appearance of 
 a man who had sapped his vitality by making 
 an unnatural weight, and his muscular arma- 
 ment bulked large under his smooth, pink skin. 
 
 "In great shape!" thought Badger. "But 
 he's heavy, good Lord, he's heavy! He ain't 
 anywhere near one-thirty-three ! ' ' 
 
 Healy stepped gently upon the scales and 
 dropped his hands at his sides. Mike Badger 
 bent forward, his gimlet eyes fixed upon the 
 notched beam. He expected it to rise with a 
 bump, instead of which it trembled slightly, rose 
 
 [85] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 half an inch, and remained there, quivering. 
 
 "Just exactly!" chirruped Mr. Darling. 
 "Next!" 
 
 Charlie Healy threw his hands over his head 
 with a wild yell of triumph. 
 
 "By golly, I made it! I made it!" he 
 shouted ; and then, as if carried away by an ex- 
 cess of feeling, he jumped six inches in the air 
 and alighted upon his heels with a jar that made 
 the weighing beam leap and rattle, and brought 
 a sudden, sharp strain upon the concealed 
 levers — enough of a strain, let us say, to snap a 
 strand of horsehair and allow it to fall to the 
 floor. Healy 's action was natural enough, but 
 it was his jump which roused Mike Badger to 
 action and crystallized his suspicion. He had 
 seen that sort of thing before. 
 
 * ' No, you don 't ! " howled Mike. * * You ain 't 
 going to put anything like that across on me! 
 I want to look at those scales ! ' ' 
 
 The "Western representative" bristled with 
 sudden anger, strutting about like an enraged 
 bantam rooster. 
 
 "Preposterous!" he said. "Examine them 
 yourself!" 
 
 He pushed the weighing machine over toward 
 Badger. Mike removed the wooden platform 
 in a twinkling and bent over the levers. That 
 was the reason he did not see Mr. Darling place 
 the sole of his foot upon a dab of beeswax and 
 the horsehair which clung to it, thus removing 
 the only bit of evidence. 
 
 Sweating and swearing, Mike Badger sought 
 [86] 
 
ONE-THIETY-THBBE — ^BINGSIDE 
 
 earnestly for wads of chewing gum or other ex- 
 traneous matter, after which fruitless quest he 
 demanded that Healy weigh again. By this 
 time the challenger was in his comer, calmly 
 partaking of a bowl of beef tea. 
 
 "Well, I should say we won't weigh him 
 again!" said Avery. "You've examined the 
 scales, and they're all right. My man has got a 
 pound of beef tea in him by now. He made the 
 weight at the time set, and we won't weigh 
 again. Ain 't that right, Goldstein ? ' ' 
 I The promoter nodded. 
 
 "Go on and weigh your man, Badger," he 
 said. ' ' The crowd is getting restless. ' ' 
 
 "But I tell you we've been jobbed!" wailed 
 Mike. ' ' Why, look at that fellow ! He 's as big 
 as a house!" 
 
 "Forget it!" growled Avery. "My boy has 
 been at weight for the last three days ! You saw 
 him weigh yesterday, didn't you, Moe?" 
 
 "That's right, Mike," said Goldstein. 
 
 "I dare you to put him on the scales again!" 
 raved Badger. "I'll give you a thousand dol- 
 lars if you'll weigh him now!" 
 
 "And him full of beef tea? I should say you 
 would! G'wan and get your charapion on 
 there!" 
 
 Mr. Henry C. Darling, still bristling in a 
 quiet, gentlemanly manner, stepped forward to 
 adjust the plummet on the notched bar, but Mike 
 swept him aside. 
 
 "That'll be about all for yon!" he said 
 brusquely. "I'll attend to this myself!" 
 
 [87] 
 
TAKING THE COUN'T 
 
 And Billy Avery was so well pleased with the 
 turn of events that he allowed Mike to weigh 
 his own man. The bar did not rise for Cline. 
 He was safe by a full pound and a half. 
 
 He was far from safe after the fight started, 
 however. Biddy Cline, tough little battler that 
 he was, found himself as helpless as a toy in the 
 hands of the challenger. In the clinches, which 
 was Biddy's specialty, Healy worried him and 
 tossed him about like a rag doll, 
 
 "This guy is strong as a middle-weight!"" 
 panted the champion, after the third round. 
 "See the way he hauls me around? It's a job, 
 Mike, as sure as you live!" 
 
 "We can't help it now," said Badger. 
 "You've got to lick him if it kills you!" 
 
 Let it be placed to Biddy's credit that he 
 did his honest best to follow out instructions. 
 He set a slashing, whirlwind pace, fighting with 
 the desperation of one who feels his laurels slip- 
 ping away from him ; but Healy met him consid- 
 erably more than halfway, and after the tenth 
 round the most rabid Cline sympathizer in the 
 house was forced to admit that the end was only 
 a matter of time. 
 
 The championship of the world passed in a 
 spectacular manner toward the end of the fif- 
 teenth round. Cline, knowing that he had been 
 badly beaten thus far, summoned every ounce 
 of his reserve strength and hurled himself upon 
 the challenger in a hurricane rally, hoping to 
 turn the tide with one lucky blow. Healy, cau- 
 tious, cool, and steady as a boxing master, 
 
 [88] 
 
ONE-THIKTY-THBBE — ^EINGSIDB 
 
 waited until the opening came, and then shot his 
 right fist to the point of the chin. The little 
 champion reeled, his hands dropped at his sides, 
 and a vicious short left hook to the sagging jaw 
 ended the uneven battle. 
 
 Biddy Cline took the long count for the first 
 time in his life, and a dapper gentleman in a 
 box seat smiled through his nose glasses and 
 played with a bit of horsehair in his pocket. 
 Such a trivial thing had changed the pugilistic 
 map. 
 
 According to custom, the conqueror offered 
 his hand to the conquered before he left the 
 ring. Biddy would have taken it, but Mike 
 Badger restrained him. 
 
 " Don 't shake with him ! ' ' said Mike. ' ' You 've 
 been licked, but by a welter-weight." 
 
 "You think anybody will believe that?"' 
 cackled Healy. 
 
 "I'll make 'em before I'm through," said 
 iVlike grimly. 
 
 IV 
 
 The new champion ceased in the midst of the 
 pleasant duty of inscribing his name and title 
 upon photographs. 
 
 "Badger!" he said. "What does he want, 
 Billy?" 
 
 "Don't know. He's coming right up." 
 
 Mike Badger entered and helped himself ta 
 a chair. "You're a nice pair of burglars, ain't 
 you?" he demanded. 
 
 [89] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 ''You're a sorehead," said the new champion 
 cheerfully. "Are you still harping on that 
 weight business ? Everybody in the country is 
 giving you the laugh ! " 
 
 "Oh, you think so, do you?" said Mike. 
 "I've been doing a little detective work lately. 
 That fellow — that Darling— I've been on his 
 trail, and I know all " 
 
 "I didn't have a thing to do with him," pro- 
 tested Avery quickly. ' ' Goldstein wrote a let- 
 ter to a hardware firm and " 
 
 "And you posted it," said Mike. "Eemem- 
 ber that ? I happened to keep his business card, 
 so yesterday I wired his firm asking for in- 
 formation. Here's the answer." He tossed a 
 telegram across to Avery. 
 
 "It says there," remarked Mr. Badger, "that 
 no such man is known to the concern. It was 
 a smooth trick, Billy, but it won't do. I'm sro- 
 ing to show you fellows up from one end of tiy- 
 country to the other, and I'll never quit hound 
 ing you until you give us another match — at the 
 proper weight. And, what's more, we still 
 claim the championship." He picked up one of 
 the new photographs and read the inscription 
 scornfully. "Lightweight champion of the 
 world ! " he said. ' ' You ain 't a lightweight any 
 more 'n I am ! ' ' 
 
 "Well," said Charlie Healy softly, "they're 
 still pointing me out on the street as the man 
 that licked Biddy Cline! That's good enough 
 for me." 
 
 [90] 
 
THE SPOTTED SHEEP 
 
 BHjLY ALLISON was not exactly a black 
 sheep nor yet a white one. Both colors 
 were woven into the fabric of his char- 
 acter, the dark spots representing the bad im- 
 pulses and the white spots representing the 
 good ones. The mixture was fairly even. The 
 dark spots were very dark and the white spots 
 very white; so that a moral snapshot of Billy 
 Allison's soul would have resembled a piece of 
 shepherd's plaid. 
 Billy avoided any struggles with his con- 
 ience — and barred himself from taking credit 
 lor the white spots — ^by doing always and under 
 all circumstances the first thing that came into 
 his head. This system is not to be recommended 
 to other young men with more money than they 
 know how to spend. 
 
 "Billy is a queer proposition," said old Mr. 
 Hawley, who had been Henry Allison's business 
 associate and best friend. "I can't seem to 
 make him out. There's a fine lovable streak in 
 the boy, but it lays right up against a streak of 
 downright cussed worthlessness. What makes 
 me so mad is that Billy can do a nice thing in as 
 
 [91] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 nice a way as anybody. Look at that little gut- 
 tersnipe lie picked up in the street with a broken 
 leg! But the worst of Billy is that, after he's 
 done something to make you proud of him, he 
 whips right round and does something to make 
 you ashamed — something that makes you want 
 to give him a good cowhiding. It's all Henry's 
 fault. He never should have left so much 
 money to the boy without tying a string to it 
 somewhere. It'll be the ruination of Billy — ^if 
 it hasn't been already." 
 
 The case of the newsboy with a broken leg 
 throws a strong light on one of Billy's whitest- 
 spots. He appeared at the door of Mercy Hos- 
 pital one evening with a ragged little bundle in 
 his arms. 
 
 •' ' Get a curve on yon ! " he commanded briefly. 
 ' ' This kid has a broken leg. ' ' 
 
 It was pointed out to Mr. Allison that the Re- 
 ceiving Hospital was the place for a newsb 
 with a compound fracture below the knee. BiJ 
 interrupted angrily. 
 
 ' ' You ring up Fred Hayes, ' ' said he, * * and tell 
 him that Billy Allison wants him as quick as 
 he can possibly get here. Don't forget — Billy 
 Allison. That'll fetch him on the run. . . . It's 
 all right, kid. We'll have you fixed up in three 
 shakes of a lamb's tail. Leg hurting you 
 much?" 
 
 "Naw; o' course not!" grunted the small suf- 
 ferer with sarcasm. "I wisht you had it for a 
 minute! I wisht Oh, gee!" 
 
 Doctor Hayes responded to the emergency 
 [92] 
 
THE SPOTTED SHEEP 
 
 call — it is rather an unusual thing for an emi- 
 nent bone specialist to leave his dinner to set a 
 gamin's leg — and he thought he read the situa- 
 tion at a glance. 
 
 "How did this happen, Billy?" said he. 
 "Speeding again? You'll kill somebody one of 
 these days if you're not more careful." 
 
 "Nix, doc; nix!" The patient had been lis- 
 tening. "You got him wrong. The guy what 
 busted me leg tore out a mile a minute — he beat 
 it. This sport comes along and picks me up." 
 
 "Oh!" said Doctor Hayes, and looked hard 
 at Billy, who blushed and mopped his thick eye- 
 glasses with his handkerchief. 
 
 ' ' Eats, doc ! ' ' said he, much embarrassed. ' ' I 
 couldn't leave the kid there in the street — ^might 
 have had to wait an hour for an ambulance ; and 
 — well, say, did you ever see a gamer little 
 rooster in your life, doc? Not a whimper out 
 of him, by George! Not a tear! I'd like to 
 believe I'd act as well in a similar fix." 
 
 "You wouldn't," said the doctor, who was a 
 truthful soul. 
 
 "I know it," said Billy quietly. "Maybe 
 that's why I admire gameness in others." 
 
 As he was placed on the operating table in 
 the surgery the boy opened his eyes. 
 
 "Look here, doc, are you going to put me to 
 sleep?" he demanded. 
 
 ' ' For a little while, sonny. ' ' 
 
 The boy looked at Billy Allison. 
 
 "Will you be here when I wake up, sport? " he 
 [93] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 asked. "This is new stuff to me. Stick 
 round." 
 
 Billy thought of his engagement with a lively 
 lady who graced the vaudeville stage, but some- 
 thing in the boy's eyes held him. 
 
 "Yes, kid; I'll be here," said BiUy. 
 
 The newsboy drew a deep breath. 
 
 "All right, doc," said he. "Shoot the 
 piece!" 
 
 While the interne was administering the an- 
 aesthetic Doctor Hayes, gowned and rubber- 
 gloved, sought further information. 
 
 "What do you want done with him after I 
 get him fixed up, Billy? Shall we send him 
 home?" 
 
 "What do you think I am?" said Billy. "A 
 piker? Keep him here, of course! Give him 
 that front room with the windows — ^the one I 
 had the last time I took the jag cure. See that 
 he has everything he wants — special nurse and 
 all." 
 
 ' ' Philanthropy is something new for you, isn't 
 it?" asked the doctor. 
 
 "Philanthropy be damned!" said Billy hotly. 
 "My dad was a philanthropist. One in the 
 family is enough. Haven't I told you that I 
 like this kid because he's game? The best in 
 your old hospital is none too good for him ; and 
 he'll get it or I'll know why!" 
 
 "Well, if that's the way you feel " said 
 
 the doctor. "I suppose you know that you're 
 doing a foolish thing, Billy. Nobody knows 
 who hurt the boy;, but you brought him to the 
 
 [94] 
 
THE SPOTTED SHEEP 
 
 hospital, and if one of those thieving ambulance 
 chasers gets hold of this you may be sued on 
 suspicion. I've known shyster lawyers to do 
 worse things than that. The man who drives an 
 automobile is fair game." 
 
 "Let 'em go as far as they like," said Billy. 
 "I've got all the insurance piled on to that car 
 she'll carry — ^liability and otherwise. I should 
 worry!" 
 
 "I'm merely suggesting how it will look to 
 the boy's people," said the doctor. 
 
 "I'll take a chance on the kid^" said Billy. 
 
 While the event was fresh in his mind Allison 
 retained his interest in his protege, calling at 
 the hospital four times during the first week. 
 During this period the gameness of Jakey 
 Eosenblatt was Billy Allison's favorite topic — 
 so much so that he bored all his friends and ac- 
 quaintances with his enthusiastic recitals. 
 
 Incidentally the doctor's suspicions were con- 
 firmed when Billy met Mannie Eosenblatt, 
 Jakey 's eighteen-year-old brother. Mannie was 
 considerably less than friendly and he fixed that 
 amateur philanthropist with a cold and suspi- 
 cious stare. 
 
 "If I didn't know Jakey wasn't a liar," said 
 he, "I'd think you was the guy that run over 
 him. I don't get you at all. What are you 
 doin ' all this for ? What 's the idea ? ' ' 
 
 "What's the idea of what?" asked Billy. 
 
 "All this swell hospital stuff ! The kid could 
 have gone to the County Hospital for nothing." 
 
 * ' Cheese it, Mannie ! ' ' said Jakey reprovingly. 
 [95] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 "Don't you know real class when you see it?" 
 
 "Well," said Mannie sullenly, "I don't get 
 him; an' I declare myself now — ^I won't be stuck 
 for no hospital bills." 
 
 * ' You needn 't worry, ' ' said Billy. ' ' It shan 't 
 cost you a cent." 
 
 "It hadn't better!" said Mannie ungra- 
 ciously, and departed, leaving Billy midway be- 
 tween amusement and exasperation. 
 
 "Don't pay any attention to him, mister," 
 said Jakey. "Mannie, he says that nobody 
 don't never do anything for you for nothing, 
 and he's wondering what the comeback will be. 
 He's all right when you get to know him, Mannie 
 is. And, say, you ought to see him scrap! 
 He's a bear!" 
 
 "So I should judge," was Billy's dry re- 
 sponse. 
 
 Allison's interest in the youthful Eosenblatt 
 soon waned, as did most of his fads. It died a 
 patural death before Jakey was able to leave the 
 hospital, and soon afterward the newsboy and 
 his suspicious brother were forgotten; there 
 were so very many other things to claim Billy's 
 attention. 
 
 n 
 
 Old Mr. Hawley had complained about the 
 terms of Henry Allison's will, but there were 
 others who found no fault with that document — 
 automobile agents, exclusive tailors, cafe own- 
 ers, waiters, actresses, and certain astute and 
 furtive gentlemen of the sporting fraternity — 
 
 [96] 
 
THE SPOTTED SHEEP 
 
 left-handed beneficiaries of the Allison Estate 
 through the open hands of the heir. 
 
 The automobile agents found that Billy would 
 usually buy a new car if it could be tuned up to 
 beat his most recent purchase; the tailors 
 noticed that he never mentioned prices while 
 selecting fabrics, and respected his reticence 
 save when rendering their quarterly statement; 
 the cafe owners counted the nights of his ap- 
 pearance as bright ones; the waiters forgot to 
 bring the change and went unrebuked; the 
 actresses loved him for his pelf alone — ^poor 
 Billy was not attractive in a physical sense, be- 
 ing undersized and near-sighted ; and the sport- 
 ing gentlemen sheared him remorselessly, car- 
 ing nothing for the color of his fleece. 
 
 "Of course," said they to Billy, "you can't 
 win without taking a chance, and any man who 
 takes a chance is liable to lose once in a while. 
 One good thing — your money is circulating, 
 ain't it? That's better than burying the bank 
 roll in a tin can and letting it get moldy." 
 
 "There's something in that!" said Billy. 
 
 The sporting gentlemen carefully neglected 
 to mention that it is also possible for a man to 
 lose without taking a chance of winning. Black 
 Jack Logan and his friends were experts at 
 arranging speculative transactions of this sort. 
 
 They had introduced Billy to a horseman who 
 owned a mare that could not possibly lose, but 
 had somehow managed to achieve the impossible 
 when Billy backed her heavily to win. They 
 had put him in touch with a reformed profes- 
 
 [97] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 sional gentleman who, through, sheer love of 
 the cards, had allowed himself to be persuaded 
 to deal a few private sessions at faro bank in 
 defiance of a state law against games of chance, 
 which law was in no way violated. They had 
 led him to a roulette wheel, which was so exten- 
 sively wired for electrical control that the au- 
 thorities were later unable to split it up for 
 kindling wood. They had played bridge and 
 poker with him when a wink or a cough from the 
 dealer presaged a miracle. It was, they agreed, 
 a shame to take the money, but a greater shame 
 not to take it. 
 
 One evening, while Billy Allison was dining 
 with the blonde — third from the left end of the 
 line — four men surrounded a small table in the 
 back room at Terry's Tavern — four rascals who 
 could not possibly look so bad as they really 
 were and made it a point not to try. 
 
 Black Jack Logan — otherwise Alexander B. 
 Kirkman, Sing Sing 12378 — ^might have passed 
 for a member of any one of the honorable pro- 
 fessions ; and very often did so. George — Kid 
 — Smalley, innocent and youthful in appear- 
 ance, hid a world of wicked experience behind 
 a smooth and boyish countenance. Edward — 
 Fatty — Emerson, whose specialty was imper- 
 sonating retired brewers and small-town bank- 
 ers, had all the earmarks of a solid citizen. 
 And Peter — Three-Card — Davis knew how to 
 smile and smile and be a villain still. 
 
 "Now that we're all here," said Fatty Emer- 
 son, "what is it to be this time?" 
 
 [98] 
 
THE SPOTTED SHEEP 
 
 "A pliony prize fight," said i^laek Jack 
 Logan. 
 
 Emerson shook his head. 
 
 "Too old," said he. "That's ahnost as bad 
 as a fake foot race. Everybody in the world is 
 on to it." 
 
 Logan laughed. 
 
 "Fatty," said he, "I'm surprised at you! 
 lYou've been on the turf long enough to know 
 that the old games are the best games. It's 
 only when you try something new that the 
 sucker gets leery. You can still sell gold bricks 
 on the New Jersey marshes; and last week 
 Shelly McGuire was pinched for spieling the 
 nuts inside the loop in Chicago. He would have 
 got rich if the buUs had let him alone. People 
 are afraid of the new games, but they fall for 
 the old ones." 
 
 "Who's the sucker?" asked Emerson. 
 
 "Young fellow round town," said Logan. 
 
 "Father left him money," said Smalley. 
 
 "A barrel of it," supplemented Davis. 
 
 "Boob?" asked Emerson. 
 
 "The worst in the world," said Smalley. 
 
 "Doesn't know a thing," said Davis. 
 
 "How do we pull it?" asked Emerson. 
 
 "The same old way," said Logan. "You're 
 the only one of the bunch he hasn't met at one 
 time or another. You'll have to be the small- 
 (town sport, with a rube champion in tow. 
 "We've got your man picked out already. By 
 the way, Kid, did you dig up the other fighter?" 
 
 [99] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 "Not yet," answered Smalley; "but I've got 
 a line on the very man we want." 
 
 "That's the tough part of the frame-up," 
 said Emerson, "The worse the rube fighter is, 
 the better. It 's the one who 's going to lose that 
 must have class." 
 
 "Ever hear of Young Sullivan?" asked 
 Smalley. 
 
 "Seen him fight lots of times," grunted 
 Fatty. "With proper handling he'd be right 
 up in the first flight. He'll never be a cham- 
 pion, but it'll take one to stop him." 
 
 "He's the bird," said Smalley. 
 
 "You don't mean to tell me you can ring him 
 in on a thing like this?" 
 
 "In a minute!" said Smalley. "Sullivan 
 pulled off a fake here six months ago — ^lost a de- 
 cision to Denver Danny Shea to get a return 
 match and make a clean-up. The papers got 
 on to it and the promoters had to bar him. He's 
 so flat right now that he'd listen to any propo- 
 sition, murder included, for a fifty-dollar note. 
 Leave it to me." 
 
 "How much will this boob bet?" asked Emer- 
 son. 
 
 "If he's got a limit we haven't struck it yet," 
 said Logan. "I'm figuring to take him for the 
 big bunch this time. ' ' 
 
 "It listens well," said Emerson critically. 
 "Now about the details " 
 
 A week later Billy Allison, killing time at one 
 of his clubs, was summoned to the telephone. 
 [100] 
 
THE SPOTTED SHEEP 
 
 "This you, Billy?" said a voice. "Logan 
 speaking. Going to tlie fight to-night?" 
 
 ' * I hadn 't thought of it, ' ' said Billy. ' ' Yes ; 
 I guess I'll be there. I usually take in all the 
 scraps." 
 
 "Good!" said Logan. "Meet me at the 
 Swinton at six. We'll have dinner and go out 
 to the pavilion together. . . . No, Billy; you're 
 my guest this time. I insist. . . . Oh, forget 
 it! I've got box seats — complimentaries. " 
 
 "Pretty easy for you!" said Billy. "They 
 make me pay for mine. I'U be there on the 
 dot." 
 
 The second preliminary event was in progress 
 when Logan and Allison arrived at the ringside. 
 A fat gentleman, rather overdressed and plen- 
 tifully decorated with off-color diamonds, was 
 the sole occupant of the box. He made room for 
 the newcomers and Billy thanked him. 
 
 " 'Sail right," said he. , "Keep the change." 
 
 There was silence until the end of the round, 
 when the fat man grunted disgustedly: 
 
 "They've got an awful gall asking ten dol- 
 lars for a show like this! In my town they'd 
 throw a pair of tramps like these fellows out 
 of the ring." 
 
 "Maybe the main event will be better," sug- 
 gested Billy. 
 
 "Duff Ryan and Kid Wilson?" snorted the 
 fat man. "A couple of applewomen could beat 
 'em! Why, say, there's a boy cleaning out my 
 saloon that can lick 'em both in the same ring!" 
 
 "He's wasting time cleaning out saloons 
 [101] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 then," said Logan, nudging Billy. "Eyan and 
 Wilson are two of the best welters in the coun- 
 try." 
 
 "Huh!" said the fat man scornfully. "I'd 
 like to bet my kid can lick either one of 'em 
 with a punch, and he's only a lightweight at 
 that!" 
 
 "You're overlooking a fortune then," said 
 Logan. "Lightweights who can whip welters 
 are mighty scarce in this country at present." 
 
 The fat man became boastful. 
 
 "Welters!" he scoffed. "Say, he can liok 
 middleweights ! He's done it lots of times, 
 right in my place. This boy has never had a 
 professional fight in his life — ^never seen the 
 inside of a ring. As for training, he wouldn't 
 know the meaning of the word unless you 
 showed it to him in a dictionary; but I'll bet he 
 could step in just as he is and lick aU these 
 feUows. Yes, sir; give him. a close shave and 
 a shampoo and he'd be ready!" 
 
 "I don't see how he can do it," said BiUy 
 skeptically. 
 
 "Well, my money says he can! Here's my 
 card — ^Al J. Wenger, Wines and Liquors, 
 Wholesale and Eetail. Drop in if you're pass- 
 ing through my town. You '11 be treated right. ' ' 
 
 "I'm sure of it," said Billy. 
 
 "I'd bring the kid down here," continued the 
 fat man, "if I thought I could get any kind of 
 a match for him. I've talked with some of the 
 sports and the promoters, and they all say he 
 wouldn't be a drawing card without a reputa- 
 [102] 
 
THE SPOTTED SHEEP 
 
 tion. They wanted him to fight some of these 
 pork-and-beaners first; but if I can't get a good 
 man for him I'll pass it up." 
 
 Kid Wilson planted his justly celebrated 
 right cross on the point of Duff Ryan's jaw in 
 the ninth round and the evening's entertain- 
 ment was over. Logan chuckled as he climbed 
 into BiUy Allison's runabout. 
 
 ''Queer bird, that saloon keeper," said he. 
 "The joke of it is that this fellow he was talking 
 about may be a real fighter at that — a comer. 
 I'd like to discover a lightweight who could 
 lick welters and middles! Do you know how 
 much I could make with him in a year ? " 
 
 "Couldn't say," answered BiUy. "Quite a 
 sum, I suppose." 
 
 "Not less than seventy-five thousand dol- 
 lars," said Logan calmly. 
 
 "Whew! So much as that?" 
 
 "That's the lowest estimate. I've half a no- 
 tion to write this roughneck saloon keeper and 
 tell him to bring his man down here. We can 
 look him over in private — ^have him spar with a 
 few good boys ; and if he 's any good I can get 
 him a match with a man where he'll be a short- 
 ender in the betting." 
 
 ' ' Fine ! " said Billy enthusiastically. " Here 's 
 the card. Get in touch with this fellow; and let 
 me know how it comes out." 
 
 * * You bet I will I I want your opinion of him, 
 BiUy. Mind you don't say a word about it to 
 any of your friends. It's like a quiet tip on a 
 race horse — tell your bosom pal and you've told 
 
 [103] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 the whole town! You've no idea how informa- 
 tion of this sort circulates, and this is one melon 
 we want to keep to ourselves." 
 
 "If it's ripe," said Billy. 
 
 "Of course," said Logan. "A green melon 
 is the only one you can afford to be generous 
 with." 
 
 As Logan was preparing for bed that night 
 the telephone rang. • 
 
 "Yes, this is Jack. . . . Nice work, Fatty. 
 . . . Oh, hook, line and sinker! Didn't we tell 
 you he was easy?" 
 
 in 
 
 "Well, Billy, what do you think of Wenger's 
 lightweight champion ?" Logan and Allison 
 were standing on the sidewalk outside the door 
 of a private gymnasium frequented by boxers 
 and their satellites. They had just witnessed 
 the try-out of Mr. Wenger's battling janitor. 
 
 "Think of him!" ejaculated Billy. "Why, 
 he's a dub — a joke! He doesn't know the first 
 thing about boxing — or fighting, either, for that 
 matter. I believe I could stop him in two 
 rounds myself, cigarette heart and all!" 
 
 "I believe you could, Billy," said Logam 
 "Where Wenger ever got the idea that this 
 fellow is a fighter is more than I know. If he 
 ever whipped any middleweights he did it with 
 a bung starter when they were looking the 
 other way. Well, the stuff is off. I wouldn't 
 ask anybody to give him a match on the strength 
 of the showing he made to-day." 
 [104] 
 
THE SPOTTED SHEEP 
 
 The street door opened and Mr. Al J. "Wenger 
 appeared, fat, cheerful and buoyant as ever. 
 
 "Well?" said he with a rising inflection, his 
 manner challenging an adverse verdict. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Wenger," said Logan. "That 
 boy isn't a fighter. He doesn't know his right 
 hand from his left." 
 
 Wenger snorted loudly. 
 
 "What can you tell about him, just seeing 
 him once?" said he. "He ain't a cream-puff 
 boxer, if that's what you mean. He dont 
 know anything about sparrin' for points, and 
 they told him he wasn't to hurt this boy. Then 
 he hadn't ever had any gloves on before, and 
 they bothered him " 
 
 Wenger paused, and Logan shook his head 
 and turned away. The fat man whirled sud- 
 denly on Allison. 
 
 "What do you think about him?" he de- 
 manded. 
 
 Billy tossed his cigarette into the gutter and 
 smiled at Wenger. 
 
 "I could be arrested for telling you what I 
 think of him, ' ' said he pleasantly. ' ' Any pork- 
 and-beaner in the country could make him jump 
 out of the ring." 
 
 Mr. Wenger 's round face suddenly became 
 purple. 
 
 "A lot you know about fighters!" he cried. 
 "You take one look at my boy and tell me he 
 ain't any good, eh? He'll jump out of the ring, 
 will he?" Wenger plunged his hand into a 
 pocket and drew out a thick roll of bills, which 
 
 [105] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 lie waved excitedly under Billy's nose. "I'll 
 bet you aaiy part of wliat's liere you caa't find 
 a lightweight tliat'll lick him in a real fight! 
 Any part of it, if you know so much! Now; 
 then, put up or shut up!" 
 
 ' * Grab him ! ' ' prompted Logan softly. " It 's 
 like finding the money." 
 
 "I don't want to rob you," Billy began. 
 
 Wenger hooted scornfully. 
 
 "Don't let that bother you! You ain't 
 a-goin' to rob anybody, Clarence! Here's my 
 bank roU, and there's plenty more where this 
 comes from that says my boy can lick any light- 
 weight in the country. "We don't bar anybody. 
 We ain't afraid of anybody. There ain't any- 
 thing yellow about us but our money. If you 've 
 got any sporting blood now's the time to show; 
 it. Put up or shut up ! " 
 
 "It's a cinch!" whispered Logan. "Don't 
 let him get away with it ! " 
 
 "I don't intend he shall," said Billy coolly. 
 "As I understand the proposition, I have the 
 right to nominate any lightweight I please?" 
 
 "Anybody at all!" exclaimed Wenger, osten- 
 tatiously thumbing his roU of currency. 
 
 "Public fight?" questioned BiUy. 
 
 "I don't care," blustered Wenger. "My 
 boy '11 fight in a bam, down a weU or inside a 
 Saratoga trunk! Any old place where there's 
 room enough for the other fellow to fall will 
 suit him fine." 
 
 "Better pull it off in private," suggested 
 [106] 
 
THE SPOTTED SHEEP 
 
 Logan. "It wouldn't do to have the news- 
 papers get hold of it ! " 
 
 ' ' Eight you are ! ' ' agreed Billy. * * The papers 
 have had enough fun with me already." 
 
 "A private fight goes," assented Wenger. 
 
 "Very well," said Billy briskly. "Mr. 
 "Wenger, if you will count that money you are 
 waving round so carelessly I will post a certi- 
 fied check to cover it. Inside of two days I will 
 notify you of my selection." 
 
 "Fair enough!" said Mr. Wenger heartily. 
 "Fair enough! I guess you're a true sport 
 after all." 
 
 "I feel more like a burglar," said Billy. 
 
 Mr. Wenger laughed loudly. 
 
 * * You don 't think very much of my boy, " said 
 he ; "but you may change your mind about him 
 later. Well" — and Wenger offered his han(i 
 with a great show of cordiality — "an eyen 
 break; and may the best man win!" 
 
 "May the best man win!" repeated Billy. 
 
 An hour later Logan and AlKson sat at lunch 
 in a downtown grill. Billy's usually cheerful 
 countenance wore an expression of annoyance. 
 
 "Cheer up!" chuckled Logan. "You don't 
 look to me like a man who has just picked up 
 ten thousand dollars." 
 
 "Confound it, that's just the point!" fumed 
 BiUy. "Who would have thought the chump 
 would bet so much? I wouldn't mind taking a 
 few hundred away from him just to teach biTii 
 a lesson, but ten thousand ! Whew ! ' ' 
 
 [107] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 "Cold feet?" asked Logan, eying Billy over 
 the rim of his glass. 
 
 "You know better than that. I never have 
 cold feet on a betting proposition, ' ' boasted the 
 lamb. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said Logan. 
 
 "It's only that I hate to bet that much money 
 on a cinch," explained Billy. 
 
 "I wouldn't let that bother me," said Logan. 
 "You'll pardon me, Billy, but I'm an older man 
 than you are and I've seen more of the world. 
 If they have invented any method of keeping 
 a fool and his money together I haven't heard 
 of it. This man "Wenger might as well lose his 
 ten thousand to you as to some one else; for 
 lose it he will. He 's one of the kind that's bom 
 every minute. ... By the way, have you 
 thought of any good lightweight you can get? 
 You'll want a topnotcher, you know. There's 
 no sense in taking chances. ' ' 
 
 "I was thinking you might suggest some 
 one," said Billy. 
 
 Logan gave a very fair imitation of a man in 
 deep thought. 
 
 "I'd hate to advise you, Billy," said he at 
 length. ' ' Then, again, I don't know what fight- 
 ers are in town. How would it do if we called 
 up Smalley — ^you remember that little chap we 
 met at the race track? Smalley has a line on 
 all the pugs and his advice would be invaluable. 
 Speaking of him, why wouldn't it be a good idea 
 to have Smalley make the arrangements for 
 you? If you should go to a fighter and hire 
 [108] 
 
THE SPOTTED SHEEP 
 
 him to take part in a private scrap the first 
 thing he'd do would be to run to the sporting 
 editors with it. They're all crazy after pub- 
 licity — every one of 'em. You want to keep 
 this fight under cover, don't you?" 
 
 "You bet!" said Billy fervently. "When 
 can we get hold of Smalley?" 
 
 IV 
 
 "I ain't what you might call a partickler guy, 
 Smalley. The reg'lar run of the cards is good 
 enough for me ; but this is the first time I ever 
 has to sneak up an alley and put on me trunks 
 in a horse's bedroom. It ain't any of my busi- 
 ness, of course; but what's the idea of pulling 
 off this hippodrome in a barn?" 
 
 The light of a single lantern flickered on the 
 walls of a box stall and picked the speaker out 
 of the darkness, throwing his battered features 
 into strong relief. 
 
 Young Sullivan could never have been con- 
 sidered handsome ; one hundred battles had not 
 improved his appearance. There was a deep 
 dent where the bridge of his nose should have 
 been ; one eye was slightly askew, giving to half 
 of his face an oriental aspect ; and his left ear 
 was of the cauliflower variety, though more 
 closely resembling a sun-dried abalone. Minor 
 marks of conflict lay thick between brow and 
 chin; for he who by brute force hammers his 
 way to prominence is hammered in turn, and 
 
 [109] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 Young Sullivan had dodged very few right 
 counters while pounding out a career. 
 
 By reason of this contempt for punishment he 
 was known as one of the stumbling-blocks in 
 the lightweight division — a, dogged youngster 
 who would take a dozen heavy blows without 
 flinching for the sake of handing one; and 
 Sullivan's single punch usually evened the 
 score. 
 
 "Why all this soft-pedal stuff? " persisted the 
 fighter. "You ain't afraid of a pinch, are 
 you?" 
 
 "Of course not," answered Kid Smalley, who, 
 after the fashion of all chief seconds and 
 handlers, was stripped to his shirt sleeves. 
 "Certainly not. We just want to be sure it's 
 private — ^that's all." 
 
 "I don't blame you," grinned Young Sulli- 
 van, "You wouldn't want any witnesses if you 
 was rolling a drunk or cracking a safe, and 
 this is going to be worse. Private, eh? Well, 
 you can't make it any too private for me. It 
 wouldn't do me repitation any good if the gang 
 heard that an unknown knocked me out in a 
 punch. WTio's the sucker?" 
 
 "You want to know too much," said Smalley 
 curtly. "You'll get your dough as soon as it's 
 over — one hundred bones for taking a slap on 
 the jaw. That 's good enough for you, ain 't it ? ' * 
 
 "Good enough if you say so. I ain't prying 
 into your business. I just wanted to know — 
 that's all." 
 
 "Curiosity has killed better men than you," 
 [110] 
 
THE SPOTTED SHEEP 
 
 said Smalley. "You go through with the pro- 
 gram; that's all you've got to do. Eemeraber 
 now — ^no boxing and no stalling. Pull it off 
 just the way you rehearsed it. The other fel- 
 low is so bad that if the fight should go a couple 
 of rounds even a blind man could see it was a 
 frame. We've got to do it quick. Get in there; 
 swing wild a few times, poke your jaw into 
 one, and flop. Don't get up at the count of ten 
 either. Don't get up at all. We 'U carry you to 
 the comer and work on you for a while, and 
 then " 
 
 Sullivaji interrupted eagerly : 
 
 "I'll open me eyes and say: 'Who threw that 
 brick?' " 
 
 "You're a great little actor," sneered Kid 
 Smalley ; ' ' but this is no comedy part. The less 
 you say the better." 
 
 "Oughtn't I to have a alibi?" asked the 
 fighter anxiously. "Can't I say something 
 about holding this bird too cheap and never 
 training a lick for him?" 
 
 "That would be fine!" was the sarcastic re- 
 joinder. "Lovely! Here, I've told the sucker 
 that you're in the piiik of condition and ready 
 to put up the fight of your life — and you'd make 
 me out a liar for the sake of an alibi ! Listen 
 to me and get this through your thick head — ^if 
 you can : You're not paid for making any expla- 
 nations — savvy? You're paid for taking a poke 
 on the jaw and doing a Eip Van Winkle. After 
 this fellow lands his right swing you're cast for 
 the part of Sleeping Beauty. Do you get me ? " 
 
 [111] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 The ring has its traditions and they die hard. 
 One of them provides that for every defeat 
 there must be a plausible excuse. Lack of 
 training, a broken hand, a crooked referee, a 
 chance blow — those are the staple explanations 
 of the loser. 
 
 Young Sullivan sighed and drew a soiled 
 sweater over his bare shoulders. 
 
 "You're the doctor." He spoke heavily and 
 with bitterness. "But, all the same, somebody 
 ought to alibi for me — getting put away by a 
 atiff like this!" 
 
 "Leave it to me," said Smalley soothingly. 
 "Your spotless reputation shan't suffer. I 
 promise you that. Making an alibi that will 
 stick is the best thing I do. Now then, profes- 
 sor, if you're ready we will proceed to the 
 slaughter. ' ' 
 
 "Yeh; let's get it oyer!" growled Young 
 Sullivan. 
 
 Smalley picked up a bucket and a large towel 
 and led the way out of the box stall. As they 
 stumbled down a dark passageway the fighter 
 fired the last hopeless shot in defence of his 
 professional reputation. 
 
 "Couldn't I say I was doped?" he asked. 
 
 " No ! " hissed Smalley. * ' You can 't say any- 
 thing!" 
 
 He found a doorknob in the dark and a flood 
 of light burst on them. The ring had been 
 pitched in the center of a large, bare room, 
 which at the first glance seemed to be empty; 
 ^ut aS Smalley entered there was a sudden 
 
 [112] 
 
THE SPOTTED SHEEP 
 
 bustle in a far comer and Mr. Al J. Wenger ap- 
 peared, escorting his champion. The latter, a 
 low-browed, shock-headed youth, looked neither 
 to the right nor to the left, but shuffled awk- 
 wardly in the wake of his fat sponsor. 
 
 Mr. Wenger had dressed his managerial part 
 with great care. A pink silk undershirt adorned 
 the upper part of his person ; a bath towel was 
 draped about his neck; his lavender-striped 
 trousers were rolled above his shoetops, and 
 from a hip pocket peeped the glass stopper of a 
 bottle of smelling salts. 
 
 At the same time four men, who had been 
 conversing in low tones, left another corner and 
 moved toward the ringside, where they took 
 seats. 
 
 Young Sullivan paused long enough to favor 
 his antagonist with a ferocious scowl, which was 
 returned with interest ; then he crawled through 
 the tapes. His glance next fell on the four men 
 seated outside the ring; and he remained stand- 
 ing, staring at them until Smalley pushed him 
 into his chair. 
 
 Inunediately Mr. Wenger busied himself with 
 the time-honored preliminaries of battle. He 
 shook the new gloves out of their pasteboard 
 box, examining each one with great care. He 
 fingered the soft bandages on Young Sullivan 's 
 hands and pronounced them satisfactory. He 
 sliced an orange and offered a bit of it to his 
 gladiator, who refused it with scorn; and he 
 tied a small American flag in his corner of the 
 ring. 
 
 [113] 
 
TAKING THE COtTNT 
 
 These maneuvers would have amused Young 
 Sullivan had he seen them, but he was still star- 
 ing at the four spectators. 
 
 Kid Smalley, engaged in "breaking" the 
 new gloves to take the stiffness out of them, re- 
 ceived a sharp poke in the ribs. 
 
 "Say," whispered Young Sullivan, "which 
 one is the sucker?" 
 
 "The fellow on this end," answered Smalley. 
 
 The fighter showed his teeth. 
 
 "Nix!" said he. "You can't hand that to 
 me. How long do you think I've been round 
 this town, not to know a con man like Logan 
 when I see him ? If he 's mixed up with a frame 
 it ain't on the sucker end, Smalley. I know 
 Three-Card Davis too; so you might as well 
 tell me, because I'U find it out anyway." 
 
 Kid Smalley, realizing the truth of this re- 
 mark, surrendered at discretion. 
 
 "It's the shrimp with the glasses," said he. 
 "The fellow with the stop watch is a pal of his. 
 We let him act as stakeholder and timekeeper so 
 as to make it look good." 
 
 "Oh, that's it!" said the fighter. "Well, I 
 just wanted to know." 
 
 "Now that you know," growled Smalley, 
 "you'd better forget it. Some things ain't 
 healthy to talk about." 
 
 Young Sullivan grunted — a nonconunittal 
 sort of grunt, which might have expressed as- 
 sent, doubt or defiance. After that he sat star- 
 ing straight in front of him. When the time 
 came he extended his hands for the gloving 
 [114] 
 
THE SPOTTED SHEEP 
 
 process, but what aid he rendered in the operar 
 tion was purely mechanical. 
 
 Having finished with his man Mr. Wenger 
 stepped briskly across the ring to the spectators. 
 
 "Still think you've got a cinch, do you?" 
 said he to Billy, who nodded in reply. 
 
 Wenger drew out another roll of currency. 
 
 "Here's the stuff that talks!" said he. 
 
 Billy shook his head. 
 
 "The bet is big enough as it stands," said 
 he. * ' Not another nickel ! ' ' 
 
 He held to this in spite of Wenger 's bluster 
 and sarcasm and Logan's whispered advice. 
 
 "You're a hot sport!" said Wenger. "Tou 
 say you've got a cinch, but you're afraid to bet 
 on it!" 
 
 "Not afraid," corrected Billy; "merely un- 
 willing. My man is ready, Wenger. Don't de- 
 lay the game." 
 
 "Cold feet!" growled Smalley to Young 
 Sullivan as Wenger retreated to his comer, still 
 waving his roll of bills. 
 
 "Huh!" remarked Young Sullivan. 
 
 Three-Card Davis rose, removed his hat and 
 coat, and ducked under the ropes, with a finger 
 crooked at each comer — the mark of the referee 
 the world over. 
 
 The fighters advanced to the center of the 
 ring for their instructions — ^Wenger 's champion 
 open-mouthed and curious; Young Sullivan 
 apathetic and preoccupied, meditatively squint- 
 ing at vacancy over the referee's shoulder. 
 
 "No claim of foul will be allowed unless the 
 [115] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 man is disabled, ' ' finislied Davis. " Go to your 
 corners!" 
 
 "All set?" called Freddy Van Pelt, amateur 
 timekeeper and stakeholder. ..." Time ! ' ' 
 
 At the word Mr. Wenger's champion stepped 
 cautiously out of his corner. He had been as- 
 sured and reassured that no harm' could come to 
 him; but in spite of this comforting thought 
 there was something disconcerting in the sin- 
 ister expression on the professional's face — 
 something alarming in his steady, flat-footed ad- 
 vance, chin low on his breast in battle crouch, 
 left hand well extended, and the annihilating 
 right fist held far back, like a thunderbolt in 
 leash. 
 
 "Don't stop to shake hands!" yelled Mr. 
 Wenger. "This ain't no pink tea! Pile right 
 into him, boy ! Fight him off his feet ! ' ' 
 
 The unknown hesitated for an instant; then, 
 spurred on by a roar from his corner, hurled 
 himself blindly at his antagonist. In the same 
 instant Young Sullivan took two quick steps — 
 one forward, the other slightly to the left — and 
 with the second step came a thudding impact 
 of bone and leather against an unprotected jaw. 
 Mr. Wenger 's champion reeled and then toppled 
 slowly backward, striking the floor with a crash. 
 
 "There, you crook!" snarled Young Sulli- 
 van, menacing the referee with a doubled fist. 
 "Call that a foul — ^if you dare!" 
 
 Three-Card Davis did not call it anything. 
 His nimble brain was racing to adjust itself to 
 altered conditions, but as yet speech was beyond 
 [116] 
 
THE SPOTTED SHEEP 
 
 him. He could only gape at the limp figure 
 stretched at full length on the floor. 
 
 In the astounded silence there rose the some- 
 what too cheerful voice of the official time- 
 keeper, counting off the seconds as prescribed 
 by the late Marquis of Queensberry. 
 
 ' ' Eight — nine He 's out ! You win, Billy ; 
 
 and here 's the money ! Hooray!" 
 
 "I say, Wenger," called the winner as he 
 stuffed the working capital of the Logan-Emer- 
 son combination into his pocket, "I owe you an 
 apology. He didn't jump out of the ring — there 
 wasn't time. . . . Great Scott, Freddy I Wen- 
 ger 's out too!" 
 
 Henri, head waiter at Tortoni's, was far 
 too polite to arch his eyebrows at sight of a 
 sweater and a cauliflower ear ; so he bowed low 
 to Billy Allison and led the way swiftly to a 
 private room. On the other hand Young Sulli- 
 van had never before met a head waiter face to 
 face; so the surprised interest was mutual. 
 
 Billy gave the order as briefly as possible, 
 and when they were alone he came quickly to 
 the business at hand, speaking a language the 
 fighter could understand. 
 
 "Kid," said he, "there was a queer kick to 
 that little show of ours the other night — a, few 
 things I haven't been able to figure out. The 
 way some of my friends acted after that knock- 
 out rather surprised me. You'd have thought 
 
 [117] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 they suspected me of putting one over on Wen- 
 ger. ' ' 
 
 Young Sullivan gaped incredulously. 
 
 "Ain't you wise to it yet?" he demanded. 
 
 "Wise to what?" 
 
 "Gee, but you are easy!" exclaimed the 
 fighter. "Why, I thought you'd tumble to it 
 the minute it came off. Didn't you know that 
 you was up against a frame ? ' ' 
 
 "A frame!" ejaculated Billy. "Why, man 
 alive, I won ! How could it have been a frame ? ' ' 
 
 Young Sullivan laughed, 
 
 * ' Sure, you won, ' ' said he ; " but the way they 
 had it fixed up I was to take a poke on the jaw 
 and go out. Then you'd have lost, and " 
 
 "They!" repeated Billy. "Whom do you 
 mean by 'they'?" 
 
 "That whole crooked outfit — ^Logan and 
 Smalley and Davis. The fat guy and the other 
 fighter was in it too." 
 
 "Not Logan!" cried Billy. "Why, it can't 
 be ! I've known him for years- 
 
 " And it's cost you money," supplemented the 
 fighter. "Don't tell me it can't be when I know 
 it is! They're crooks, I tell you — all of 'em; 
 and Logan's the main finger of the bunch — 
 the boss. The others are cappers and steerers. 
 Why, listen : Smalley, he comes to me and says 
 they've got a sucker ribbed up to bet on a fake 
 fight. I was to get a hundred for going out " 
 
 ' ' Wait a minute, ' ' interrupted Billy. ' ' They 
 told me it would be better if Smalley made all 
 the arrangements." 
 
 [118] 
 
THE SPOTTED SHEEP 
 
 "That would keep us from getting together," 
 said Young Sullivan. "They didn't take any 
 chances on you waking up and crossing 'em. 
 You let 'em run the whole proposition, didn't 
 you? Pretty easy for 'em — pretty easy, boyl" 
 
 Billy's tottering egotism did not need the 
 final touch of mingled pity and contemptuous 
 familiarity in the fighter's tone. The wreck of 
 his self-esteem was complete. For years he 
 had deemed himself wise, in the slangy tender- 
 loin sense of the word — ^wise in the things not 
 worth knowing and the ways not worth travel- 
 ing. 
 
 Yes, Billy Allison had thought himself wise;, 
 but it had remained for a low-browed, thick- 
 skulled fighter to show him the extent of that 
 wisdom, and to make him see himself as he ap- 
 peared to others — "a sucker ribbed up to bet on 
 a fake fight!" BUly Allison a sucker! 
 
 Another man, confronted with a revelation so 
 humiliating, might have buried his head in his 
 hands and groaned; but there was nothing of 
 the theatrical about Billy. He merely removed 
 his glasses and polished them with his hand- 
 kerchief, blinking near-sightedly the while. 
 
 "Well, wouldn't that frost you?" he mur- 
 mured. ' ' Wouldn 't that frost you ? " 
 
 "You got to learn some time," said Young 
 Sullivan consolingly. "You won't be such a 
 soft mark for the next bunko game." 
 
 Billy continued to blink and polish his 
 glasses. Another angle of the matter was f oro- 
 
 [119] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 ing itself on his consideration. — another thing to 
 be explained. 
 
 "I gave Smalley five hundred dollars the 
 night before the fight, ' ' said Billy slowly. ' ' He 
 was to give it to you if you won. He held that 
 out, of course?" 
 
 "Sure, he did!" was the disgusted reply. 
 "The only deal I had was one hundred if I 
 lost." 
 
 " Oh I " said Billy. ' ' Then you didn't get ' ' 
 
 Young Sullivan laughed harshly. 
 
 "I didn't get a thing out of it but the exer- 
 cise," said he — "not a copper cent!" 
 
 Billy put on his glasses and regarded the 
 fighter steadily. Young Sullivan avoided his 
 gaze. 
 
 "Did you need the hundred?" asked Billy. 
 
 "Sure, I needed it!" said Young Sullivan. 
 "You don't think I'd have framed to go out to 
 a dub unless I was broke?" 
 
 "Why did you change your mind?" demand- 
 ed Billy. "What made you double-cross that 
 outfit? There must have been a reason." 
 
 "There was," said the fighter. "You don't 
 remember me, I guess. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Oh, yes, I do ! " protested Billy. "I've seen 
 you fight lots of times." 
 
 Young Sullivan threw out his hand in an im- 
 patient gesture. 
 
 "Before that. No; you don't remember me, 
 but maybe you ain't forgot that kid with the 
 broken leg — three years ago in Mercy Hospital! 
 
 [120] 
 
THE SPOTTED SHEEP 
 
 Well, I'm his brother — ^I'm Mannie Eosen- 
 blatt." 
 
 Mr. Hawley had often said that nothing Billy- 
 Allison might do could surprise him, but he 
 disproved the truth of this statement by ap- 
 pearing at his club twenty minutes ahead of his 
 luncheon schedule with news of a startling 
 nature. 
 
 This is the latter portion of the monologue 
 with which he regaled the cronies of the late 
 Henry Allison: 
 
 " 'And,' says he, 'if you don't mind, I think 
 I'd like to take an active interest in the business 
 from now on. I'm through fooling,' he says — 
 'and I'm through for keeps! What time shall 
 I show up in the morning ?' " 
 
 T121T 
 
ON ACCOUNT OF A LADY 
 
 WHEN great men! fall out they send for 
 Associated Press reporters and all tlie 
 world knows about it the next morning; 
 but when the little fellows quarrel the news 
 travels slowly and arrives late, bringing with 
 it unquestionable proof of the large percentage 
 of liars in the average community. 
 
 For instance, if Fighting Sammy Dugan had 
 been a champion of the world and Whitey Wil- 
 son a challenger for the title, sharp-nosed re- 
 porters would have had the whole truth out of 
 one of them at least; but Dugan and Wilson 
 were not great men. They were only prelimi- 
 nary boxers of the sort known as pork-and- 
 beaners, and that they should quarrel at all was 
 something of a joke. When reporters are not 
 sufficiently interested to be curious, first ex- 
 planations stand unchallenged, and because of 
 this the theory of professional jealousy went 
 unquestioned. 
 
 The report was correct as to the jealousy, but 
 
 it was not of the professional variety. It was 
 
 the real old green-eyed sort, which nothing but 
 
 the Eternal Triangle has ever been known to 
 
 [122] 
 
ON ACCOUNT OF A LADY 
 
 produce. There was a lady mixed up in it— > 
 as there has been in nearly all the serious trou- 
 ble since the apple and the snake — and in this 
 particular case it was the brown-eyed one who 
 presided over the cash register at the end of 
 T-bone Eiley's lunch counter. 
 
 T-bone, so called because he served the best 
 T-bone steaks in the world for thirty cents — ■ 
 this was before the increased cost of living be- 
 came a burning issue ; probably T-bone 's steaks 
 are thinner now — ^was a philanthropist in his 
 own peculiar way. He fed all the preliminary 
 fighters whether they had any money or ,not. 
 
 "And why shouldn't IV ' asked Eiley. 
 "Where are these pork-and-beaners going to eat 
 if they don't eat with me? If a fighter don't 
 eat reg'lar he can't fight;, and me, I like to see 
 good fights. 'I'm what you call a patron of the 
 arts, I am; and when these birds ain't got any 
 dough I put 'em on the slate till they get some. 
 They always settle. I haven't lost a nickel on 
 'em, because they ain't the kind of people that'll 
 sMn a friend." 
 
 There had always been a great deal of social 
 freedom and personal liberty at Eiley's. A. 
 man ordered his steak — rare, medium or well 
 done — and ate his eocoanut-custard pie with hia 
 knife, if such was his custom, and nobody said 
 anything about it. If he had the price, he paid. 
 If he did not have the price, he held up two 
 fingers as he went out and Eiley made another 
 entry in the dog-eared memorandum book which 
 he called his slate. 
 
 [123] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 T-bone's place was headquarters for fighters, 
 pool sharks, racetrack touts, tinhorn gamblers 
 and pinfeather clerks with sporting tendencies. 
 Sometimes a rank outsider dropped in, but not 
 often ; for Riley had a way of discouraging the 
 sort of trade he did not want. We will let the 
 Dis-and-Dat Kid, the king of the pork-aud- 
 bean brigade, describe an instance : 
 
 "I'm in Eiley's — see? — chuckin' a feed into 
 meself. In comes a Clarence boy an' sets down 
 beside me. He tipped his mitt de minute he took 
 off his dicer. T-bone himself is behin' de counter 
 because one of de regular :vv^aiters is out on a 
 toot. T-bone gives dis Clarence party a setup 
 an' asks him what will he have. 
 
 " 'Name it, cully!' says T-bone. 
 
 " 'Who do you t'ink you're talking to?' says 
 Clarence, some peeved. 'Don't be so fresh!' 
 
 "Den he orders a steak, medium, hashed 
 brown, an' Java. Eight away he begins to 
 holler. He hollers about de paper napkins an' 
 he hollers about some egg on his fork. 
 
 " 'Dat's all right, cully,' says T-bone. 'We 
 don't charge you for dat. We t'row in de egg 
 wit' de steak — see?' 
 
 "Pretty soon de bread don't suit Clarence. 
 He wants French bread, an' he wants it split 
 open an' toasted. An' he don't t'ink de butter 
 is on de level. T-bone is good an' sore by dis 
 time. 
 
 " 'You got de wrong number,' he says. 'De 
 Astor Grill is furder up de street. Dis is Riley's 
 joint. ' 
 
 [124] 
 
ON ACCOTJNT OF A LADY 
 
 " 'Joint is right!' says Clarence. 
 
 "By-an'-by de steak comes off de fire an' T- 
 bone slides it along de counter. Clarence takes 
 one gash at it wit' his knife an' hollers murder. 
 
 " 'Call dis medium?' says he. 'It's bleed- 
 in'l' 
 
 " 'So '11 you be in a minute!' says T-bone; 
 an' he grabs dat steak by de tail an' wallops 
 Clarence on de jaw wit' it. Down he goes for 
 de count, an' T-bone comes out from behin' and 
 puts de boots to him proper. 
 
 " 'Now,' says T-bone, jammin' de dicer on 
 Clarence's head an' turnin' him round so's he 
 could get one more good kick at him, 'don't you 
 never let me ketch you in here no more ! Out ! ! ' 
 
 "Did he go? Oh, no ; I guess not ! He on'y 
 jumped over free guys because he couldn't 
 spare de time to go round 'em. De gall of him 
 — ^pullin' dat highbrow stuff on Eiley!" 
 
 This was the atmosphere of T-bone 's estab- 
 lishment in the old days before prosperity came. 
 Eiley did well in spite of his peculiar credit 
 system — or because of it — and opened a bank 
 account when his hip pocket could no longer 
 accommodate his savings. He bought a diamond 
 ring — ^not even an expert could have told there 
 was anything the matter with the diamond un- 
 less he put it under a magnifying glass — and 
 later he allowed a fluent salesman to sell him 
 a cash register. 
 
 Eiley did not need a cash register any more 
 than he needed a diamond, but he had to spend 
 the money on something. Then, of course, he 
 
 [125] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 had to have some one to manipulate the ma- 
 chine; so he hired a brown-eyed girl named 
 Myrtle Schmidt. 
 
 Myrtle's presence at the end of the lunch 
 counter shocked and amazed the regular pa- 
 trons and for a time freedom of speech suffered 
 greatly. The habitues became self-conscious, 
 but gradually this feeling of restraint wore oif 
 and they voted Myrtle a "good feller." By 
 this they meant that she laughed at their witti- 
 cisms, listened sympathetically to their hard- 
 luck stories and was not in the least stuck up 
 or haughty. 
 
 Fighting Sammy Dugan and Whitey Wil- 
 son were two of T-bone's star boarders. To- 
 gether they had risen from obscurity, making 
 names for themselves by virtue of the talent 
 iJiat was in them. When Sammy fought, Whitey 
 was sure to be in his corner ; and when Whitey 
 fought, Sammy assisted with counsel and ad- 
 vice. They were bosom friends and had gone 
 through many lean periods side by side. 
 
 Sammy could make the lightweight limit if 
 pressed — ^Whitey scaled a few notches below 
 him; but the exact poundage of a pork-and- 
 beauer is never an important matter. Profes- 
 sionally speaking, they were very evenly 
 matched, Sammy's slight pull in the weight be- 
 ing offset by a longer reach. Both were rush- 
 ing, tearing battlers of the slambang school, 
 and the Queensberry followers had long cher- 
 ished the hope of seeing them matched in a 
 ten-round encounter. The fight promoter had 
 [126] 
 
ON ACOOtTNT OP A LADY 
 
 often broached the subject to the boys, always 
 ■with the same result: 
 
 "Nix! Whadda we want to fight for? We'r© 
 pals!" 
 
 Sammy was not at all a bad-looking boy. He 
 had crisp curly hair, snapping dark eyes, a fair 
 nose, a good chin, and he bore few scars of 
 battle. Whitey was less fortunate. His hair 
 was straw-colored ; his eyes were a pale, faded 
 blue; his complexion was heavily shot with 
 freckles, and he had a tin ear that stood out 
 from his head like a doorknob. 
 
 Sammy .might have won his way into the sec- 
 ond flight at a beauty contest; Whitey would 
 have been disqualified at sight. They were the 
 David and Jonathan, the Damon and Pythias, 
 of the pork-and-bean brigade, and their friend- 
 ship was a sermon on brotherly love. 
 
 Then Myrtle came to T-bone Eiley's to oper- 
 ate the cash register, and her flying fingers rang 
 up trouble for the young gladiators. 
 
 ' ' Oh, gee ! A skirt ! ' ' said Sammy, his mouth 
 full of rice pudding. "A skirt working for 
 Biley! Well, whadda you think of that?" 
 
 "I think she's a queen!" said Whitey. 
 
 "I wonder if she knows who we are?" said 
 Sammy. "I see her givia' me the once-over a 
 while ago." 
 
 ''Aw," said Whitey, "maybe she was looMn* 
 at me." 
 
 "At you!" scoffed Sammy. "If she was she 
 was wonderin' how a feUer could have a face 
 like yours an' keep his health!" 
 
 [127] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 The rivalry began in fun, but the jest was 
 short-lived. In fairness to Myrtle it must be 
 set down here that she was in no way to blame. 
 She was the sort of girl who smiles easily be- 
 cause of good teeth and a dimple, and she did 
 not realize that danger may attend the prac- 
 tice. She smiled on everybody, for she wished 
 to be on good terms with everybody. 
 
 She was amused, though not impressed, when 
 Whitey brought her a remarkable document, 
 which he called his record. It was laboriously 
 penwritten, with many inky flourishes ; and the 
 knockouts Whitey had administered were heav- 
 ily underscored in red. Candor compels the 
 statement that no mention was made of the 
 knockouts scored against Whitey, thus bearing 
 out Mark Twain's contention that no man can 
 write an autobiography without becoming a liar 
 of the first magnitude. 
 
 "How int 'resting!" said Myrtle. "What is 
 it?" 
 
 "It's me record," explained Whitey. "It tells 
 who I've fought and all about it. I wrote it out 
 for you. Some day when I'm a champion, you 
 might want to take a look at it." 
 
 ' ' Oh, very well, ' ' said Myrtle, who had not the 
 slightest idea as to what this amazing screed 
 might be. In the same accommodating spirit she 
 accepted a worn pair of boxing gloves from 
 Sammy. 
 
 "I hung it on Battling Watlington with 
 these, ' ' said the donor modestly. * ' They might 
 come in handy to stick up in your room some- 
 [128] 
 
ON ACCOUNT OF A LADY 
 
 where. Take it from me, this Watlington is one 
 tough gny! He gimme a fierce battle; but in 
 the sixth round I tore into his pantry, an' when 
 he dropped his guard — ^bang ! goes the big right 
 hook on his chin — an' he was through for the 
 night. Sure you can have 'em! Souvenirs, you 
 know. This blue ribbon is to hang 'em up 
 with." 
 
 Myrtle thanked Sammy as prettily as she 
 knew how, but in her heart she regarded the 
 gloves as nasty things and dropped them into 
 & convenient ashcan on the way home. The 
 same ashcan, by the way, received Whitey's 
 record. 
 
 Whitey witnessed the presentation of the 
 gloves, and his heart burned under his ribs. 
 "Why had he not thought of that? There re- 
 mained jiothing but to belittle Sammy's gift, 
 which he proceeded to do at the first oppor- 
 tunity. 
 
 "There's some awful bad fighters round 
 here," said Whitey to Myrtle, apropos of noth- 
 ing. 
 
 "Yes?" said Myrtle, seemingly much inter- 
 ested, but really not knowing what else to say. 
 
 "Uh-huh! This Battling Watlington, he's 
 a terrible piece of cheese. Awful! Can't fight 
 fast enough to get up a sweat; and they say he 
 takes a shot in the arm once in a while. Sammy 
 was all puffed up when he knocked him out; 
 but if he'd a took my advice Watlington 
 wouldn't have lasted two rounds. 'Tear into 
 him, Sammy!' I says. 'He can't hit hard enough 
 
 [129] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 to break a promise. Eoot into him an' make 
 him quit ! ' 
 
 "If it had been me an' that Watlington had 
 lasted six rounds I wouldn't have done no brag- 
 ging — and I wouldn't have saved the gloves, 
 neither. If I'm going to give anybody a souve- 
 nir it's got to be gloves that was in a real fight. 
 Now Kid Cassidy — ^you saw him in my record, 
 didn't you? — there was some fighting wolf; but 
 I never did know what become of them gloves." 
 And so on. 
 
 Mischief of this sort, once afoot, travels rap- 
 idly and finds advance couriers to clear the way. 
 Split-tooth Durkee, retired bantamweight pork- 
 and-beaner and all-night waiter at Riley's, as- 
 sisted matters materially when he repeated to 
 Sammy a portion of the foregoing conversation 
 with embellishments of his own. 
 
 "Whitey's doin' you dirt with the chicken at 
 the cash register, ' ' said Split-tooth. 
 
 "How so?" demanded Sammy. 
 
 "Now listen! I ain't no trouble maker," 
 said Split-tooth virtuously; "and, anyway, you 
 got to promise not to bring me into it. My 
 fighting days are over — see?" 
 
 "You're declared out," said Sammy. "Tell 
 me what he did." 
 
 "Well," said Split-tooth, "to begin with, he 
 says you ain't never licked no regular fighters 
 like he has. He tells her you was all swole up 
 over knocking out Battling Watlington — a feller 
 that couldn't fight himself out of a paper bag!"^ 
 [130] 
 
ON ACCOUNT OP A LADY 
 
 "Did Whitey say that? What's he knocking 
 me for?" 
 
 "Oh, that ain't all. He says he made you 
 win all your fights by bein' in your comer an'^ 
 tellin' yon what to do. He says you'd have quit 
 three or four times if he hadn't been behind you 
 Wait, now! Don't get excited. Remem- 
 ber, I'm out of this. I'm only tellin' you as a 
 friend, Sammy!" 
 
 Split-tooth was nothing if not impartial. The 
 next day he had some interesting information 
 for Whitey — as before, insisting on protection.' 
 There should be no closed season for the man 
 who says : 
 
 "I'm your friend and I think you ought to 
 know this." 
 
 "Sammy was pannin' you to Myrtle," said 
 Split-tooth. 
 
 "He was!" ejaculated Whitey. "Why, the 
 dawg! What was he doing that for?" 
 
 "To put you in bad, of course. You know 
 what he told her? He said he hadn't never 
 fought you because he was a kind-hearted guy 
 and he didn't want to show you up before the 
 public." 
 
 Here Whitey gurgled incoherently. 
 
 "Yes;, he said you was only a harmless kind 
 of nut that had kidded yourself into thinkin' 
 you could fight. He told her he could put you 
 out cold in four rounds any day in the week, and 
 if he didn't do it he'd donate his share of the 
 purse to charity. He said he could lick you and 
 make you like it — ^them's the words he used — 
 C131] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 make you like it! Gee! You ain't sore, are 
 you, Whitey? I told you because I thought you 
 ought to know what was coming off behind your 
 back. I've always been your friend, ain't I? 
 "Well then, keep me out of it." 
 
 The secretary and matchmaker of the club 
 which promoted boxing contests looked up from 
 his desk to greet Whitey Wilson on the point 
 of exploding with wrath and suppressed emo- 
 tion. 
 
 "Aw, Whitey!" said he. "What's new?" 
 
 "I want you to get Sammy Dugan for me on 
 the fifteenth of next month. I'm going to lick 
 that fourflusher until he yells for the police. 
 I'm going to hand him a trimming that 
 will " 
 
 "Hello!" said the matchmaker. "Have the 
 Siamese Twins had a falling out?" 
 
 "Worse than that!" said Whitey bitterly. 
 "He's been going round making cracks that he 
 could put me out in four rounds. Make it any 
 distance you want — ^four, six or ten; if I don't 
 stop him I won 't ask for a nickel ! Not a nickel ! ' ' 
 
 "But suppose he doesn't want to fight you?" 
 
 "He'll have to!" squealed Whitey. "He 
 can't get away. I'll fight him in the street — 
 anywhere ! You can lock us in a cellar and drop 
 the key down a well ! I'll git him " 
 
 ' ' Easy ! Easy ! ' ' said the wise official, * ' Don't 
 get excited. Never give away anything that you 
 [132] 
 
ON ACCOUNT OP A lADT 
 
 can sell, Wliitey. If there *s a real grudge figlit 
 in sight let us stage it, and we '11 all make some 
 money. What started the trouble between 
 you?" 
 
 "He's been lying about mel" said "Whitey. 
 "He's been tellin' all over town that I only 
 think I can fight " 
 
 "And you won't think so long!" a third voice 
 cut iuto the discussion. 
 
 Fighting Sammy Dugan stood in the door- 
 way. After the initial outburst he ignored 
 "Whitey and addressed himself to the match- 
 maker, speaking with labored politeness. 
 
 "Greetings and salutations!" said he. "Sign 
 up this windbag for me. I'll fight him — ^winner 
 take all; and if I don't make him jump out of 
 the ring I won't ask for a cent," 
 
 "Me — ^jump out of the ring!" screamed 
 Whitey. "He better look out I do"n't make him 
 jump out of the ring!" 
 
 "Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" said the match- 
 maker. "Don't start anything here. Shake it 
 up, boys ; but don't spill it. Save it for the fif- 
 teenth. Now about the purse " 
 
 "Any old way suits me," said Sammy. 
 
 "Winner take all!" suggested Whitey. 
 
 "One hundred dollars — ^winner take all," said 
 the matchmaker. "Is that satisfactory?" 
 
 "I'd fight him for nothing!" said Sammy. 
 
 ' ' That 's what you '11 get ! " said Whitey. 
 
 "This is the real thing," reflected the match- 
 maker. "What a pity the reporters aren't here I 
 They could make quite a story out of this." 
 
 [133] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 Later in the day they did make quite a story 
 out of it under headlines proclaiming the sun- 
 dering of friendship's bonds and the dissolution 
 of a partnership. Professional jealousy was 
 mentioned as the contributing cause, which ex- 
 planation appealed to the sporting humorists 
 and they made merry with the topic. Whitey 
 was interviewed by a representative of a morn- 
 ing paper — a, great honor, which almost over- 
 whelmed him and made him nervous and volu- 
 ble. 
 
 * ' Say, print this, will you ? ' ' said he. * ' Put it 
 in the paper that I'm going to fight this Dugan 
 just to show hiTn up — see? Just to let the pub- 
 lic know he never was any good! Don't forget 
 that. 
 
 ' * Here 's another thing you can put in — ^better 
 write it down so you won't forget it — ^I'm going 
 to meet him coming out of his comer and if I 
 ever take a backward step I hope I don't get out 
 of the ring alive. Got that? I'm going to hit 
 him so hard that it will make his grandfather's 
 head ache. I 'm going to ' ' 
 
 * ' Yes, yes ! ' ' said the reporter soothingly. ' * I 
 know you are; but what's it all about? What 
 started the row? You used to be pals, didn't 
 
 "Sure!" said "Whitey excitedly. "Sure, we 
 did! That's what gets my goat. I've cut up 
 my last dollar with Dugan many's the time; 
 and now he 's going round knocking me to every- 
 body. I don't want to talk about him for fear 
 I'll forget myself; but put it in the paper that I 
 
 [134] 
 
ON ACCOUNT OF A LADY 
 
 say Sammy Dugan's a rat — ^Whitey Wilson says 
 so! Got that? He's got a streak of yellow in 
 him as wide as Main Street! Don't forget 
 that." 
 
 The reporter did not forget, and Split-tooth 
 Durkee saw to it that a copy of the paper con- 
 taining this remarkable iaterview was handed 
 to Myrtle Schmidt, who read the article with 
 wide eyes. 
 
 ' ' Mercy sakes ! ' ' said she. * ' They mnst have 
 had a quarrel!" 
 
 "Teh," grinned the dimiantive Durkee; "it 
 does kind of look as if they've parted doll- 
 rags. ' ' He stepped closer and lowered his voice 
 insinuatingly. "And I'll bet you don't know 
 what it was about or nothing. Oh, no ! P'fes- 
 sional jealousy! That's a hot one — that is! 
 Say, you could tell these reporters a thing or 
 two — couldn't you, kid?" 
 
 "Miss Schmidt to you if you please!" 
 snapped Myrtle. "And I couldn't tell anybody 
 anything, because I don't know anything. 
 "What's more, I don't want to know! If any- 
 body mixes me up in a fuss like this they'll be 
 sorry. I attend to my busraess, and I'll thank 
 you to attend to yours!" 
 
 "Just as you say," leered Split-tooth wicked- 
 ly. "Just as you say, girlie. You don't need 
 to get sore about it. Nobody's trying to mix 
 you up; but it's kind of queer when two old 
 pals bust up like this and- 
 
 "The cook is calling you!" interrupted Myr- 
 tle. "And you keep away from this end of the 
 
 [135] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 counter — do you hear? Bother me once more 
 and I'll speak to Mr. Riley!" 
 
 Split-tooth snarled as he moved toward the 
 range. 
 
 "Goin' to holler to T-hone, eh?" he muttered 
 to himself. "She ain't had no use for me since 
 the night I ast her to go to a movin '-pitcher 
 show. Bawled me out good ! I wonder who she 
 thinks she is? Too stuck up for common peo- 
 ple — ^yes, sir 1 Coming right up ! German fried, 
 :wasn 't it ? There you are, sport 1 ' ' 
 
 m 
 
 On the eve of battle, as the sporting writ- 
 ers so happily phrase it, the Wilson- 
 Dugan match divided interest with the main 
 event — an elimination contest in the White 
 Hope division. All the world loves a grudge 
 fight — sad commentary on our boasted civiliza- 
 tion— ^and for days the reporters had bombard- 
 ed their readers with articles on the approach- 
 ing combat between the Siamese Twins of the 
 pork-and-bean brigade — "side-kicks once, but 
 strangers now," as one sporting writer put it. 
 
 Professional jealousy was still the only ex- 
 planation offered, and at T-bone's place there 
 was but one topic of conversation. The White 
 Hopes were forgotten — ^it transpired later that 
 they deserved to be — ^in the discussion of the rel- 
 ative merits and abilities of Fighting Sammy 
 pugan and Whitey Wilson. 
 
 On the night before the fight there came to 
 [136] 
 
ON ACCOTTNT OP A LADY 
 
 Riley's one Ed Faraday, a sporting writer who 
 tossed a nimble quill for an afternoon paper. 
 He was seeking a T-bone, rare, French fried 
 potatoes, apple pie and coffee. The hour was 
 late, patrons were infrequent, and Split-tooth 
 Durkee, having delivered Faraday's order to 
 Saginaw, the night cook, lingered to gossip. 
 
 "Some fight to-morrow night," said Split- 
 tooth tentatively. 
 
 "Those big hams?" said Faraday. "No 
 chance — ^I could lick 'em myself." 
 
 "Naw — not them. Whitey and Sammy." 
 
 "Oh I" said the sporting authority. "Yes; 
 if this grudge-fight talk is on the level it ought 
 to be a hummer." 
 
 Split-tooth grinned knowingly. 
 
 "Don't worry," said he. "It's on the level 
 all right." 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 "Never you mind how I know," said Durkee 
 mysteriously. "P'fessional jealousy! Where 
 do you get that stuff? You're supposed to be 
 wise. You've been round and seen a lot of 
 things come off. "What is it that makes most 
 of the trouble between pals, eh ? What is it that 
 makes a man want to lick his best friend ? P 'f es- 
 sional jealousy? Bah! Aia't there no other 
 kind of jealousy?" 
 
 "You don't mean to tell me there's a skirt in! 
 this ! ' ' said Faraday, pausing in the act of spear- 
 ing a pickle. 
 
 "You've been asleep at the switch a long 
 time, but you're waking up now," said Split- 
 
 [137] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 tooth. "A skirt! You've said it all. Pity you 
 didn't know about it before you wrote that bunk 
 about p'fessional jealousy. Gee! That handed 
 me a laugh!" Durkee moved away from the 
 counter. 
 
 ' ' Say, come back here ! ' ' Durkee paused un- 
 certainly. "Come here!" repeated Faraday. 
 "You don't mean to tell me that Whitey and 
 Sammy busted up over a girl?" 
 
 ' ' I don 't mean to tell you nothing, ' ' said Split- 
 tooth. ' ' Do you think I want to get in bad with 
 a couple of lowbrows that have got me shaded 
 on the weight?" 
 
 ' ' Oh, come on ! " pleaded Faraday. " I 'd treat 
 it as confidential — honest, I would. I wouldn't 
 tell a soul where I got it." 
 
 "Nothing doing!" said Split-tooth firmly. 
 ' ' Why, you got a nerve to ask me ! You eat here 
 a good deal — ^you could 'a' seen it with your 
 own eyes." 
 
 Faraday struck the lunch counter with his 
 open hand. 
 
 "The girl at the cash register!" said he. 
 
 "Go to the head of the class!" 
 
 "What's her name?" 
 
 "Myrtle Schmidt." 
 
 "How old is she?" 
 
 "Nineteen — say, what are you trying to do? 
 Interview me ? Nix ! You 've seen her, ain 't you ? 
 Brown eyes, kind of dark complected, weighs 
 about the featherweight limit, been working here 
 
 about two months You ain't going to write 
 
 anything about this, are you?" 
 [138] 
 
ON ACCOUNT OF A LADY 
 
 * ' No — of course not ! ' ' said Faraday with sar- 
 casm. " I 'm just gathering this information for 
 the census bureau!" 
 
 "Well," said Split-tooth with a sigh, "if 
 you're going to spill it in the paper it ain't my 
 fault. I can't stop you. All I ask is that you 
 leave me out of it — see? I don't mind tellin' 
 you a few things you ought to know — out of 
 friendship — ^but I don't want no comeback. I 
 can't go on the floor and mix with these rough- 
 and-tumblers, and I ain't going out of my class 
 to oblige anybody." 
 
 "Mum's the word!" promised Mr. Faraday. 
 "Now then, how did it start!" 
 
 IV 
 
 Fighting Sammy Dugan sat on a rubbing 
 table in one of the tiny dressing rooms under- 
 neath the bleachers of the boxing pavilion, 
 swinging his heels and Usteniag to the roar of 
 the multitude. From time to time he inclined an 
 ear to the earnest words of the Dis-and-Dat 
 Kid, his chief second and adviser. 
 
 "Now remember, Sammy, don't git mad! 
 Never mind standin' toe to toe an' slugging 
 untH somebody drops. Let Whitey fight dat 
 way if he wants to. Wear him down wit' dat 
 left an' den wham him wit' de right. Eemem- 
 ber your reppitation, an' " 
 
 The door banged open and T-bone Eiley en- 
 tered, a thundercloud on his brow. He held a 
 
 [139] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 pink sporting extra in his hand, which he thrust 
 under Sammy's nose. 
 
 "You're a fine pair of mutts — ^you and 
 Whitey!" said he. "Look what you done!" 
 
 Sammy glanced at the paper and his jaw 
 fell. A double row of black type three columns 
 wide smote him with all the force of a blow be- 
 tween the eyes. 
 
 DuGAN AND Wilson to Battle fob Love op 
 Beautiful Giel! 
 
 "Wha — ^what's this?" stammered Sammy, 
 aghast. 
 
 "Mighty innocent, ain't you?" sneered T- 
 bone. "I'll tell you what it is ! It's my notion 
 of a dirty trick! Here's a girl that's all right 
 in every way — ^behaves herself like a lady, never 
 mixes up in nothing and ain't looking for pub- 
 licity. A couple of bum fighters get to quarrel- 
 ing over her and between 'em they cook her up 
 a press notice like this. Listen while I read you 
 a sample." 
 
 T-bone cleared his throat and read as fol- 
 lows: 
 
 ' ' ' The little god of love will referee to-night's 
 battle between Fighting Sammy Dugan and 
 Whitey Wilson, erstwhile friends, but now bit- 
 ter enemies and rivals for the hand of Miss 
 Myrtle Schmidt, a petite brunette beauty of this 
 city.' Wha'd'yethinkof that— eh? 'Rivals for 
 the hand!' Say, do you think she'd marry 
 either one of you tramps?" 
 [140] 
 
ON ACCOUNT OF A LADY 
 
 "Marry!" gasped Sammy. "Nothing like 
 that. And they've even got her name! Oh, if 
 I can get the fellow who spilled this, Eiley, I'U 
 murder him!" 
 
 "You're sure you didn't?" questioned T- 
 bone. 
 
 "I've never mentioned her to a soul!" cried 
 Sammy. "What do you take me for?" 
 
 "Well, somebody spilled it," said T-bone, 
 "and now it's all over town. Whitey says he 
 didn't do it." 
 
 "I wouldn't put it past him to do anything," 
 said Sammy. 
 
 "That's what he says about you." 
 
 "He does? Oh, wait till I get him in the 
 ring ! Say, Eiley, do you think she '11 be sore ? ' ' 
 
 "Sore!" T-bone laughed unpleasantly. 
 "No ; she'll be tickled to death to have her name 
 mixed up with a couple of cheap fighters ! A nice 
 girl wouldn't mind a little thing like that at all! 
 I haven't seen her. She's on the late shift to- 
 night ; but I'd advise you to keep away from the 
 joint until she cools out." 
 
 Half an hour later Sammy Dugan and Whitey 
 Wilson stood in the center of the ring, blinking 
 in the glare of the arclights, ostensibly listen- 
 ing to the referee — an honest, conscientious soul 
 : — ^who droned monotonously about many things, 
 none of which was new. 
 
 Said Sammy, glowering at Whitey : 
 
 "What did you get that put in the paper 
 for?" 
 
 Said Whitey to Sammy: 
 [141] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 "I didn't. You did it yourself — ^nobody else 
 knew." 
 
 "You did!" 
 
 "I didn't!" 
 
 "You're a liar!" 
 
 " You 're another ! ' ' 
 
 Said the referee, extending his arms and div- 
 ing between the combatants : 
 
 "Here! None of that! Can't you wait till 
 the bell rings?" 
 
 Thus, with an added cause for grievance, they 
 waited for the clang of the gong. 
 
 The honest and conscientious referee said it 
 was a draw, and three thousand lay brethren 
 applauded that just decision wildly. Then they 
 fell back in their seats, hoarse, hysterical and 
 happy. For once a grudge fight had justified 
 its press notices. As a matter of fact, there 
 was nothing else for the referee to do. With 
 both men on their feet at the end of the battle 
 — dazed, battered and staggering, but still on 
 their feet — ^he had no choice. 
 
 He could not have awarded a decision on sci- 
 entific points. There were no scientific points. 
 He could not have declared either man a winner 
 on aggressiveness. Both had been as aggres- 
 sive as wildcats. In the matter of knockdowns 
 honors were fairly even, Whitey had taken the 
 count six times and Sammy five. As to punish- 
 ments inflicted, there was little to choose. 
 Sammy had a broken nose, but Whitey had lost 
 a tooth. Sammy's mouth resembled a badly 
 [142] 
 
ON ACCOUNT OF A liADY 
 
 bitten damson plmn, Whitey had a mouse under 
 Ms left eye. Sammy had a lump on his jaw, 
 but Whitey had a split lip. 
 
 "And as for blood," said the referee, ruefuUy 
 regarding his soft white shirt, "between 'em 
 they shed enough of it to free Ireland ! ' ' 
 
 No sooner had the two soggy gloves been 
 hoisted in the air than Sammy dashed out at one 
 angle of the ring and Whitey hopped through 
 the ropes at the other, thus violating all tradi- 
 tion. After a drawn battle it is customary for 
 the gladiators to linger as long as possible, leav- 
 ing the ring separately in order that the ap- 
 plause may be sustained. Two such precipitous 
 exits were never before witnessed in that arena. 
 
 "Say, you gotta have dat nose fixed up," said 
 the Dis-and-Dat Kid to Sammy in the dressing 
 room. 
 
 "Plenty of time," mumbled the disfigured 
 gladiator. "I shaded him in every round, 
 didn't I?" 
 
 On the other side of the partition Whitey 's 
 handlers besought him to allow them to reduce 
 the mouse by the simple and expedient method 
 of lancing it with the blade of a penknife. 
 
 "To-morrow!" said Whitey impatiently. 
 "Where's my pants?" 
 
 It was a great race and Sammy Dugan won 
 it by half a block. He burst into Eiley's place 
 out of breath, disheveled and perspiring freely. 
 Split-tooth Durkee grinned behind the coffee 
 boiler, and Myrtle stared stonily over the cash 
 register. She had put on her hat and coat, and 
 
 [143] . 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 her bag dangled from her wrist. Her nose and 
 eyes were suspiciously red. 
 
 "They give it a draw," panted Sammy, "but 
 I win a mile ! Say, I want — ^to tell you — I didn 't 
 put that piece in the paper. It was Whitey did 
 that— and " 
 
 This declaration was interrupted by the ac- 
 cused, who hurled himself into the room, also 
 breathless and perspiring. 
 
 "Don't you believe him!" he cried. " 'S a 
 lie!" 
 
 "Oh, you're both here, are you?" said Miss 
 Schmidt coldly. "Well, I just want to tell you 
 one thing: I wouldn't waste my time on hood- 
 lums like you. I wouldn't look at you outside 
 of this place. I wouldn't speak to you ! You're 
 trash, that's what you are — trash ! ' ' Her voice 
 grew suddenly shrill. "The idea of you drag- 
 ging me into the newspapers like this — a couple 
 of lowdown hoodlums like you! My fiance is 
 going to be in town to-morrow. He's a brake- 
 man on the railroad, and he's bigger than both 
 of you put together. Just wait till he catches 
 you— that 'sail!" 
 
 She had stepped round the end of the counter 
 and now swept out into the street, banging the 
 door behind her. The battle-scarred gladiators 
 looked at each other blankly. After a time they 
 became aware of Split-tooth Durkee, who was 
 grinning at them from a safe distance. 
 
 "She's quit her job," said Split-tooth cheer- 
 fully — "Says she couldn't hold up her head in. 
 [144] 
 
ON ACCOUNT OF A LADY 
 
 this joint again. And say, if what she tells me 
 about this brakeman is right you better leave 
 town now. He's bigger 'n a house!" 
 
 Sammy and Whitey exchanged glances of 
 deep concern. 
 
 ' ' If that 's the way it is " said Sammy ten- 
 tatively. 
 
 "We better stick together," said Whitey. 
 
 They shook hands. 
 
 "We can lick him if he's as big as Jim Jef- 
 fries!" said Sammy. 
 
 "You're whistling!" said Whitey. 
 
 They shook hands again. 
 
 "You're a tough bird, Whitey, old boy!" said 
 Sanamy. "I'd rather fight a champion than 
 take you on again." 
 
 "I never got such a lacing in my life as I got 
 from you," said Whitey, thoughtfully stroking 
 the mouse under his left eye. 
 
 "Say, what started it anyway?" asked 
 Sammy. 
 
 "Why," said Whitey, "Split-tooth, over 
 there, he said that you was knocking me to her." 
 
 "He told me the same about you," said 
 Sammy. 
 
 They considered the situation gravely, turn- 
 ing this information over and over in their 
 minds. Then they looked at Split-tooth, who 
 squeaked and backed suddenly into a pile of 
 plates, sending them crashing to the floor. 
 
 "Nix! Nix!" he begged. "Ain't we always 
 been friends?" 
 
 [145] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 "You go round one end of the counter and I'll 
 go round tiie other," said Sammy. 
 "He can't get away," said Whitey. 
 
 When T-bone Eiley dropped in he found Sag- 
 inaw in sole possession of the premises, which 
 bore every appearance of having been visited 
 by a cyclone. 
 
 ' ' What 's happened here ? ' ' asked T-bone, esti- 
 mating the damage with a practiced eye. 
 
 "A whole lot of things," said the night cook: 
 "Your cashier has quit. Sammy and Whitey 
 are friends again. It was Split-tooth that got 
 that piece put in the paper. He's in the Receiv- 
 ing Hospital. " 
 
 "Outside of that every little thing is aU 
 right?" asked T-bone. 
 
 "So far as I know," said Saginaw. 
 
 "Fair enough!" said T-bone Eiley. 
 
 '[146]i 
 
NO BUSINESS 
 
 ME. PATEICK TIBENEY, alone in Ms 
 art gallery on the sunrise side of San 
 Francisco Bay, swabbed ap a few drops 
 of beer left upon the bar by the last customer 
 and bummed a snatch of a sentimental ballad. 
 
 Sentiment would have seemed out of place in 
 Mr. Tierney's establishment, for the walls were 
 plastered thick with photographs and halftones 
 of gentlemen with cauliflower ears and ingrow- 
 ing noses. All the personages thus represented 
 were more or less known to the sort of fame 
 that blossoms large upon the pink pages of 
 great religious dailies, and Mr. Tiemey himself 
 was a walking encyclopedia of information re- 
 garding these battered gladiators — a sort of a 
 Who "Whipped Who in Point Eichmond. 
 
 He could trace a champion at any weight to 
 his obscure beginnings and brighten his history 
 with anecdote and personal reminiscence. He 
 had an uncanny faculty for picking winners and 
 comers, and to leave it to Tiemey was to get the 
 last word on anything connected with the ring 
 or its followers. 
 
 It was Tiemey who pulled Young Kilroy off 
 [147] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 the brake-beams and started him onward and 
 upward; it was Tierney who took one look at 
 the loudly heralded unbeaten Australian cham- 
 pion and mortgaged his property to bet against 
 him, thereby cashing in handsomely at odds of 
 two for one ; it was Tierney who three days be^ 
 fore the McOloskey-0 'Shay fiasco advised his 
 friends not to back either man, and chuckled as- 
 tutely when all bets were called off at the ring- 
 side. Because of these things, and many more, 
 people listened when Tierney talked. They said 
 he "knew something," and if there were times 
 when he kept this knowledge to himself, turn- 
 ing it to financial account, they credited him 
 with wisdom. Fattening a bank balance is no 
 sin in any community. 
 
 The swinging door opened and two men en- 
 tered. The first was small and compact, with 
 the alert air of a fox terrier, and he wore a 
 checkered suit of violent pattern. The second 
 was tall and solemn and quietly dressed. Both 
 hailed Tierney in familiar fashion. 
 
 "Well, how's the ole burglar?" said the small 
 man. "Long time I no see you!" 
 
 "Patrick," said the other, "I greet you!" 
 
 " 'Lo, Cricket! 'Lo, Deacon !" grinned Tier- 
 ney, extending a freckled paw across the bar, 
 "What's new on the other side of the Bay?" 
 
 "Not a thing!" answered the newcomer ad- 
 dressed as Cricket, "Didn't see you at the 
 fight last Tuesday night, Tierney." 
 
 "A fat chance!" said the proprietor, setting 
 out the bottles. "A fine, fat chance ! Catch me 
 [148] 
 
NO BUSINESS 
 
 layin' off to watch Hogan take a nap. HoganI 
 And him with a nose that shouts out loud that 
 his name is Isidore Mandelbaum! He quit, 
 didn't he?" 
 
 "He did that little thing," replied the Deacon 
 gravely. "His friends say a right hook on the 
 jaw sent him bye-bye, but I know better. He got 
 up as soon as the referee stopped counting." 
 
 "Wasn't hurt a bit," supplemented the 
 Cricket. 
 
 "He's a puzzle to me," continued the Dea- 
 con. "Week before last he went all round 
 Young McGraw like a cooper round a barrel. 
 On the form he showed that night he could have 
 whipped a world's champion. Last Tuesday 
 night he quit to a dub. I can't figure him at 
 all." 
 
 "I can!" Tierney slapped his hand on the 
 bar. "He ain't worth two whoops in— Peta- 
 luma!" 
 
 "He's fast," murmured the Cricket. 
 
 "And clever as they make 'em." This from 
 the Deacon. 
 
 "And he can hit with both hands — ^hit hard 
 too." Tierney took up the thread. "He's got 
 everything a fighter ought to have — everything 
 but the heart and the stomach. He'll never 
 fight for the pure love of fightin', understan'd 
 me? Put an Irish heart in him, make him train 
 a little bit now and then, an' you'd have a cham- 
 pion — ^no less." 
 
 "He handed that big squarehead from the 
 [149] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 revenue cutter an awful trimming," said the 
 Cricket. 
 
 "An' why? Because he knew the sailor 
 was too slow to hit him with a buggy whip! 
 Put a man in front of him that he knows he can 
 lick, an' Isidore is a demon. Give him a tough 
 boy that he ain't sure about — one that'll rough 
 it with him an' step on his feet in the clinches 
 an' shove him round the ring — an' pretty soon 
 you'll see him pickin' out a soft spot to fall on. 
 Oh, I know him like a book ! The kick of a mule 
 in either hand, but the heart of a cottontail rab- 
 bit! Not worth that!" And Tierney snapped 
 his fingers contemptuously. 
 
 "If you could only find a way to make him 
 fight, eh ? " This was the Deacon 's contribution. 
 
 The Cricket snarled. "You can't make that 
 fellow do anything ! The only part of the fight- 
 ing game that he likes is the split-up in the box- 
 office. When he works on a percentage of the 
 house you can see him counting the gallery be- 
 tween rounds and figuring how much is coming 
 to him. And he never misses it very far 
 either." 
 
 "Nevertheless and notwithstanding," argued 
 the Deacon, "he can fight if he wants to." 
 
 "That's the poiat!" cried Tierney. "He 
 ain't wantin' to." 
 
 " 'A bird that can sing and won't sing ought 
 to be made to sing,' " quoted the Deacon. 
 
 "He ought to be shot!" growled the Cricket. 
 
 "Our little friend here," explained the Dear 
 [150] 
 
NO BUSINESS 
 
 con, "but a couple of centuries on Isidore last 
 Tuesday night. The memory lingers." 
 
 "You know it does!" burst out the Cricket. 
 "I'd like to be down to weight again and take 
 it out of his hide!" 
 
 Patrick Tiemey made a clucking noise with 
 his tongue and slid the cloth over the bar a few 
 times before he spoke. Then: "You can't lick 
 him yourself," said he, "but you might get him 
 licked good and plenty." 
 
 "How?" demanded the Cricket eagerly. 
 
 Tiemey glanced toward the door and lowered 
 his voice. 
 
 "I've got a lad here, sort of under cover. I 
 was figurin' on springin' him pretty soon. He's 
 the roughest two-handed mauler you ever saw. 
 Name's Callahan, an' he'd rather fight than eat. 
 He'd give Isidore an awful cleanin'." 
 
 "Yes, if he'd stay and take it!" 
 
 Tiemey emitted a dry chuckle. 
 
 "Leave that to me," said he. "Tell Isidore 
 you've got a sucker for him an' he won't train 
 a minute. Make the cut seventy-five-twenty- 
 five, an' Isidore '11 stick round quite a while — ' 
 for the long end." 
 
 "But how good is this Callahan?" asked the 
 Cricket. 
 
 "Grood enough to make you open your lamps, 
 my son. Come over to-morrow afternoon an' 
 I'll have him put on the gloves with some of the 
 gang. If you don't say he's the roughest wal- 
 loper in seven counties, the joint is yours, cash 
 register an' all!" 
 
 [151] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 ' ' Fair enougli ! ' ' said the Cricket. 
 
 "It listens well," said the Deacon, nodding 
 gravely. ' ' Patrick, another small libation upon 
 the altar of friendship and we're on our way!" 
 
 Tierney stared at the swinging door until it 
 ceased to vibrate behind his guests. 
 
 "A bird that can sing and won't sing ought to 
 be made to sing," he mused. "An' that's true. 
 This bird knows all the notes, but is there a way 
 to make him like music, I wonder?" 
 
 n 
 
 Isidore Mandelbaum did not fight because he 
 loved fighting. A stiff jab upon his prominent 
 nose had no charms for him ; a well-timed hook 
 to the point of the chin roused in him no wild 
 enthusiasm for the conflict. Isidore was a glad- 
 iator for revenue only. Tl^p jingle of the shek- 
 els in the box-office made a strong appeal to his 
 nature ; the soft rustle of currency, was soothing 
 to his soul. Propose an engagement to the aver- 
 age boxer of Isidore's caliber, and the first ques- 
 tion would never vary: "Who with?" Pro- 
 pose one to Mandelbaum, and he would ask: 
 "How much?" 
 
 Isidore, acting as his own manager for eco- 
 nomical reasons, preferred to battle for a flat 
 sum — so much in the hand, win, lose or draw, 
 before he entered the ring. If he felt he could 
 win without trouble or danger, well and good. 
 If the evening's entertainment was not to his 
 liking Isidore would stumble into an easy swing, 
 
 [152] 
 
NO BUSINESS 
 
 stop the glove with his jaw and remain upon the 
 floor until the referee signaled ** Cease firing.'*" 
 For this inglorious trait he was called a quitter, 
 and his intimates often remonstrated with him 
 for what they were pleased to term his lack of 
 gameness. 
 
 "Gameness is good — ^when it gets you some- 
 thing," Isidore would argue. "For a big long- 
 end I can be as game as anybody, but on a win, 
 lose or draw proposition it ain't worth while. 
 Why should I get my face knocked off me when 
 all I get is just so much?" 
 
 "But every time you quit it goes as a knock- 
 out on your record ! ' ' 
 
 "The only record I keep," Isidore would re- 
 ply calmly, " is a bank book. Those knockouts 
 are in there, too, but they don't show." 
 
 "You'll never get to be a champion if you 
 let all these dubs lick you." 
 
 Isidore had a counter for that lead. 
 
 "A champion has to cut his money in two 
 with some bum of a manager. In the end he 
 ain't got anything. Small profits and quick re- 
 turns is better." 
 
 So, dead alike to ambition and shame, Isidore 
 Mandelbaum went his devious way, fighting like 
 a world's champion one week and like an inebri- 
 ated apple-woman the next. It was all the same 
 to Isidore. He was, as he often said, a business 
 man in a business that was no business. 
 
 This is why he was deeply interested in a 
 proposition submitted by Cricket Cassidy, a 
 former lightweight of great renown, but now 
 [153] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 doing the best he could, who met Isidore by 
 carefully arranged accident one evening. 
 
 "Well, and how's Kid Hogan and all the 
 other Hogans ? ' ' asked the Cricket. 
 
 Isidore regarded the Cricket with a shrewd, 
 beady eye, but read nothing more than cheery 
 good nature in Cassidy's countenance. 
 
 "All right, I guess," said Isidore. 
 
 "How's business?" 
 
 "Business is bad," admitted Isidore. "Eot- 
 tcn bad. You saw that fight last week? Here I 
 am winning all by myself and making a chop- 
 ping block out of this Swede — and then I come 
 to in my corner with the smelling salts under 
 my nose." 
 
 "Tough luck!" said the Cricket. "He's a 
 dangerous guy, that Swanson. Always got a 
 kick left in him." 
 
 "Like a government mule!" agreed Isidore 
 fervently. ' ' And, would you believe it, they say 
 I quit!" 
 
 Cricket was not one of Isidore's intimates, 
 and to the public at large Kid Hogan did not tell 
 all his business, holding that to be bad business. 
 Cassidy, who had seen the battle under discus- 
 sion, and had watched Isidore bob up at the 
 count of ten and walk steadily to his comer 
 without so much as a tremor of the knees, 
 clucked sympathetically. 
 
 "You don't say!" 
 
 "But I do say! And for that," wailed Isi- 
 dore — "for that they have canceled two dates 
 [154] 
 
NO BUSINESS 
 
 on me. I suppose I should stay in there and be 
 knocked dead! Business is bad, sure." 
 
 "I think I know where you can pick up some 
 soft money." 
 
 Isidore was on his guard at once. 
 
 "I don't split with anybody!" said he quids- 
 ly. "It ain't business, and why should I when 
 I make my own matches and do my own manag- 
 ing? No split!" 
 
 The Cricket laughed. 
 
 "Forget it! I'm not looking for anything. 
 I thought I could put something in your way, 
 that's all, but if " 
 
 "Well," said Isidore cautiously, "I can al- 
 ways listen." 
 
 "All right, listen to this : Over at Point Rich- 
 mond they've got a roughneck named Callahan. 
 The railroad men think he's a wonder because 
 he's won a couple of bar-room brawls. I heard 
 about him and went to see Tierney. You know 
 Tiemey?" 
 
 "Everybody knows Tiemey," said Isidore 
 impatiently. "Go on." 
 
 "Well, Tiemey says Callahan is a false 
 alarm, and that the first fairly good boy he 
 meets will lick him in a round. Tiemey says 
 he's muscle-bound and can't get out of his own 
 way. Tiemey thinks that Young Morrissey 
 could put Callahan away in jigtime." 
 
 "Young Morrissey!" sneered Isidore. 
 "Didn't I lick him three times?" 
 
 "Of course, but don't you see what a cinch 
 that makes it for you?" argued the Cricket. 
 [155] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 "Tiemey says he would rather have you, on 
 account of your punch. Now you write Tier- 
 ney and make this match — he's got a piece of 
 the fight club over there — and you demand a 
 percentage basis. Make it seventy-five and 
 twenty-five, or eighty-twenty. It'll be just the 
 same as finding it, and " 
 
 "Say, wait a minute!" Isidore was a busi- 
 ness man, with all a business man's suspicions. 
 "Where do you come in on this and what do 
 you get out of it?" 
 
 "Bonehead!" cried the Cricket. "The bet- 
 ting, of course. What else ? The railroad men 
 and the town sports will bet their shirts on Cal- 
 lahan. Me and Tiemey will clean up all the 
 loose dough in town!" 
 
 "And Tierney will bet on me?" demanded 
 Isidore. 
 
 "Sure he will! He says Callahan won't lay a 
 glove on you — ^too slow and telegraphs every- 
 thing. Tierney says it will be the softest money 
 that ever went hunting a home. You might 
 even bet some yourself. ' ' 
 
 "I never bet," said Isidore firmly. 
 
 "Well, think it over. Tiemey is already try- 
 ing to get in touch with Young Morrissey. Of 
 course he won't be such a safe betting proposi- 
 tion as you, but " 
 
 " I '11 write him to-night I ' ' said Isidore. * ' You 
 — ^you're sure you don't want anything, eh?" 
 
 "Not a thing but the betting privilege!" 
 laughed the Cricket. "Say, you don't think 
 anybody in the world is on the level, do you ! ' ' 
 [156] 
 
NO BUSINESS 
 
 "In this business — ^no," answered Isidore 
 Mandelbaum, simply and truthfully. * ' They got 
 to show me." 
 
 "That's right, kid," agreed the Cricket. 
 "Take no chances." 
 
 "Just Pat Tiemey, Point Eichmond — that'll 
 get him, will it?" asked Isidore. 
 
 ' ' Care of the Golden Gate Saloon. Yes. " 
 
 "Much obliged," said Isidore. "I'd do as 
 much for you." 
 
 "I'U bet you would!" said the Cricket heart- 
 
 iiy. 
 
 m 
 
 Once more Patrick Tiemey was alone with his 
 art gallery and engaged in the thoughtful occu- 
 pation of polishing the bar with a damp rag. 
 To him came the Deacon, as solemn as usual, 
 but with a faint flicker in his eye. 
 
 "Patrick," said he, "I hope I see you well." 
 
 "You do if your eyesight ain't failin'," an- 
 swered the proprietor, hospitably reaching for 
 a bottle. 
 
 "If you insist," murmured the Deacon, help- 
 ing himself sparingly. He lifted his glass. 
 
 "Here's success to crime!" said he. 
 
 "Success!" echoed Tierney. "And how's it 
 going?" 
 
 "Great! Immense!" The Deacon coughed 
 noisily as he set down the glass. "Patrick, a 
 gift horse is a sacred animal and I always did 
 like cooking whisky, but what do you make that 
 stuff of ? Fusel oil or just plain vitriol? Wow I 
 
 [157] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 I feel like a new man — ^purified by fire, as it 
 were ! ' ' 
 
 "A-ah, where do you get that?" grumbled 
 Tierney. "That's the reg'lar bar whisky." 
 
 "I have not the slightest doubt of it. Syn- 
 thetic hooch, made of something almost as good. 
 Guaranteed to remove corns, warts, wens or 
 bunions, as well as the lining of the human stom- 
 ach! And that's not all that ails it either!" 
 
 "Every man to his own taste," said Tierney 
 suUenly. " They like it over here. What's the 
 news?" 
 
 "Briefly, and in words of one syllable," said 
 the Deacon, "the tip got round town that Isi- 
 dore was framed up for a benefit with an in- 
 ferior person named Callahan. The impression 
 prevailed that Isidore could not lose — ^wouldn't 
 be allowed to lose. In short, a lead pipe. You 
 know how it is. Pick three men, swear 'em to 
 secrecy, pledge their sacred words of honor 
 that it goes no farther, and all San Francisco is 
 wise by night. The same end might be served 
 by hiring the front page of a morning paper, but 
 our method was cheaper. We picked the right 
 men to tell, Patrick." 
 
 "Sure. And then?" 
 
 ' ' Then the Mandelbaum money began to make 
 its appearance in the pool rooms. It came in 
 bunches, bundles., bales. Never have I seen it 
 respond more nobly. How these surethingers 
 do climb aboard when they think they've got a 
 oinch, eh! All in the world that they want is 
 onoi hundred per cent the best of it. Give 'em 
 [158] 
 
NO BUSINESS 
 
 that much, of an edge and they'll bet you until 
 the cows come home. We could have placed a 
 lot more." 
 
 "Could you now?" said Tierney. "Well, 
 weU!" 
 
 "How's Callahan?" 
 
 "Trained to the minute. In the pink o' con- 
 dition, as the sportia' reporters say, though 
 pink is no color for a fightin' man." 
 
 "And confident of victory, eh? You know 
 th.ey always say that too." 
 
 * ' Confident is no name for it, Deacon, no name 
 for it. He was tellin' me last night what he's 
 goin' to buy with the long end." 
 
 The Deacon nodded approvingly. 
 
 "That's the spirit! Our friend Isidore will 
 be pained, not to say shocked and grieved. He 
 hasn't trained a lick for Callahan." 
 
 "TeU me now," said Tierney, "did he ever 
 train in his whole life ? If so, they kept word of 
 it from me." 
 
 "His notion of vigorous training would be to 
 run around the block once after a hearty meal," 
 said the Deacon. "Tell your boy to rough it 
 with him from the start, haul him all over the 
 ring, lay on him in the clinches — anything to get 
 him tired. Then when he begins to puff — ^bang ! 
 bang! in the pantry, and Isidore will fold up 
 like a wet towel." 
 
 "I'll do that," said Tierney. 
 
 Calm and untroubled by any hint of impend- 
 ing disaster Isidore Mandelbaum came to the 
 
 [159] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 slaughter. He brought with him — ^no, for they 
 paid their own way — ^two more or less faithful 
 retainers, Mush McManus and Gopher Galle- 
 gher, bom respectively Marcus Cohn and Meyer 
 Goldstone. With characteristic caution Isidore 
 timed his arrival with the opening of the doors 
 of the pavilion, for he had agreed to a percent- 
 age basis and was interested in the paid admis- 
 sions. He took his stand at the main entrance, 
 where he assisted the ticket-taker to handle the 
 reseires, and also kept him from passing in his 
 friends for nothing. Marcus and Meyer per- 
 formed a like office at the gallery door. 
 
 When the time came for him to dress for the 
 ring Isidore called Meyer Goldstone to the main 
 entrance and left him there on guard. 
 
 "Aw, w'at's t' matter witcha?" snarled the 
 ticket-taker. " T ' house is full, ain 't it ?' ' 
 
 ' ' Sure I ' ' said Isidore cheerfully. * ' But there 
 might be some standing room left. Keep your 
 lamps on this bird, Meyer." So saying, Isidore 
 picked up his suitcase and departed for the 
 dressing room. 
 
 Most boxers require more valeting than a 
 prince of royal blood, but attendants cost mon- 
 ey, and Isidore would pay no man to lace his 
 shoes and help him on with his trunks. He 
 dressed without assistance and sat down on the 
 rubbing table to wait the call. The last prelim- 
 inary bout was under way, and Isidore knew he 
 would not have long to wait. As he sat there, 
 crossing and uncrossing his bare legs, unseeing 
 eyes fixed on the wall in front of him, was he, 
 [160] 
 
NO BUSINESS 
 
 perhaps, thinking of his uiiknowii opponent, 
 wondering what he was like, speculating on the 
 power of his punch? Ah, no. 
 
 "The house," thought Isidore, "will run 
 twelve hundred. Sixty per cent to the manage- 
 ment — the robbers I Forty for us to split. Four 
 times two is eight, four times one is four. Four 
 hundred and eighty dollars, and seventy-five 
 per cent of that again makes — ^yep ! three hun- 
 dred and sixty." And his smile was the smile 
 of a young man without a worry in the world. 
 
 Suddenly the door opened with a crash and 
 a large man stood framed in the aperture — a 
 large, wide man with freckles, a sandy mus- 
 tache and a gray sombrero yanked down over 
 steely blue eyes. Isidore looked up, startled, 
 and his first impression was an unpleasant one ; 
 he knew instinctively that he was not going to 
 care for this person. The man hesitated an in- 
 stant, then he stepped inside and closed the door 
 behind him. 
 
 "A couple or three words with you, young 
 feller!" said he gruffly. 
 
 "You got a nerve, busting in like this," Isi- 
 dore began, but the words died away. The big 
 man's coat was unbuttoned, and as he bent for- 
 ward it swung away from his body far enough 
 to show a silver star upon his vest. The star 
 bore the words "Deputy Sheriff." "I — ^what 
 can I do for you?" asked Isidore politely. "I 
 ain't done nothing, I assure you. I'm a 
 stranger here, and " 
 
 [161] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 "It's what you're going to do to-night that 
 counts." 
 
 ' ' To-night r ' stammered Isidore. The man's 
 words were ominous,; his manner positively 
 threatening. 
 
 "Don't stall. You got me the first time. You 
 fought Bill Ladd over here last April, didn't 
 you?" 
 
 "Well?" Isidore's mouth was dry. 
 
 "And you quit like a dawg, didn't you?" 
 
 "Mister," said Isidore earnestly, "that's all 
 a mistake. They told you wrong. I never quit 
 in my " 
 
 The large man laughed coarsely. 
 
 "Tell that to the marines!" said he. 
 
 ' ' But, mister ' ' 
 
 "Shut up till I get done! You could have 
 won that fight in a walk, but you laid down after 
 you had Bill Ladd licked — ^laid down for one 
 measly little poke on the jaw. Them that bet on 
 you didn't get a run for their money. The 
 sheriff of this county was one of 'em, sonny, 
 and he hasn't forgot it. He framed up a little 
 surprise party for you. You're going to fight 
 on the square to-night, understand? No stall- 
 ing and no quitting. If you don't win you'd 
 better be knocked out so cold that it'll take a 
 doctor an hour to bring you to — and the doc- 
 tor '11 be at the ringside too. Lose this fight, 
 and you'll go to jail for three months. Quit, 
 and you'll be with us for six months. Sahef" 
 
 "But — ^but you can't " The words came 
 
 in a series of dry croaks. 
 
 [162] 
 
NO BUSINESS 
 
 "Oh, yes, I can! Obtaining money under 
 false pretenses. Conspiracy to defraud tlie 
 public." The man rolled these formidable 
 phrases under his tongue with too evident rel- 
 ish, and there was a certain grim assurance in 
 his manner that strangled argument. "Don't 
 you tell me what can't be done. You know what 
 happened to Kid Banks, don 't you ? Six months 
 on the rock pUe, making little ones out of big 
 ones. His lawyers cost him a thousand, and 
 then couldn't do anything for him. He thought 
 he could pull off a fake fight in this county. The 
 sheriff is a bad hombre. When he goes after a 
 crook he gets him good." The large man felt 
 in his pocket and drew out two shining steel cir- 
 clets, which jingled as he handled them. "You 
 
 better win to-night, sonny, or " The sharp 
 
 click of the handcuffs completed the threat. 
 
 Isidore moistened his lips with his tongue. 
 
 "Aud— if I win, what?" 
 
 The big man grinned. 
 
 "All off. Bygones will be bygones. Nothing 
 doing. But if you lose " 
 
 "Mister," said Isidore in a husky whisper, 
 "I give you my paralyzed word of honor I never 
 had the intentions of losing this fight!" 
 * Marcus and Meyer entered the dressing room 
 together. "CallaJiau is iu the ring already," 
 said Marcus. "Where's the bucket aud 
 things?" 
 
 The large man turned at the door and looked 
 at Mandelbaum. 
 
 "I'll be at the ringside," said he with sig- 
 [163] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 nificance. "Close to your comer." Then he 
 went away. 
 
 "Who was that big stiff?" asked Meyer. 
 "Has he got a bet on this fight, or something?" 
 
 ' ' No, ' ' said Isidore briefly and unhappily. * ' I 
 have." 
 
 "How much?" demanded Marcus, suddenly; 
 interested. 
 
 ' ' Six months ! ' ' said Isidore. 
 
 IV 
 
 Isidore sat in his corner and stared at his op- 
 ponent. For the first time a new element had 
 entered his calculations. Callahan looked hard 
 as pig iron. He also had the appearance of phys- 
 ical fitness, and none of the nervousness to be 
 expected in a novice making his initial appear- 
 ance against a seasoned gladiator. He chatted 
 and laughed with his seconds as they laced his 
 gloves, and not once did he so much as glance 
 at the opposite corner. These things were not 
 lost on Isidore. 
 
 "This guy," said he with conviction, "has 
 been there before. He ain't worried or any- 
 thing. Maybe I should have trained for him. ' ' 
 
 * ' Ho ! ' ' said Marcus. * ' You can lick all these 
 near-fighters without no more than a clean 
 shave!" It is the duty of a second to hearten 
 his principal. Isidore glanced along the ropes, 
 and there sure enough was the large man, chat- 
 ting with a companion who wore a neat Van- 
 dyke beard and spectacles. 
 [164] 
 
NO BUSINESS 
 
 "The doctor I" thought Isidore. Then bit- 
 terly: "They ain't leaving me a single out I" 
 
 The principals were presented to the audi- 
 ence, and Callahan received a tremendous ova- 
 tion, to which he responded by bobbing his bul- 
 let head as he swaggered back to his comer. Isi- 
 dore was hooted unmercifully, his usual recep- 
 tion when fighting away from home. Several 
 aspiring youths shambled into the ring and 
 were introduced by the Master of Ceremonies 
 as desiring to "meet the winner," after which 
 they shook hands formally with Callahan and 
 Mandelbaum. An impatient uproar beat down 
 from the gallery : 
 
 "Git to business!" 
 
 "Bring on the raw meat!" 
 
 * ' Hey, Callahan ! You know ! ' ' 
 
 The Master of Ceremonies waved his pudgy 
 arms over his head. 
 
 "Order, please!" he bellowed. "Must have 
 order!" 
 
 A bull-necked man shed coat, vest, collar and 
 tie, rolled up his sleeves and clambered heavily 
 through the ropes. It was Butch 'Connor, the 
 referee. He strode to the middle of the ring 
 and beckoned the fighters to him. Callahan 
 approached, grinning cheerfully. Isidore's 
 face wore a serious expression. He had for- 
 gotten the three hundred and sixty dollars. 
 
 "Cheer up!" bantered Callahan. "The 
 worst is yet to come!" 
 
 "That's for you to find out!" snapped Isi- 
 dore venomously. 
 
 [165] 
 
T4KING THE COUNT 
 
 "The proper spirit!" commented Butch. 
 "Listen now!" 
 
 He droned through the familiar instructions, 
 gave the customary warnings, and the fighters 
 nodded and returned to their comers. Isidore, 
 resting one glove lightly on the topmost rope, 
 heard the Master of Ceremonies bawling the an- 
 nouncement — ^heard, but took no heed. Isidore 
 was looking at the big sandy man. The sandy 
 man was showing something to his bearded 
 friend — something which he held cupped in both 
 hands. Through his fingers Isidore caught the 
 glint of bright metal. Both were laughing. 
 
 "Let 'er go!" howled the Master of Cere- 
 monies. 
 
 "Bong!" said the bell. 
 
 Callahan shot out of his corner as if released 
 by a giant spring. He rushed at Isidore, aimed 
 a savage right uppercut for the chin, missed by 
 a matter of inches and floundered into a clinch, 
 managing to step on Isidore's feet as he did so. 
 The sheer force of his attack swept Isidore 
 backward toward his own comer. 
 
 "Aw, don't fall all over the ring that way!" 
 he complained, wriggling free and escaping into 
 open territory. ' ' Make a nice clean fight of it ! " 
 
 "I'll clean you!" snarled Callahan, and 
 rushed again. Isidore side-stepped neatly, and 
 peppered him with stinging left jabs, but for all 
 visible effect he might have been prodding a 
 brick wall. Callahan bore in close, bent on 
 roughing it, and again Isidore jabbed and side- 
 [166] 
 
NO BUSINESS 
 
 stepped. Immediately a shrill voice was up- 
 lifted at tlie ringside : 
 
 ' ' Stay with him, Callahan ! Wear him out ! ' ' 
 
 Isidore turned his head slightly and his as- 
 tonished gaze fell upon Cricket Cassidy's face, 
 purple with enthusiasm and vocal exertion. 
 And the Cricket had said that Callahan was 
 easy, asking nothing for himself but the betting 
 privilege ! Would he bet on one man and cheer 
 for another? Never. Of a sudden Isidore 
 Mandelbaum felt very sick indeed, and Callahan 
 was trying to make him sicker, in the same 
 place. A glove thudded below Isidore's float- 
 ing ribs into the unarmored region known as 
 the pit of the stomach. 
 
 ' ' Thatta boy ! " howled the Cricket. ' ' Down- 
 stairs!" 
 
 There was no time to meditate upon this bit of 
 treachery or what it might portend. Isidore 
 set himself solidly upon his large flat feet and 
 began to fight. Other questions, and they 
 swirled in his brain, must wait ; Callahan would 
 not. So the round ended in a fierce give-and- 
 take in the middle of the ring. Isidore, because 
 of his cleverness at evading punishment, had a 
 shade the better of it, and the crowd whooped 
 joyously at the bell. 
 
 "Hey! Don't lose your head an' try to out- 
 slug this guy!" cautioned Meyer Goldstone. 
 * ' Eough stuff — that 's his dish ! Box him, Izzy, 
 box him!" 
 
 "I been framed," grunted Isidore. "They 
 jobbed nie!" 
 
 [167] 
 
TAKING THE COTJNT 
 
 "Who jobbed you?" asked Marcus Cohn, 
 busy with a towel. 
 
 "Everybody!" said Isidore. 
 
 "Well, don't lose your head," warned Meyer. 
 "Box him. Don't slug." 
 
 But Callahan would not box. He insisted on 
 fighting with both hands at all times. The 
 pretty art of feinting for openings interested 
 him not. When Isidore sought to clinch he was 
 jarred loose by a terrific tattoo upon his mid- 
 section. This was hardly beneficial. A young 
 man in perfect condition may weather such an 
 attack for a time, but Isidore, alas ! was not in 
 perfect condition. His habits were exemplary, 
 but they did not include the long runs on the 
 road which make for endurance or the physical 
 exercises that strengthen the abdominal mus- 
 cles. Plainly there were only two ways to stop 
 the epigastrial bombardment: the first was to 
 run; the second, to fight Callahan away from 
 close quarters. Isidore remembered the large 
 sandy man and chose the latter. 
 
 The last minute of the second round was a 
 thrilling session for the spectators, but this time 
 the honors were with Ireland. Isidore managed 
 to plant two right hooks on Callalian's left eye, 
 almost closing it, but just before the bell rang 
 Callahan retaliated with a whizzing upperout 
 that sent Isidore reeling, and his legs played him 
 queer tricks as he walked to his comer. His 
 brain was whirling, but he saw one thing 
 clearly : the sandy man was scowling at h\m and 
 fingering something in his coat pocket. 
 [168] 
 
NO BUSINESS 
 
 "Didn't see that one!" gasped Isidore, while 
 Marcus and Meyer plied towel and ice water 
 desperately. "Tough, ain't he?" 
 
 In the other comer Callahan regarded his 
 handlers with a lopsided smUe. 
 
 "Who d' hell told me this boy couldn't hit?" 
 he mumbled thickly. "A coupla inches lower 
 down, an' fa-a-re-thee-well. He near tore me 
 roof off!" 
 
 It was ia the third round that Isidore ducked 
 into an uppercut, blocking it with his nose. To 
 his other troubles was added acute pain. After 
 that it became a fight, sans art, sans science, 
 sams everything but the spirit that must have 
 moved the cave men to combat. Callahan and 
 Mandelbaum, two men as unlike as unlike can 
 be, met iu the middle of the ring and reverted 
 to first principles, but instead of clubs and stone 
 hatchets they, used their fists, while the specta- 
 tors howled as their shaggy ancestors must 
 have howled at the sight of human blood. At 
 such a time one sees how easily the veneer of 
 civilization peels off the soul of man. 
 
 Callahan forgot everything but the dark, 
 sneering face iu front of him. Isidore, dazed 
 and shaken, but of superior intelligence, remem- 
 bered but one thing — the sandy man with the 
 handcuffs. 
 
 At long intervals each was iu his corner, gasp- 
 ing, incoherent, deaf alike to entreaty and ad- 
 vice. It was a real fight of the sort seldom 
 seen between professionals these days, and for 
 the time the crowd forgot to be partisan. If 
 
 [169] 
 
TAKING THE COtTNT 
 
 the boys in the gallery did not love Isidore they 
 at least respected him. for what they called his 
 gameness. After each round they looked at 
 each other and said: 
 
 "Well, watta you t'ink of dat, hey?" 
 ' There came a time when darkness enveloped 
 Isidore and swallowed him up. One instant he 
 had been standing toe to toe with Callahan, 
 fighting like a fury ; the next he was falling, fall- 
 ing, falling through a bottomless black void. 
 After an eternity of oblivion the gloom lifted 
 slightly, and Isidore found himself huddled up 
 on his hands and knees, underneath the ropes, 
 staring at a red pool on the white canvas. As 
 from a great distance he heard a singsong voice 
 calling "Sis!" 
 
 Nauseated and dizzy, Isidore lifted his eyes 
 from the pool, and there below him, at less than 
 arm's length, was a large man with a sandy 
 mustache and steely blue eyes that glared up 
 at him from under the brim of a gray sombrero. 
 He seemed angry about something; vaguely Isi- 
 dore wondered why. 
 
 The man's lips moved; Isidore tried to catch 
 the message, but could not. 
 
 The distant voice chanted "Seven!" 
 
 In his benumbed brain an idea began to shape 
 itself: Isidore knew only that the large sandy 
 man was the key to a tremendous situation in 
 which his future was involved. But what was 
 it? Isidore shook his head, hoping that it would 
 clear ; the sandy man misunderstood the motion. 
 He thrust his closed fist out over the ring floor, 
 [170] 
 
NO BUSINESS 
 
 and as the fingers opened Isidore caught a 
 glimpse of silver. Money? No, a silver star. 
 The bright flash of the metal struck a beam 
 into his muddled brain; memory returned to 
 him. Six months in the county jail! A thou- 
 sand dollars, and the lawyers couldn't do any- 
 thing! 
 
 "Eight!" 
 
 "You know what you'll get if you quit!" 
 The sandy man was msiking a megaphone out 
 of his hands. 
 
 A dull roar filled the air. It was the gallery 
 celebrating in advance of Callahan's victory. 
 Callahan? Yes, he must be somewhere in the 
 vicinity. Isidore Mandelbaum, who had never 
 known the true meaning of gameness, heaved a 
 sigh that was also a groan and, turning himself 
 about, prepared to rise. He Ijalanced himself 
 on both hands, waiting, and as he waited the 
 last shred of mist cleared from his brain. 
 "Nine!"' 
 
 Half a second now. Isidore remembered 
 something he had heard about Bob Fitzsitnmons 
 in his fight with Corbett — ^no, not Corbett. It 
 was Hall, at New Orleans. Isidore came up 
 slowly, just as the referee's finger poised on the 
 final down stroke that would have marked the 
 end of the fight. His open hands dangled at 
 his sides. He reeled this way and that, his 
 right arm swaying at his hip. His eyes were 
 fixed in a glassy stare; his lower lip drooped 
 ludicrously. He was such a pitiable spectacle 
 that Callahan dropped his gloves to laugh. 
 
 [171] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 Seven minutes later Callahan became aware 
 of a strong smell of ammonia and opened his 
 eyes. All about him were stem faces and ac- 
 cusing eyes. 
 
 "Wha — ^wha's happened?" he muttered. 
 
 "What happened!" cried the man who held 
 the bottle of smelling salts. "You thought he 
 was out, but he was only stallin' to get your 
 guard down! He knocked you dead in the 
 eighth round — that's what happened!" 
 
 Patrick Tiemey sat in the back room of the 
 Golden Gate Saloon, alone. The San Francisco 
 contingent had departed, jubilant, save for a 
 small man in a checkered suit and a tall man 
 whose usually somber countenance wore an 
 added gloom. Point Eichmond had retired for 
 the night. 
 
 A creaking footfall broke the silence ; it was 
 that of a large sandy man trying to walk on 
 his toes. 
 
 "WeU, Pat," said he, "I've got to hand it 
 to you! It worked like a charm. Who would 
 have thought he was as game as that, eh?" 
 
 ' ' He had to be, " said Tiemey succinctly. He 
 drew out a thick roll of bills and counted off a 
 certain sum. 
 
 "You cleaned up, did you?" asked the large 
 man. 
 
 Tiemey nodded. 
 
 ' ' Here and across the Bay, ' ' said he. ' ' Most 
 [172] 
 
NO BUSINESS 
 
 of it over there though. ' ' He handed some bills 
 to the sandy man, who counted them carefully, 
 for he knew Tiemey. Then he tucked them in 
 one vest pocket, while from the other he drew a 
 small silver star and from his coat a pair of 
 handcuffs. 
 
 ' ' Guess I won't have any more use for these," 
 said he. 
 
 "No," said Tiemey, recovering his property. 
 After a time he laughed silently, rocking back 
 and forth in his chair. 
 
 "The bird didn't like music any too well," 
 he chuckled, "but between us we found a way to 
 make him sing the notes I" 
 
 [173] 
 
OUT OF HIS CLASS 
 
 THE young man upon whom Nature has 
 bestowed barely enough forehead to keep 
 his hair out of his eyes should shun high- 
 brow society and all forms of art. The game 
 is hopelessly beyond him, the cards are 
 ' ' stacked, ' ' and he loses even when he wins. In 
 proof of this statement, we respectfully refer 
 the reader to the following passages from the 
 life of the eminent Mr. Joseph 'Malley. 
 
 O'Malley was not always eminent, but owed 
 his rise in life to a jaw of chUled steel, a heart 
 that knew fear only by reputation, two mallet- 
 like fists, and the ability — as well as the inchna- 
 tion — to hit with them at any time and from any 
 position. Many have claimed credit for dis- 
 covering this wonderful fighting machine, but it 
 was the sporting editor of the "Daily Ava- 
 lanche" who set Joseph's youthful feet on the 
 road to fame and fortune. The sporting editor 
 did not realize it at the time, and therefore 
 deserves none of the credit he has been claim- 
 ing; he merely thought he was playing an ex- 
 tremely rough practical joke on an unsuspecting 
 tramp fighter. Seeing that he still poses in print 
 
 [174] 
 
OUT OP HIS CIASS 
 
 as 'Malley 's Columbus, it might be just as well 
 to tell tbe real truth about that discovery. 
 
 The hour was late, his copy was all in, and 
 the sporting editor of the "Avalanche" was 
 about to quit and call it a day when the narrow 
 chute leading to his seven by nine sanctum was 
 blocked by two figures. The first was that of 
 a bright-eyed but grubby little man in a stained 
 and shapeless suit of loud checks. The pattern 
 was thickly dotted with tray holes burned in the 
 cloth, and these established the status of the 
 visitor at once — a "blind-baggage tourist," a 
 traveller contributing nothing to the upkeep of 
 the right of way. His flat-brimmed brown 
 derby hat was smooth and shiay and reflected 
 the light like a polished shell. A dingy red 
 necktie, a rhinestone pia and a thirty-five-cent 
 cameo ring completed the picture. 
 
 Hovering in the wake of this shabby pilot was 
 a bullet-headed boy with a tremendous shock of 
 straw-colored hair, one cauliflower ear of amaz- 
 ing proportions, and a decided cast in his left 
 eye. His clothing was, if anythiag, more dis- 
 reputable than that of his companion — a cap, 
 a sweater, and a seven-doUar suit, and all had 
 seen hard wear under varying weather condi- 
 tions. 
 
 "Sportin' editor?" briskly asked the grubby 
 one, stepping forward. 
 
 "Yes," answered the newspaper man, eying 
 his callers with a chilliag lack of interest. 
 
 "Pleased to meet you!" exclaimed he of the 
 loud checks, wringing the sporting editor's limp 
 
 [175] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 hand. "My name's Arthur — Lew Arthur — an' 
 I'm managin' this boy here. Shake hands, 
 Joe!" 
 
 The bullet-headed youth bashfully offered a 
 dirty paw and retreated to a position at his 
 manager's flank. 
 
 "We're lookin' for a crack at soma of these 
 lightweights, Joe and me," cheerfully con- 
 tinued the spokesman. "We don't bar nobody. 
 First come, first served; 'at's us. To look at 
 him, you wouldn't think he's the fightin'est lit- 
 tle fool 'at ever pulled on a glove, but he is, pal, 
 he is ! Yes, sir, mingle is his middle name ' ' 
 
 "What's the rest of his name?" The sport- 
 ing editor 's tone and manner were not encour- 
 aging, but the grubby young man ignored them. 
 
 "O'Malley — Joe O'Malley, an' say, you ain't 
 got no idea what a devasticatin' bear cat he is 
 when he hears 'at bell ring ! He fights just be- 
 cause he loves it, pal; it's meat an' drink to 
 him, yes, an' tapioca puddin' too. Chuck him 
 in the ring wit' anybody — the tougher they come 
 the better he likes 'em — ^leave him there six, 
 ten, twenty rounds, an' I give you my paralyzed 
 word of honor, pal, it's just the same's sendin' 
 a hungry guy to a banquet! He eats it, Joe 
 does, an' he ain't never found nobody yet that 
 could make him back up. First time I seen him 
 step, I pegs him for a comin' champion o' the 
 world. 'At's why I hooked up wit' him as 
 
 "Yes, yes," said the sporting editor, glancing 
 at the devasticating bear cat, who met his eyes 
 [176] 
 
OUT OP HIS CLASS 
 
 ■with a sheepish grin and then looked suddenly 
 away in two directions at once, "but he hasn't 
 any record " 
 
 "No record!" ejaculated Mr, Arthur, with 
 well-feigned amazement. "Didn't we rock Kid 
 Swiftly to sleep in Gol'field? Didn't we knock 
 Young Dutchy dead wit ' one punch ? Didn 't we 
 git a draw wit Groniger in his own town? No 
 record! Why, pal, where you been all this 
 time?" 
 
 "Eight here, but I never heard of O'Malley 
 before you blew in and began three-sheeting 
 him all over the place. I never heard of the 
 boys that you say he's licked. I suppose you 
 want to get him a match — is that the idea?" 
 
 "Pal," said the little manager earnestly, 
 * 'you 're a mind reader — ^you ain't no sportin' 
 editor. I not only want to git him a match, but 
 I got to git him a match or we don't eat. Ain't 
 that so, Joe?" 
 
 The fighter grinned sheepishly and nodded. 
 
 The sporting editor also grinned, for an idea 
 had come his way — a practical joke in the mak- 
 ing, with 'Malley on the receiving end. 
 
 "How would you like to take a crack at 
 Dynamite Danny 'Brien? ' ' he asked. 
 
 "Anybody at all, pal!" cried the manager. 
 "As the Colonel says, dee-lighted! Hey, 
 Joe?" 
 
 "Uh, huh," assented O'Malley. 
 
 "Danny's a tough boy," said the sporting 
 editor. 
 
 [177] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 ' * Tough boys is right where we live I ' ' boasted 
 Arthur. 
 
 "He's been stopping all these pork-an'-bean- 
 ers in a round or two." 
 
 "Git Mm for us, pal, 'at's all we ask!" 
 
 "He hits like a mule kicking." 
 
 "So do we. You don't know this boy, pal. 
 He kin trade slams wit' any of 'em." 
 
 "Nobody has ever made O'Brien back up." 
 
 "I like to have 'em fetch it right to me," said 
 O'Malley suddenly, and as suddenly subsided. 
 
 " See ? " cried his manager. * ' What did I teU 
 you, hey? He jus' iovesit, Joe does! He don't 
 git no fun out o' fightin' 'less they fights him. 
 hard." 
 
 ' ' Then he '11 have a perfectly lovely time next 
 Friday night," said the sporting editor with a 
 trace of grimness. 
 
 "And you'll fix it with the club?" 
 
 "I'll telephone the promoter in the morning. 
 He's got an office in the Commonwealth Build- 
 ing — ^fifth floor. Better take your boy round 
 there at noon. No, never mind thanking me. " 
 
 The sporting editor watched the grubby little 
 manager herd his fighter down the passage and 
 into the elevator. "Another hobo with a meal 
 ticket," thought he. "Another tramp trying 
 to break into the game. Oh, well, there's only 
 one thing about a meal ticket: it's no good till 
 it's punched. And this one will get some 
 punching!" 
 
 Now, Danny O'Brien was a local product who 
 had fought himself out of material by reason of 
 [178J' . 
 
OUT OP HIS CLASS 
 
 the rouglmess with which he handled his oppo- 
 nents. Not quite good enough for the first flight, 
 he had devastated the second and third, and a 
 match with him had come to be regarded as a 
 round-trip ticket to dreamland. There was no 
 competition for the doubtful privilege of meet- 
 ing him under the shaded arc lights. He had 
 no science, no knowledge of boxing, and felt that 
 he needed none. He Used his left hand only to 
 create openings for his deadly right, which had 
 earned for him the name of Dynamite Danny. 
 He was more than pleased to meet the unknown 
 O'Malley in a six-round encounter, and came 
 to the fray confident of its conclusion — so confi- 
 dent that he had not annoyed himself with the 
 slight detail of training. Why train when all 
 his fights ended inside the three-round mark? 
 
 What happened to Dynamite Danny is a mat- 
 ter of history and also of accurate record. The 
 latter may be found in the vest-pocket annuals, 
 but not under the name of O'Brien. See 
 O'Malley. 
 
 When the bell sounded Dynamite Danny went 
 briskly to work, as was his wont, and just as 
 briskly there sprang to meet him a trim, flat- 
 muscled little thunderbolt under an immense 
 thatch of straw colored hair, ' ' Huh ! ' ' thought 
 Danny, who was accustomed to cautious oppo- 
 nents. "This guy don't know who I am — ^he 
 ain't afraid, nor nothing!" 
 
 O'Brien introduced himself by means of a 
 right hook aimed at the jaw. The blond un- 
 known ducked, suifering a glancing blow upon 
 
 [179] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 ihis cauliflower ear, countered with a stiff, dig- 
 ging jolt under the heart — and the battle was 
 on. And such a battle ! The irresistible force 
 had encountered the immovable obstacle, each 
 possessing elements of the other. Dynamite 
 Danny set his teeth and whaled away with his 
 deadly right; Joe O'Malley set his teeth and 
 met it — and a little bit more. The straw-colored 
 hair rocked and tossed under the brutal assault ; 
 O'Brien's mid section quivered under a re- 
 sponding tattoo. No ground was given and no 
 quarter asked; it was five rounds of savage 
 fighting crowded into one, and when the bell 
 struck the boys apart and sent them to their 
 corners the spectators leaped to their feet and 
 yelled themselves hoarse. The grubby little 
 manager, deftly plying a sponge, caught the 
 sporting editor's eye — and winked. 
 
 It was in the third round that Dynamite 
 Danny began to weaken. He had found a man 
 whom he could not hurt with his right hand — a 
 man who had been hurting him with both hands 
 and who seemed willing — ^yes, even anxious — • 
 to hurt him some more. The instant that the 
 sting went out of Danny's blows, O'Malley 
 swarmed all over him, beating down his waver- 
 ing defense with a shower of jolting hooks and 
 swings. 'Brien began to retreat. 
 
 "Oh, you bear cat!" shrilled the little man- 
 ager. "You devasticatin' bear cat! Rock him 
 to sleep! 'At 's the stuff !" 
 
 The round ended with O'Brien on the run, 
 striving to cover himself from a blinding storm 
 [180] 
 
OUT OP HIS CLASS 
 
 of punishment. The house was in a terrific 
 uproar, but 'Malley went cahnly to his comer, 
 not acknowledging his ovation by so much as a 
 grin. 
 
 "Watch his eye, you fool, and block some of 
 them punches ! * ' Thus 'Brien's chief adviser. 
 
 "But the sucker — don't hit where — ^he's look- 
 ing!" grunted Dynamite. 
 
 The battle ended early in the fourth round — 
 ended with the local terror doubled up on the 
 canvas and struggling to rise, but taking great 
 care not to struggle successfully. Dynamite 
 Danny knew when he had had enough, and in 
 addition he was ill in the region of his stomach. 
 
 "Great little fighter, that towhead!" said the 
 reporters. * * Who dug him up ? " 
 
 "I did," modestly replied the sporting editor 
 of the "Avalanche." "I liked his looks, and 
 asked the club to give him a tryout. Shouldn't 
 wonder if he amounted to something some day. 
 Let me have one peek at 'em, and I can tell, as 
 a general thing." 
 
 The sporting editor of the "Avalanche" has 
 told this story so often that he now believes it 
 himself. 
 
 II 
 
 Cranking the fihn rapidly, we next see Joseph 
 O 'Malley adorned with purple, fine linen, and 
 precious stones. But for the magnificent cauli- 
 flower ear we might have some difficulty in rec- 
 ognizing hitn as the same person, and if we 
 watch him long enough we shall surprise a look 
 
 [181] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 of blank amazement in that wandering left eye, 
 for there are times when 'Malley has tronjsle 
 in recognizing himself and is dazed by his sud- 
 den elevation to affluence. 
 
 We see also the little manager, grubby no 
 longer but otherwise unchanged, full of conver- 
 sation and supporting a diamond stud more 
 noticeable for its size than the limpid, water- 
 white purity of its color. 
 
 Our two friends have come up in the world, 
 and Joe 'Malley is a Celebrity now. His man- 
 ager has to remind him of the fact several times 
 a day. Having disposed of all competition, Joe 
 stands alone as challenger for the lightweight 
 championship, and while Carsey, the champion, 
 doubles and twists and endeavors to evade the 
 issue, O 'Malley is about to enjoy a brief vaca- 
 tion from the arena, 
 
 "Ten weeks in vaudeville at seven-fifty a 
 "week — oh, I'm a poor manager, eh? Yeh, rot- 
 ten. I don't know a thing about gittin' the 
 dough w'ile the gittin 's good!" Lew Arthur 
 set fire to a perfecto, hung his thumbs in the 
 armholes of his waistcoat, and beamed upon his 
 meal ticket. Joe grunted. It was not a grunt 
 of happiness. 
 
 "Aw, there you go again!" exclaimed Lew. 
 
 "Why not fight some of these guys?" vrhined 
 'Malley. ' ' There 's Kelley an ' Young Whalen 
 
 ' ' Dubs ! ' ' interrupted the manager. * * Bums ! 
 You couldn't git no thin' for meetin' 'em, an' 
 you'd only make yourself cheap. They's just 
 
 [182] 
 
OUT OP HIS CLASS 
 
 one match we want now, an' that's wit' Carsey 
 for the championship. He don't want to meet 
 us, but the public '11 make him. All we gotta do 
 is keep on challengin' an' yellin' murder — 
 Carsey 'U have to fight us some day. While 
 we're waitin', here's this vaudeville engage- 
 ment, an' pretty soft, 1 call it. Lemme talk, 
 will you? I'm the manager, ain't I? "Well! 
 The show business ain't half as bad as you 
 think. You don't have to do nothin' when you 
 git out there on the stage. We git the dough 
 for lettin' the yaps see you, 'at's all. An' 
 you'll have a nelegant time — ^lots of chickens 
 wit' the troupe." 
 
 ' ' Huh ! ' ' sneered 'Malley. ' ' Chickens ! ' ' 
 
 "Now, don't be turnin' up that busted beezer 
 of yours so proud an' haughty. You ain't no 
 prize beauty, but they ain't collyflower ears 
 enough in the world to pertect a guy that drags 
 down seven-fifty a week — ^less his manager's 
 cut. Some doll'll make a play for you, sure, 
 an' don't you fall too hard, Joe." 
 
 "Ah-h,quitkiddin'I" 
 
 ' ' You think it's a kid? All right, little Bright 
 Eyes, stick around and see !" 
 
 There were two "girl acts" with the show, 
 and some of the members of the Transatlantic 
 Beauty Chorus were frankly interested in 
 the seven-hundred-and-fifty-a-week recruit to 
 vaudeville — ^but not for long. The Devasticating 
 Bear Cat appeared twice a day, as per contract, 
 struggled through his fifteen minutes of bag 
 [183] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 punching, shadow boxing, and sparring, made 
 his nervous, jerky bows in response to the ap- 
 plause, and hurried, perspiring freely, to his 
 dressing room. He made no friends and 
 scraped no acquaintances. The Montressors 
 and De Veres and Le Clairs decided that he 
 wouldn't do, not with any amount of fixing. 
 
 "A scared little small-town hick, that's all he 
 is! I smiled at him this afternoon, like I'd 
 smile at anybody on the same bUl, and what do 
 you think? The poor fish blushed all over!" 
 
 "Solid ivory, but they say he can fight." 
 
 "Well, he ought to be able to do something! 
 His act is a joke!" 
 
 "And the billing says he gets fifteen hundred 
 a week for it. Of course, that's press-agent 
 bunk " 
 
 "No matter what it is, it's too much." 
 
 "Mme. Lorenze put up an awful squawk 
 about having to follow him on the bill." 
 
 "Well, can you blame her? Imagine trying 
 to put a vampire act across with a lot of low- 
 brows walking out on you! I guess you'd 
 holler too. The lowbrows only come to see him, 
 and when he's done that's the end of the show. 
 What do they care for the emotional stuff? Last 
 night poor old Lorenze died standing up. It 
 was terrible ! " 
 
 "She says she'll cancel her contract if they 
 don't change her." 
 
 The distinguished foreign artiste and Origi- 
 nal Vampire — if one believes the press agent 
 and forgets Delilah, Salome, and Cleopatra — 
 [184] 
 
OUT OP HIS CLASS 
 
 complained so bitterly that the house manager 
 called at O'Malley's dressing room. His very 
 entrance was apologetic. 
 "Say, Joe, would you do me a favor?" 
 "Maybe," was the laconic response. 
 "Would it be asking too much of you to 
 change places with Lorenze? A lot of people 
 come to see you and leave after your act is over 
 — ^they crab her sketch. She's all worked up 
 about it, Joe, and — ^well, you know how women 
 are." 
 "Sure," said the fighter. 
 "And you'll change with her?" 
 "Why not? Makes no difference to me." 
 Two minutes later a middle-aged female 
 whirlwind swept into O'Malley's dressing room 
 and all but fell on his neck. It was so grand 
 
 of him, so generous, so noble, so — so 
 
 "Cheese, lady, cheese!" stammered the 
 Devasticating Bear Cat. "Where do you get 
 that stuff? I ain't done nothin' to rave about; 
 honest, I ain't!" 
 
 No, nothing to rave about, but it often hap- 
 pens that the smallest acts entail the largest 
 consequences. It was because he surrendered 
 his place on the bill that O'Malley's unwavering 
 right eye fell upon Miss Vyvyan Delorme, bom 
 Sadie Jones. 
 
 Miss Delorme "supported" Mme. Lorenze — 
 at least so she wrote her family in Kansas City. 
 She went on with a tray at the beginning of 
 the act, murmured "Oui, madame," twice, and 
 
 [185] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 gently faded from view. But that was not all — 
 heavens, no ! While the Original Vampire was 
 vamping the chinless hero out of house and 
 home, Miss Delorme waited in the wings — 
 waited until she saw the poison vial slip from 
 madame's fingers. This was the sign that the 
 star was dead and therefore had no more use 
 for the center of the stage. It was also 
 Vyvyan's cue to rush on, pick up the vial — and 
 scream. 
 
 That scream brought the curtain down, and 
 also brought Miss Delorme 's salary up from 
 twenty-five to forty dollars a week. There was 
 Art in that grief-stricken outcry — Art, and a 
 shrill, penetratiag note which caused many a 
 tired business man to wake with a snort and 
 a gurgle. And, as we have said, there was fif- 
 teen dollars per week in it ; without the scream 
 Miss Delorme would have been cheating them 
 at twenty-five. 
 
 Vyvyan was a plump little blonde creature of 
 the kittenish type, but she did not purr when 
 stroked. She scratched. Those who saw only 
 her blue-eyed baby stare and overlooked her 
 somewhat bulging forehead would have been 
 deceived in her, for this little bit of human fluff 
 was ambitious and not quite a fool. She 
 yearned to be a great emotional actress — a 
 stage vampire for preference — ^but she appre- 
 ciated the obstacles in her path. 
 
 To begin with, she realized that she was not 
 of the ideal and accepted vampire type — ^tall 
 and willowy, with somber eyes and midnight 
 [186] 
 
OUT OF HIS CLASS 
 
 hair. The midnight hair might easily be man- 
 aged, but how about the somber eyes and the 
 slender figure? Then there were the clinging 
 gowns, without which no vampire ever goes 
 forth to vamp. Clinging gowns, Vyvyan knew, 
 would make her look more than ever like a pat 
 of fresh dairy butter. The outlook was a dis- 
 couraging one, but Vyvyan was artist enough to 
 keep on hoping for the best, and while she hoped 
 she made a few tentative experiments in vam- 
 piring on her own amateur hook, using stage 
 hands as subjects. 
 
 The keynote of the vampire's character, as 
 Vyvyan saw it, was power to attract the oppo- 
 site sex. Her first subject, a large, handsome 
 brute with an overhanging cornice of a jaw, had 
 responded to treatment so warmly and with 
 such evident enthusiasm that Vyvyan had been 
 forced to flee from him. This was proof that 
 she possessed the power of attraction, but as 
 Vyvyan had no desire to be kissed against her 
 will she decided to alter her system somewhat. 
 Instead of merely fascinating them, why not in- 
 fluence men for good? 
 
 Miss Delorme's attempts at benevolent vam- 
 piring failed because of the singular bonehead- 
 edness of the stage hands who were her sub- 
 jects. Stage hands, Vyvyan discovered, were 
 not possessed of souls. 
 
 Vyvyan had never met any prize fighters. 
 She pictured them as savage, beetle-browed 
 giants on the BUI Sikes order, with hamlike 
 hands and coarse voices. She was, therefore, 
 
 [187] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 surprised to find that the challenger for a 
 world's championship was a slim youth whose 
 expression in repose was one of apologetic 
 timidity. Joe looked so meek and frightened 
 and utterly out of place on a vaudeville bill 
 that he seemed the ideal subject for benevolent 
 vampiring and soul awakening. 
 
 Vyvyan studied this quaint creature through 
 several performances and decided that he would 
 not be likely to misinterpret her efforts in his 
 behalf. More than that, he seemed lonely and 
 in need of a friend. 
 
 Twice daily 'Malley waited in the wings for 
 the finish of the vampire's act, and though 
 Vyvyan stood so close to him that he might have 
 touched her, no words passed between them — 
 none might ever have passed had not Miss 
 Delorme lost patience and stepped on the 
 fighter's toes — a clumsy method of introduction 
 but better than nothing. It gave her a chance 
 to apologize very sweetly. " 'S all right," 
 mumbled 'Malley, coloring under the blue- 
 eyed and childlike scrutiny. " 'S aU right — 
 didn't hurt me none." 
 
 "Oh, but I can't imagine what made me so — 
 so clumsy!" 
 
 There was no reply. Evidently Joe could not 
 imagine either. During the long silence which 
 followed, Mme. Lorenze, on the stage, writhed 
 and contemplated the poison. 
 
 "Don't you think she's wonderful?" whis- 
 pered Vyvyan, her lips almost brushing the 
 cauliflower ear. 
 
 [188] 
 
OUT OP HIS CIASS 
 
 "Yeh. A nut, too." 
 
 More silence. 
 
 "My cue is coming in a minute," said 
 Vyvyan, desperately trying to create conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 "Well, so long. Knock 'em dead wit' that 
 yen." 
 
 Is it any wonder tliat upon this occasion the 
 fifteen-doUar-a-week scream held a keen note of 
 vexation? 
 
 The next day the little manager announced 
 that he was going West on business "for the 
 firm." 
 
 "I'll chase this rabbit Jim Carsey, an' chal- 
 lenge him in every town where he hangs up his 
 dicer. If all the papers git to yowlin' at him, 
 he'll have to notice us — ^have to fight or retire. 
 Well, good-by, you matinee idol, an' don't let 
 none of these dames kidnap you!" 
 
 "A swell chance!" grunted O'Malley. 
 "A-a-a swell chance. Why, they's only one 
 real girl wit' the whole troupe, an' she don't 
 work in no chorus, I'll tell you that." 
 
 in 
 
 Speeding the film once more, we catch 
 glimpses of the little manager flitting from town 
 to town, snapping at the heels of the champion, 
 annoying him with challenges, bombarding him 
 with certified checks, threatening, blustering, 
 bluffing. 
 
 There are also glimpses of a remarkable 
 [189] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 progress in the benevolent vampiring line; 
 close-ups of an inquisitive, kittenish blonde ex- 
 ploring the depths of a young man's being, 
 sweeping out the dusty corners of his soul, 
 selfishly testing her power over him in a dozen 
 different ways. 
 
 Slowing the film to normal, we discover our 
 lightweight Samson purchasing lobster for his 
 Delilah at the hour of 11 p. m. He is convers- 
 ing with her in low, earnest tones, as follows : 
 "Honest, kid, it ain't such a bad game as all 
 that. You don't know nothin' about it; that's 
 why you knock so hard." 
 
 "I know it is brutal and degrading — and it is 
 ftot worthy of you, Joe." 
 
 * ' Not worthy ? Why, say, listen here ' ' 
 
 "It is brutal!" said Miss Delorme. 
 
 "Oh, well," said Joe, with a sigh, "maybe it 
 ifl — for them that loses." 
 
 "And not worthy of you," insisted Vyvyan, 
 pressing her advantage. 
 
 "Maybe it ain't," admitted Joe slowly. "I 
 never thought about it that way." 
 
 "Don't you realize that beating another man 
 — ^with your fists — ^has its effect on you?" 
 
 "Why, sure, girlie." Joe fingered his cauli- 
 flower ear and smiled like a cross-eyed angel. 
 "Sure it's got an effect. A guy can't block 
 ♦email." 
 
 "Oh, you don't understand! I mean the 
 moral effect!" 
 
 Joe shook his head hopelessly. 
 
 ' ' I don 't git you at all. My morals are pretty 
 [190] 
 
Otri OP HIS CLASS 
 
 good. They got to be. I never had a drint 
 in my whole life. I don 't smoke ' ' 
 
 "You're talking about habits," corrected 
 Miss Delorme, "not morals." 
 
 "Well, habits, then," said Joe; "an' listen, 
 girlie, you're gettin' to be a habit wit' me, an' 
 one I don't never want to break. I'd like to 
 think it was a habit that'd stay wit' me for 
 keeps. How about it ? " 
 
 "Surely you're not referring to that again?" 
 
 "Again an' yet. Why not? Ain't a feller 
 got a right to ask for what he wants? You've 
 done a lot of talkin' about the fightin' game — 
 it's bad an' brutal an' all that, but suppose I 
 got my dough some other way? Eunnin' a 
 saloon, for instance ? I got a dandy chance to 
 git in wit' a sport in San Francisco — a fifty-fifty 
 split just for the name over the door. What if 
 I should retire from the ring? Would that 
 make any difference?" 
 
 Miss Delorme took time out for reflection. 
 This was soul-awakening with a vengeance: this 
 was swaying a strong man ; this was benevolent 
 vampiring, raised to the nth. power. Being only 
 a weak woman, she sparred for time. 
 
 "Do you really mean that, Joe? Eeally and 
 truly?" 
 
 "You bet I mean it. Is it me or is it the 
 game that you don't like?" There was an 
 earnest light in the fighter's eye; the unmis- 
 takable ring of sincerity in his voice. 
 
 "Why — ^why, I suppose it's the — ^the game," 
 whispered Vyvyan. 
 
 [191] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 "Keno!" cried Joe, and would have said 
 much more had not a messenger boy appeared 
 at his elbow. 
 
 "Tellygram for d' nex' champ!" said he, 
 grinning. "Dey tells me at d' joke box I kin 
 find youse here. Sign, please. ' ' 
 
 O'Malley signed, tossed a quarter to the boy, 
 and opened the yellow envelope. He stared so 
 long at the message that Miss Delorme coughed 
 resentfully. She could not know that her com- 
 panion had suddenly come in sight of the prom- 
 ised land, and in his lingering glance was a 
 hail and a farewell. His lips moved as he 
 spelled out the words. At last he placed the 
 telegram on the table and fixed his right eye 
 steadily on Miss Delorme. "Say that again, 
 will you?" 
 
 ' ' Say what again ? ' ' 
 
 "What you said just now — ^that it's only the, 
 game that's wrong, but I'm all right^wit' 
 you." 
 
 "Of course it's wrong." 
 
 "Don't sidestep. The game is wrong if you 
 say so — I'm givin' you that much the best of 
 it, but — am I all right f" 
 
 "I suppose so." 
 
 He readied for her hand across the table, hon- 
 est affection shining in his right eye, incohe- 
 rent phrases trembling on his lips — and those 
 who would laugh should remember that this 
 fluffy little creature was the first good woman 
 who had ever paid the slightest attention to 
 Joe O'Malley. 
 
 [192] 
 
OUT OF HIS CLASS 
 
 ' ' Gee, kid, that 's great ! That 's- 
 
 "Oh, Joe! I've been looking everywhere 
 for you!" 
 
 It was Conley, the press agent of the theater, 
 "wild-eyed and breathless. 
 
 "All the papers have been ringing up, trying 
 to get in touch with you on this Carsey thing. 
 I've asked the reporters to meet us at my office. 
 Come on quick!" 
 
 "T'ell wit' the reporters," said Joe calmly. 
 ' ' T 'ell wit ' the papers. T 'ell wit ' i/ou. Can 't 
 you see I'm busy?" 
 
 "Busy!" gasped the press agent. "With a 
 story like this in sight?" He looked appeal^ 
 ingly at Miss Delorme, who came immediately 
 to his rescue, seeing also the chance to extri- 
 cate herself from an uncomfortable situation. 
 
 "You mustn't keep the reporters waiting, 
 Joe," said she. 
 
 The fighter blinked a few times before a com- 
 prehending light dawned upon him. 
 
 "Well, I must be a bonehead!" he exclaimed. 
 ' ' I pretty near forgot you was in the show busi- 
 ness too!" 
 
 "A big story, Joe!" urged Conley. "Get a 
 move on you!" 
 
 O'Malley rose and beamed fondly and fool- 
 ishly upon the lady of his love. 
 
 "I'll give 'em a story ! I'U give 'em a whale 
 of a story! You stick here, an' I'll be right 
 back. Don't go 'way." 
 
 He disappeared in the wake of the press 
 agent, head up and shoulders squared, his atti- 
 
 [193] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 tude that of a young man about to make history. 
 Miss Delorme looked after him, wondering un- 
 easily. Had she said anything which a very 
 stupid youth might misunderstand? And if 
 she had, what was the length and breadth of 
 that misunderstanding? Men are such idiots ! 
 
 After a time she picked up the telegram and 
 read it. 
 
 Got Carsey JiooTced twenty rou..ds November guess I'm a 
 poor manager tack to-morrow. 
 
 Lew. 
 
 Miss Delorme decided not to wait. It was a 
 very thoughtful and troubled little vampire who 
 walked to her hotel alone that night. 
 
 "Oh, he couldn't have meant that!" she as- 
 sured herself. "He only asked me if he was 
 all right, and I said that I supposed so. How 
 could he twist that into a promise?" 
 
 But when she recalled the earnest light ia 
 Joseph's right eye she trembled. The boy 
 might be fool enough for anything ! 
 
 In the meantime 'Malley was facing a quick- 
 firing battery of sporting writers in Conley's 
 oflSce. 
 
 "WeU, Joe," said the spokesman, "you've 
 got Carsey hooked up at last. This ought to 
 make you the next champion of the world." 
 
 * ' No, I guess not, ' ' answered 'Malley, stead- 
 ily enough. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "You ain't afraid of this bird, are you?" 
 
 "What you giving us, Joe?" 
 
 "Oh, he thiaks he's a kidder!" 
 [194] 
 
OUT OP HIS CLASS 
 
 O'Malley listened to all tlie comments. He 
 blushed painfully, but did not waver. 
 
 "Listen, you guys," said he at length. "I 
 ain't scared of Carsey. Anybody that says I 
 am is crazy. I know I kin lick this f our-flushin ' 
 champion. He knows it. Everybody knows it, 
 but — ^there won't be no fight. I'm goiu' to git 
 married an' retire from the ring." 
 
 IV 
 
 Joe was quite right about one thing — ^it was a 
 whale of a story. It jarred the sporting world 
 profoundly, and well it might — a challenger 
 and logical successor to a championship retir- 
 ing in the very shadow of the goal. The thing 
 was unbelievable, preposterous, without rime, 
 reason, or precedent. 
 
 The hero breakfasted alone in his room at the 
 hotel, and as he toyed with a porterhouse steak 
 he glanced over the morning papers and blushed 
 to find his romance flung abroad across seven 
 columns. "Well," said he to himself, "they 
 sure give her a mess o' publicity. I bet she 
 never got a write-up like this before in her life. 
 Wonder why she didn't wait for me last night? 
 Have to ring up pretty soon and find out " 
 
 The door slammed open and Lew Arthur 
 bounced tato the room, barking incoherently. 
 Most of his language was of the sort which sug- 
 gests itself to that sort of man in times of stress. 
 
 "Hello, Lew," said Joe, pausing with a bite 
 £195] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 of steak halfway to his mouth. "What's the 
 idear of all the fireworks?" 
 
 "Idear!" shouted the little manager, hurling 
 his suit case across the room. "Oh, I s'pose 
 you don't know! Of course not! What's the 
 idear of you runnin' out on this fight after I git 
 Carsey hooked?" 
 
 * * I ain 't runnin ' out, ' ' protested Joe. "I got 
 a right to retire, ain't I?" 
 
 Lew exploded again. 
 
 ' ' Don 't talk like that, ' ' warned 'Malley. ' ' I 
 may have done somethin' to myself, but I ain't 
 done nothin' to you." 
 
 "You ain't? Listen, you cock-eyed, lop- 
 eared quitter, you! You ain't done nothin' to 
 me, hey? Who was it took you when you was 
 a bum an' made a man of you? Who was it 
 went hungry in Pueblo so't you could eat an' 
 keep your stren'th? Who split his last dollar 
 wit ' you, many 's the time ? Who put you where 
 you are now? Who went out an' chased Carsey 
 till he signed up ? Me, you white-headed, white- 
 livered coward, me! An' now, wit' a cham- 
 pionship in plain sight — a fortune just waitin' 
 to be grabbed off — who throws me down for a 
 skirt he ain't known but a few weeks? That's 
 gratitude, that is ! " 
 
 "But, Lew, she said " 
 
 "Yeh, there it goes! She said! How about 
 me? Don't I count in this anywhere?" 
 
 "Not in any of my marryin' arrangements, 
 you don't." 
 
 "But, Joe, won't you listen to reason?" 
 [196] 
 
OUT OF HIS CLASS 
 
 Joe listened to a rap on the door instead- 
 
 "Who's there?" 
 
 ' ' Belcher of the ' Evening Star. ' I 've got im- 
 portant news for you, O'Malley." 
 
 Belcher was a brisk, dapper young man witli 
 an air of assurance. 
 
 ' ' Good morning, 'Malley. Now, this young 
 woman, this Miss Delorme — ^by the way, there's 
 no mistake about the name, is there?" 
 
 " It 's Vyvyan Delorme. Well ? ' ' 
 
 * ' You say that she is going to marry you? ' ' 
 
 * ' Sure. That 's old stuff. You got in here to 
 tell me some important news; make good." 
 
 "I'll do that little thing," smiled Belcher. 
 "I have just come from Miss Delorme. She 
 teUs me that there has been a mistake of some 
 kind." 
 
 ' ' Mistake ? ' ' repeated 'Malley. ' ' Mistake ? ' ' 
 
 "Bather an unfortunate one for her," contin- 
 ued Belcher. "She says that she never even 
 thought of marrying you — says she wouldn't 
 marry you if you were the last man in the 
 world : says you ought to be sued for coupling 
 her name with yours in any way — and is that 
 news enough for you ? ' ' 
 
 It was. The invincible 'Malley leaned for- 
 ward over the breakfast table, gasping as if, 
 from a heavy blow. 
 
 "Hey? What's that?" 
 
 "Well," explained Belcher, "she was hyster- 
 ical and pretty much shot to pieces when I saw 
 her, but it seems that she blames you for put- 
 ting the wrong construction on some simple 
 
 [197] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 thing she said to you last night. She insists 
 there was never any talk of marriage. Is that 
 ^rne?" 
 
 "Yes," said O'Malley slowly; "yes, that's 
 true. There wasn't any tcdh about it, but — ^I 
 thought she knew what I meant." 
 
 "That's where you slipped up," said the re- 
 porter. "She called you some pretty hard 
 names, but perhaps it's just as well not to pass 
 'em along." 
 
 "Gro ahead, pal." It was the little manager 
 speaking. "Go ahead. Give bini the other 
 barrel. It's comin' to him." 
 
 "Well, then, she called you a cross-eyed little 
 beast " 
 
 "That's a Ue!" cried Joe. "A dirty Ue!" 
 
 Belcher pointed to the telephone. 
 
 "Call her up!" said he curtly. "After 
 you've had a talk with her, you might want to 
 ^apologize to me." 
 
 Joe glared at the newspaper man, but found 
 no comfort in that, so he turned to his manager. 
 
 "Eing her up, kid," said he, "an* git it 
 straight." 
 
 'Malley got it straight, and from the shoul- 
 der. Half a minute was enough for him. As 
 the receiver slipped from his fingers he turned 
 toward the newspaper man and tried to smile. 
 
 "You had it right. I was wrong, an' — an' 
 I'm sorry for what I said. Is that enough?" 
 
 "Plenty," answered the reporter, "and if 
 you don't mind my saying so, I'm sorry too. I 
 had no idea it would hit you so hard." 
 ,[198]( 
 
OUT OP HIS CLA.SS 
 
 ' ' Hard ! ' ' groaned 'Malley. " It 's a knock- 
 out!" 
 
 Belcher was soon on his way to catch an edi- 
 tion, and as the door closed behind him thd 
 toughest little man in the lightweight division 
 took the full count with his face among the 
 breakfast dishes. Lew Arthur, on the couch, 
 watched him shrewdly and chewed a dead 
 cigar. 
 
 "You fell too hard, Joe," said he at last. 
 "Too damn hard, an' that's why it hurts so 
 much. Everybody gits it one time or another. 
 There was a girl in Butte once — ^but never 
 mind that. I know how you feel. You fell too 
 hard." 
 
 The broken gladiator looked up suddenly. 
 
 "She told me just now she never cared a 
 snap for me, one way or the other. Then why 
 was she fooUn' wit' me? She started it — ^I 
 didn 't. "Wliat did she do it for, Lew ? " 
 
 The little manager tossed away his cigar and 
 leaped to his feet. 
 
 "That's it! What for? Now you're gittin' 
 some sense. You 're beginnin ' to use your bean, 
 Joe. This dame — ^it was her put the notion of 
 retirin' into your head, wasn't it?" 
 
 O 'Malley nodded. 
 
 "She let you think that if you retired she'd 
 marry you, hey? An' you, Uke a boob, fell for 
 it?" 
 
 O'MaUey nodded again. 
 
 "Then, as soon as you made good on the 
 retirin' thing, this dame threw you down so 
 [199] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 hard that you bounced ten feet in the air — that's 
 right, ain't it? Why, you poor stiff, don't you 
 see it yetf" 
 
 "No," said O'Malley, with a hopeless shake 
 of his head. ' ' No, not yet. ' ' 
 
 "An' they say ivory is scarce!" The little 
 manager leaned across the table and lowered 
 his voice to an impressive whisper; his stem 
 gaze caught and held O'Malley 's vacant and 
 mournful stare. "Listen, Joe! You didn't 
 think I was goin' to let 'em slip one over on 
 us, did you ? I should say not ! I been watchin' 
 out for just such a play. Your little friend, 
 Miss Delorme — I 've got a line on her. I 've had 
 her looked up, an' who do you think she is, 
 Joe?" 
 
 O 'Malley shook his head stupidly, and Arthur 
 snorted with disgust. 
 
 "You're a bright boy, you are! I guess I 
 got to come right out an' tell you ! This dame 
 was planted wit' the troupe to git you out of 
 the way. She was planted — ^why, a blind man 
 could see it, Joe ! She's Carsey's cousin, that's 
 who she is — Carsey's cousin! Now do you be- 
 gin to git the angle?" 
 
 And after a time, through the mists of wrath 
 and humiliation, Joe O'Malley began to get the 
 angle. 
 
 Speeding the film for the last time, we arrive 
 at the fifteenth round of the battle for the light- 
 weight championship of the world. We see the 
 
 1.200] 
 
OUT OP HIS CLASS 
 
 level rays of the setting sun as they strike 
 across the open-air arena; we see the waiting 
 thousands, tense in their seats, leaning forward 
 in their eagerness to miss nothing; we can al- 
 most hear the click and rattle of the telegraph 
 instruments at the ring side and the muttered 
 comment of the experts. 
 
 We see the two fighters struggling in a cor- 
 ner of the ring. Carsey's back is against the 
 ropes. He is drooping and weary, intent only 
 on protecting his ribs from further assault, and 
 as he blocks and covers he watches for a chance 
 to slip out into the open where there is room to 
 run. 'Malley pens the champion in the angle 
 of the ropes, battering him back and forth with 
 savage lefts and rights. Carsey, the dancing 
 master of the lightweight division, the old fox, 
 the ring general, the champion of the world, has 
 made one match too many. 
 
 'Malley shifts and drives a crushing left- 
 hander under the champion's guard, and Car- 
 sey's hands fall at his sides; a spasm of pain 
 twists his features ; he bends forward, helpless. 
 The challenger leans towards him and grins 
 through a smear of blood; his lips move; he is 
 whispering something to Carsey. The next in- 
 stant a dark-brown glove flashes upward from 
 'Malley 's hip, and in exactly ten seconds by 
 the timekeeper's watch there is a new light- 
 weight champion of the world. 
 
 Carsey did not recover consciousness for 
 twenty-five minutes. When his eyes opened he 
 was in his dressing room. His chief second 
 
 [201] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 was passing a green bottle underneath his nos- 
 trils. Carsey pushed it away. 
 
 "I'm all right now," he said thickly. 
 
 ' ' Welcome to our city ! ' ' said the chief second, 
 forcing a smile. ' ' That was an awful uppercnt 
 he handed you. It would have knocked out a 
 heavyweight. Tough luck, old boy, tough 
 luck!" 
 
 Carsey mumbled unintelligibly and twisted 
 his head from side to side, groaning. 
 
 "Oh, your neck ain't broke," babbled the 
 chief second as he plied the sponge. "It only 
 feels like it was. One thing I'd like to know, 
 Jim. What was it he said to you just before he 
 knocked you out?" 
 
 Carsey frowned and his eyes closed. 
 
 "He did say something, that's right. Let's 
 see. I was in the comer, tryin' to get out. He 
 nailed me with the shift. I knew I was done 
 for then." 
 
 "You kind of fell into him, wide open, and he 
 said something to you," prompted the other. 
 
 "Oh, yes! 'Here's one for your cousin.' 
 That's what he said." 
 
 ' ' Your cousin 1 What did he mean by that ? ' ' 
 
 The former lightweight champion of the 
 world shook his head wearily. 
 
 "You can search me!" said he. "I never 
 had a cousin in my lifel" 
 
 [202] 
 
SCRAP lEON 
 
 WHAT 'S in a name ? " 
 It was a woman who asked that ques- 
 tion, and if Eomeo had been more of a 
 fighting man he could have answered it. Enrico 
 Mustolini was never heard of outside the Eighth 
 Ward, but as Iron Mush Murphy he took the 
 whole town by storm. Let us examine into this 
 matter of names. 
 
 It is well known that the followers of three 
 professions, operating mostly after dark, often 
 forsake their baptismal appellations. From 
 time immemorial actors, safe blowers and 
 boxers, moved by varying impulses, have sought 
 the shelter of the alias. Thus Michael Donohoe 
 becomes "Richard Montclair";, Bill Jones blos- 
 soms, not too openly, as "Frisco Red"; and Isi- 
 dore Finkelstein chooses the nom de guerre of 
 "Battling Clancy." 
 
 To tell the truth about the matter, Enrico 
 Mustolini had never given any thought to the 
 question of an assumed name. In the barns and 
 back alleys where most of his unremunerated 
 fighting had been done the preliminaries had 
 not included an introduction of the principals. 
 
 [203] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 If it had been necessary to address Enrico at 
 all, "Wop" had sufficed. The mothers of de- 
 feated gladiators frequently mentioned him to 
 the police as "the tough one of them dago 
 kids." 
 
 Beyond argument Enrico Mustolini was 
 tough. He was a product of the toughest school 
 in town, th^ streets and alleys of the Eighth 
 Ward. Giacomo Mustolini, head of the family, 
 owned a junk shop and left his wife in charge of 
 it while he scoured the outlying portions of the 
 city for rags, bottles and sacks. The two sons, 
 Enrico and Antonio, ran wild as razorbacks 
 from the time they could walk. 
 
 Enrico, or Henry, as he preferred to call him- 
 self, was a swarthy youth, set solidly on a pair 
 of stocky legs, and in his sturdy body there 
 lived again the soul of some swashbuckling an- 
 cestor. Henry loved a quarrel, and fought for 
 the fun of the thing. Tony, eighteen months 
 his junior, was slender of build, dreamy of eye, 
 and had never shown any liking for street 
 brawls. He was a better runner than fighter, 
 but when cornered he gave battle with the sav- 
 age fury of a frightened cat. 
 
 If Henry regretted this softness in his 
 brother's character he said nothing about it. 
 Since his tenth year he had done most of the 
 fighting for the Mustolini family, and the gen- 
 eral average was nothing to blush for, even in 
 the Eighth Ward, where fighting averages ran 
 high. 
 
 Because it is human nature to admire in 
 [204] 
 
SCRAP IKON 
 
 others the qualities that we lack, Tony boasted 
 that nobody could make his brother's nose bleed, 
 and Henry gloried in Tony's cleverness Eind the 
 fact that he could ' ' read newspapers, and every- 
 thing, in wop and American." 
 
 Henry was not even clever at his specialty. 
 Head down and arms working like brown pis- 
 tons he went joyfully into action. The science 
 of attack was a closed book to Henry; and as 
 for defense, such a thing had never entered into 
 his calculations. He offered an open and seem- 
 ingly indestructible countenance to his enemies, 
 and while they tried to break his nose or close 
 his beady eyes he wore them down with a ter- 
 rific rib bombardment which none but the ex- 
 tremely fit could endure for long. 
 
 "No use hittin' that wop in the face," said 
 the Eighth Ward warriors. ' ' Might just as well 
 pound a fire hydrant. What's he made of, any- 
 way?" 
 
 Such notable talent for trouble cannot be con- 
 cealed. Henry Mustolini learned, no matter 
 how, that preliminary boxers made a great deal 
 of money — sometimes as much as twenty dollars 
 a night, just for a little fighting — and he set 
 about to prove if these things were true. 
 
 With the faithful Tony at his heels he haunted 
 the pavilion where the weekly boxing matches 
 took place, and his great chance came when a 
 pork-and-beaner defaulted at the last minute, 
 leaving a gap in the program. 
 
 "Want to go on, kid? All right, hop into 
 these trunks and I'll hustle you a pair of shoes." 
 
 [205] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 "Well, what does lie get?" demanded Tony, 
 even then showing f aiat glimmerings of the 
 managerial instinct. 
 
 " Ten if he wins, five if he loses. Hurry up, 
 now!" 
 
 A few moments later the terror of the Eighth 
 Ward found himself inside the ropes and blink- 
 ing down at a sea of curious and expectant 
 faces. 
 
 Henry was not exactly frightened, but Tony, 
 who had followed him into the ring, seemed to 
 be having a nervous chill. 
 
 "Fi-five dollars ain't so m-much," murmured 
 Tony through chattering teeth; "and that other 
 guy is b-big as a house. ' ' 
 
 "Forget it!" ordered Henry crisply. "I'U 
 tear the belly outa him. And how can he hurt 
 me — with them piUows on his hands?" 
 
 At this juncture a lordly individual bent over 
 Henry and in a hoarse and highly flavored whis- 
 per demanded to know his name. That was 
 the time for the alias, but no such thought 
 entered Henry's head. He answered truly; 
 and Foghorn Finnegan was very much sur- 
 prised. 
 
 ' * Henry — ^what ? Come agaia wit ' that, kid ! ' ' 
 
 "Mustolini — Henry Mustolini." 
 
 Now, as a general thing professional an- 
 nouncers are long on noise, short on memory, 
 and witless as a megaphone. Foghorn Finne- 
 gan was no exception to the rule. He offered 
 himself a muttered rehearsal, gave up in 
 disgust, seized Henry firmly by the elbow, 
 [206] 
 
SCRAP IRON 
 
 dragged him to the middle of the ring and held 
 up one hand. "When silence came Foghorn 
 shattered it with his heavy roar : 
 
 "Kid Musty, gen'elmen! Kid Musty I One 
 hunnerd and thirty-three pounds!" 
 ■ That night as the Mustolini brothers walked 
 home, keeping time to the clinking of ten silver 
 dollars in Henry's pocket, they spoke of Finne- 
 gan's error. 
 
 ' * That big bum got your name wrong, ' ' com- 
 plained Tony. 
 
 ' ' I don 't care, ' ' said the fighting man. ' ' I got 
 the dough — and one name is as good as an- 
 other. ' ' 
 
 In this Henry was wrong. Kid Musty fought 
 three times, but roused no great enthusiasm 
 on the part of the pubUo. It was T-Bone Eiley, 
 patron of the arts and friend of all the pork- 
 and-beaners, who suggested an alias more in 
 keeping with Henry's peculiar gift for assimi- 
 lating punishment. 
 
 I "Kid Musty! That's no name for a fighter. 
 What you want is something that'll hit 'em 
 right in the eye when they see it in the papers ; 
 something that tells what kind of a bird you 
 'are. Now you'll never be clever, but you've 
 got 'em all cheated at one thing : You can let a 
 man wear himself out hitting you in the mush. 
 Must be made of iron. ... By golly! I've got 
 it! Iron Mush! How's that for a name?" 
 
 "Iron Mush Mustolini?" suggested Henry, 
 hopefully. 
 
 [207] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 "Naw! Iron Mush Murphy! Take a reg^i- 
 lar fighting name while you're taking one!" | 
 
 Iron! There seems to be something endur- 
 ing in the very sound of the word. Linked with 
 a name or a title, the effect is irresistible. The 
 Iron Duke, the Iron Chancellor, Iron Man Mc- 
 Ginnity — these are names which are remem- 
 bered, names which have stood the test of time. 
 T-Bone Riley builded better than he knew. 
 
 Kid Musty had been nobody ; Iron Mush Mur- 
 phy rapidly became a local celebrity. The name 
 caught and held public fancy; it had in it the 
 element of distinctive novelty. More than all 
 else it was descriptive. As T-Bone Eiley said, 
 it meant something. Perhaps it should be ex- 
 plained that, in the patois of the profession, 
 to mention a man's mush is to mention his face. 
 Similarly, the nose becomes a beezer, and the 
 eye a lamp. Americanisms, yes; but it was 
 Dickens who called a fist "a bunch of fives." 
 
 Assuredly the name Iron Mush meant some- 
 thing, and Henry added to that meaning every 
 time he entered the ring. His opponents, find- 
 ing his countenance absolutely unprotected, ad- 
 dressed themselves to it with more of vigor 
 than intelligence, and when they wearied by 
 reason of their exertions Henry rocked them to 
 sleep with a tremendous tattoo aimed at th6 
 point where the ribs leave off and the stomach 
 takes on. Henry became a drawing card. 
 Nobody wanted to see him box, but everybody 
 wanted to see him stop uppercuts and swings 
 
 [208] 
 
SCRAP lEON 
 
 with his face. On a jaw of chilled steel and 
 features tough as teak Henry Mustolini built 
 up his fortunes. 
 
 After his seventh engagement Henry pur- 
 chased a Turkey-red bathrobe, a pair of apple- 
 green trunks and a badger haircut. He had 
 taken thought and decided that his future was 
 to be one of violence. When a pork-and-beaner 
 buys a bathrobe he confesses himself the victim 
 of ambition. The fighter who enters the ring 
 wrapped in an overcoat has never aspired to a 
 main event. 
 
 Henry began to show himself on the local 
 Eialto, posing in front of cigar stands or loafing 
 about the entrances to pool parlors. He learned 
 to talk out of the comer of his mouth and to 
 smoke cabbage-leeif perf ectos. If he had dared 
 he would have carried a springy bamboo cane. 
 
 About this time Henry was approached by 
 several gentlemen of elegant but precarious 
 leisure who were desirous of attaching them- 
 selves to his fortunes in a managerial capacity. 
 They painted the future in glowing colors and 
 laid great stress on the money they could get 
 for Henry, while thinking only of the money 
 Henry could get for them. 
 
 On one of these occasions Tony was a listener. 
 "And all you'll have to' do is fight," urged the 
 applicant. "I'll 'tend to everything else; and 
 if I don't grab you more dough 'n you ever saw 
 before, you can call me a liax. What do you 
 say?" 
 
 [209] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 Henry wavered, for he was tempted, but Tony 
 saved him. 
 
 "He says nothing doing," remarked Tony. 
 "Henry's got a manager already. I'm looking 
 out for him." 
 
 "The hell you are!" snarled the disappoint- 
 ed one. "Mush never said nothing to me about 
 it" 
 
 "He's just made* up his mind. Ain't you, 
 Henry?" 
 
 "Yeh," nodded the gladiator, dazed by this 
 exhibition of quick thinking on Tony's part. 
 "Teh, Tony's me manager. He can read and 
 write, and everything. Yeh, nothing doing." 
 
 n 
 
 Tony Mustolini had just turned seventeen 
 when he assumed the responsible position of 
 manager and business dictator for Iron Mush 
 Murphy, and never was fighter more faithfully 
 served. No manager ever worked harder to 
 thrust his charge into the public eye and keep 
 him there; none ever showed a keener scent 
 for an unattached dollar. 
 
 It was Tony who decided that Henry was 
 imderpaid and successfully bluffed the promot- 
 ers by threatening to take their drawing card 
 elsewhere; Tony who dictated weights and 
 terms ; Tony who haunted the sanctums of the 
 sporting editors with fearful and wonderful 
 photographs of the Iron Mush in action ; Tony 
 who discovered that the- four-round route was 
 [210] 
 
SCKAP lEON 
 
 a bit short for a battler of Henry's type and 
 eased him onward and upward into the ten- 
 round class; Tony who issued bold challenges 
 to champions and near champions; Tony who 
 worked like a Turk while Henry decorated the 
 Eialto ; and it was Tony who insisted that a cer- 
 tain amount of training must be done. 
 
 "Ten rounds is a long ways," said Tony. 
 "You got to train for these- babies now." 
 
 "I can go out to Doyle's," said Henry. 
 
 "Nix!" said his manager. "You'll train at 
 home. We can rig up some kind of a ring out in 
 the bam." 
 
 "But I got to have somebody to spar with," 
 objected Henry; "and out at Doyle's there's al- 
 ways a gang " 
 
 "Too much gang," interrupted Tony with 
 firmness. ' ' And we won 't pay no sparring part- 
 ner, either. I'll box with you myself." 
 
 "You!" ejaculated Henry. "Think you can 
 kid me?" 
 
 "I'm not kidding," said Tony. "If these 
 boneheaded boys can learn to box, so can I. ' ' 
 
 He was as good as his word. In order to save 
 the upkeep of a sparring partner the thrifty 
 Tony became one himself. Being intelligent and 
 adaptable he soon mastered the rudiments of 
 attack and defense, but he was not content to 
 remain a mediocre boxer. Tony studied the 
 methods of the cleverest performers of the day. 
 From a featherweight champion he learned 
 something of the use of the straight left, which, 
 is in. itself attack and defense ; from a middle- 
 
 [211] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 weight he got the knack of whipping in a right 
 uppercut; from an English lightweight he stud- 
 ied the defensive value of elbows and forearms 
 as applied to infighting ; and from the Old Mas- 
 ter himself he borrowed the trick of "letting 
 his head roll with the punch." 
 
 Naturally an agile youth, exercise gave Tony 
 the speed and spring of a panther; constant 
 practice taught him accuracy. His shoulders 
 broadened, his chest deepened, he took on 
 weight where weight was needed; and Henry 
 Mustolini, watching this miracle develop before 
 his eyes, expressed surprise and admiration. 
 
 "Tony," said he, "I nevei would have 
 thought it, but you're getting to be a regular 
 fighting guy. You are, on the square. I can hit 
 most of these birds, but I can't hit you ; and you 
 got that straight left up me nose all the time. 
 . . . Why don't you step out and trim some of 
 these dubs?'- 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," said Tony. "One 
 fighter m the family is plenty." 
 
 Henry argued the point, citing ring history 
 to prove that one family had produced two 
 champions, but Tony shook his- head. He would 
 box, but he would not fight. 
 
 "When you was a little kid," said Henry, 
 "they used to say you* was yellow, and I licked 
 'em for it. You could always put up a good 
 fight when they got you in a corner. What ails 
 you, Tony? You ain't scared of getting hurt, 
 are you?" 
 
 [212] 
 
SCRAP IKON 
 
 "I don't know as it's that, Henry, but I never 
 liked to get my face messed up." 
 
 "It would take a mighty good man to mess 
 your face up now," admitted Henry with criti- 
 cal approval. "A mighty good man. I don't 
 Jmow as I could do it meself. You got as neat 
 a left hand as anybody, and there's a kick in it 
 when you let it fly. Your right cross is a darb. 
 . . . No, don't laugh! I'm telling you straight. 
 You don't need to be scared of any of these pre- 
 liminary tramps. Why don't you be game and 
 take a chance ? You might like it same as I do. " 
 
 * * You always did like it, "said Tony. ' * That 's 
 the difference." 
 
 Henry was not satisfied to let the question 
 drop, and often revived it, but no amount of 
 persuasion could induce Tony to consider a real 
 battle, though the ramshackle bam behind the 
 junk shop witnessed many an encounter that 
 might easily have been mistaken for the genuine 
 article. It was after one of these spirited ses- 
 sions with the gloves that Henry renewed the 
 argument 
 
 "I don't get you at all, Tony. I'm supposed 
 to be a dead tough mug, and hard game, but you 
 rip into me like a champion going after a dub. 
 You gimme all the battle I want, kid, fight me 
 all over the place, but you won't even take on 
 a soft one. . . . That last round — ^whew!" 
 
 "Aw," grinned Tony, "you just stall when 
 you box with me. You never really cut loose." 
 
 "You think not?" demanded Henry. "You 
 stung me with that uppercut — ^made me good 
 
 [213] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 and sore. I forgot all about having any brother, 
 see ? The rest of the round I was after you, and 
 I'd 'a' hurt you if I could, I got plenty close 
 enough to cave in your slats, but I never hit 
 nothing but elbows and forearms and gloves; 
 ,and all the time, wham ! wham ! I'm getting them 
 short, jolty ones in the belly. . . . Tony, that's 
 the kind of fighting that licks guys. If you'd 
 tear into these other fellows the way you tear 
 into me there 'd be nothing to it." 
 
 "You might just as well quit talking about 
 it," said the younger brother. "There's noth- 
 ing doing. ' ' 
 
 "You won't fight?" asked Henry. 
 
 Tony shook his head, and there was a long 
 silence. The iron-faced gladiator was slow in 
 his mental processes, but reasonably thorough. 
 Ever since he could remember he had taken vio- 
 lent issue with those who had called Tony a 
 coward. He had silenced those youthful accus- 
 ers, but he had never been able to silence a whis- 
 per in his own heart. It spoke to him clearly 
 in that uncomfortable silence* 
 
 "I'd murder anybody else for saying it, 
 Tony," said Henry at last, "but I think you've 
 got a streak after all. ' ' 
 
 "Well," said the other, trying to laugh it 
 off, "you'll admit I'm a good manager, won't 
 you?" 
 
 "All the same" — and Henry wagged his head 
 sorrowfully — "I think you're yellow. A bird 
 that can fight and won't fight — ^why, what else is 
 he butyeUow?" 
 
 [214] 
 
SCRAP IKON 
 
 "If there was anytliiiig to fight for " be- 
 gan Tony. 
 
 "There's always something to fight for!" 
 cried Henry in a sndden rage. "There's the 
 dough, for one thing; and there's showing the 
 gang that you've got the guts ! . . . But what's 
 the use? If you're bom with a streak you'll 
 have it all your life, and maybe it ain't your 
 fault. I'll never bother you about it again, 
 Tony. I won't ask you ta get into the game no 
 more — ^not as long as I live." 
 
 It is worth recording that he kept his word. 
 
 ni 
 
 The Iron Man, as they finally came to call him, 
 never became a topnotcher — ^there were a dozen 
 clever men between him and the title — ^but for 
 four years he. sei-ved as a stumblingblock in am- 
 bition's path, and many a hopeful lightweight, 
 his eyes fixed on the first division, stubbed his 
 toes and fell. Some of course did not fall. Per- 
 haps the thing which kept the Iron Man in the 
 second division was his lack of speed. He was 
 not fast enough on his feet to corner the "danc- 
 ing masters." These outpointed him and 
 sparred their way to bloodless victories, but 
 woe to the wallowing battleship type of gladi- 
 ator who elected to stand toe to toe with Henry 
 and exchange body blows ! 
 
 "Anybody can jab. him in the face and run 
 away," said T-Bone Eiley, "but whenever they 
 
 [215] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 wade in and mix it with this dago their name is 
 pants!" 
 
 Thus, in his leisurely, flat-footed fashion, 
 Henry came to the end of his fourth profes- 
 sional year, the possessor of at least one great 
 distinction: He had fought one hundred and 
 forty-six battles and never once had he been 
 knocked off his feet. Clever men had cut him 
 to ribbons time after time ; celebrated knockout 
 artists had bounced their pet blows off that 
 chilled-steel jaw; awkward, shuffling maulers of 
 his own type had battered him from belt line to 
 eyebrows — ^but nobody could say that he had 
 dropped the Iron Man to the floor. Some had 
 staggered him; some had dazed him for a few 
 seconds, but no referee had ever lifted his hand 
 to count over Henry. This was his pride and 
 the thing that he never failed to mention soon 
 after being introduced to a stranger. It was 
 Henry's one legitimate claim to greatness, and 
 he realized it. 
 
 "They can hit me as hard as they want to," 
 he used to say, "but they can't hurt me. I guess 
 I'm some tough bird!" 
 
 Tony capitalized this unique record, even 
 going to the length of compiling statistics for 
 publication in the newspapers. He continued 
 to act as Henry's sparring partner at home and 
 abroad — ^the Mustolini brothers once got as far 
 East as Denver — and built up quite a reputa- 
 tion as a shrewd matchmaker and a careful busi- 
 ness manager. Those who watched Tony's work 
 :with the gloves were impressed with his skill. 
 [216] 
 
SCRAP IBON 
 
 Some predicted a bright future for him inside 
 the ropes. 
 
 "Well," Henry would say, "you know how it 
 is; some likes the game and some don't. Tony,. 
 Jie's as game a kid as ever lived, don't make no 
 mistake about that, but — ^he ain't like me. No; 
 we're kinda different; been that way ever since 
 we was kids. I was always the fighting one of 
 the family. They all had their cracks at me, 
 but nobody ever knocked me down. 
 
 "What do you think of that, hey? Some 
 tough baby, me!" 
 
 But constant dropping wears away stone ; the 
 pitcher that continues to go wellward will one 
 day meet disaster; and no iron man ever carried 
 all his rivets with him to the grave. It is only 
 a matter of time. 
 
 Out of the East came young Martin O'Day^ 
 adventuring on the gold coast in search of a 
 reputation and Western money. He was red- 
 headed, low-browed, dish-faced, slant-jawed, 
 flat-nosed and built like a baby-grand piano. 
 Nothing was known of him save that he could 
 make one hundred and thirty-three pounds, and 
 was "open to meet the world" at that weight. 
 He looked like a fighter, he claimed to be a 
 fighter, and he demonstrated that he was a 
 fighter by stopping Butch Brown in three whirl- 
 wind rounds. During those three rounds he 
 never took a backward step. 
 
 The Mustolini brothers were spectators that 
 evening. 
 
 [217] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 "What do you think of him?" asked Tony 
 after the victor had left the ring. 
 
 " Go git him for me, ' ' growled Henry. " He *s 
 made to order." 
 
 There was no trouble about getting O'Day. 
 His date book was full of blanks and his pockets 
 were full of air. The match was made for ten 
 rounds and advertised as an added attraction. 
 
 "Another set-up for Iron Mush," said the 
 ring fans. "He eats these rough sluggers." 
 
 Henry received his customary ovation as he 
 climbed slowly into the ring, covered from head 
 to heel by his old red bathrobe, now stained and 
 worn. The Iron Man could safely count on the 
 cheers of haK the spectators. The others usu- 
 ally sat in silence, hoping against hope to see 
 him whipped. They had nothing against Henry, 
 as the.saying goes, but he had been entertaining 
 them for a long time and perhaps they were a 
 bit tired of him. Some people like variety. 
 
 When the fighters went to the middle of the 
 ring for their instructions the redhead grinned 
 cheerfully at Henry, who gave him smile for 
 smile. 
 
 "Hello, wop!" 
 
 "HeUo, Irish!" 
 
 "They tell me you're an iron man," said 
 'Day tatmtingly, ' ' and got your start in a junk 
 shop. Think you '11 ever go back ? " 
 
 "Not to-night," answered Henry, 
 
 "Me," said O'Day— "I got my start licking 
 Eyetalians." 
 
 [218] 
 
SCBAP IRON 
 
 "Is that so?" Henry was never clever at 
 repartee. 
 
 ' ' Yeh, it 's s-s-so. " 'Day prolonged the sib- 
 ilant aggravatingly. "You're going back to 
 that junk shop when I'm through with you, too. 
 . . . What's scrap iron bringing these days?" 
 
 "Here!" growled the referee. "Cut that 
 out! Save it till the bell rings ! " 
 
 Back in his comer Henry expressed his opin- 
 ion of O'Day. 
 
 "Fresh mick, ain't he?" 
 
 "Don't let him talk to you," cautioned Tony. 
 "He's trying to get your goat." 
 
 "Fat chance!" sneered Henry, and then the 
 gong clanged. Once more the men met in the 
 middle of the ring. 
 
 "Scrap iron!" laughed O'Day, and went to 
 work at his trade, head down and both gloves 
 flying. Henry met him halfway, for this was 
 exactly the sort of battle he loved. He had 
 small respect for the sort of opponent who 
 pecked at him with a long left jab and then ran 
 away. The Iron Man planted himself solidly 
 on his large flat feet and replied to the hurricane 
 of short-arm jolts with a succession of rib-tear- 
 ing punches, some of which might have been 
 heard in the top row of the gallery. 
 
 The redhead did not yield an inch under fire, 
 but leaned forward valiantly to his guns. Head 
 to head, shoulder to shoulder, fist to rib the issue 
 was joined, and the house came up with a mighty 
 roar of encouragement and approval. This 
 was no pink-tea dancing contest ; this was a real 
 
 [219] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 figilit — ^the matching of punch with punch — 
 stamina with stamina — the supreme test of 
 courage. In such a battle there can be but one 
 ending. 
 
 Five hundred men tell their wives that they 
 attend boxing contests solely because they enjoy 
 a scientific exposition of the art of self-defense. 
 Of the five hundred, one man may be telling the 
 truth; he may enthuse over a clever bloodless 
 encounter for points. But the four hundred 
 and ninety-nine leap to their feet to cheer a 
 savage exchange of blows meant to hurt. After 
 all, the fight 's the thing ! 
 
 And of the four hundred and ninety-nine paid 
 admissions there may be twenty men sufficiently 
 keen of eye to separate the damaging blows 
 from the ones that are blocked or missed, and 
 to analyze the trend of battle. The whole story 
 of the fight between the Iron Man and the red- 
 head was plainly written across the first three 
 minutes of the engagement, but few were cool 
 enough to read the message. 
 
 Henry had but one style of infighting, and in 
 the past it had served him well. He preferred 
 to spread his elbows rather wide and rip his 
 body punches home with a swinging motion, 
 his gloves traveling in an arc. The man who 
 does this must leave his flanks unprotected at 
 least part of the time. 
 
 'Day, bending slightly from the waist, held 
 
 his elbows close to his sides and shot both fists 
 
 straight forward to the mark. Henry displayed 
 
 more motion than his opponent, but half his 
 
 [220] 
 
SCEAP lEON 
 
 short, clubbing swings were blocked by elbows 
 and forearms, while O'Day, inside the attack, 
 was making every punch tell. Henry -v^^as re- 
 ceiving exactly twice as much punishment as he 
 inflicted. The gong found the men still in the 
 middle of the ring, battering away at each other 
 with all the strength in their bodies. 
 
 "I'll get him!" grunted Henry as Tony bent 
 over him with an iced towel, 
 
 "I got him!" said O'Day to his chief second. 
 "I'll lick him at his own game — infighting!" 
 
 "This '11 never go ten rounds!" chuckled the 
 gallery. "It can't!" 
 
 "Don't swing so wide," advised Tony. 
 "He's inside you all the time. Cover up more 
 and shoot 'em straight!" 
 
 "I'll 'inside' him if he stays with me long 
 enough," said Henry. 
 
 The second round was a repetition of the first. 
 Toe to toe, shoulder to shoulder, hammer and 
 tongs they went at it again, to a sound as of 
 carpets being beaten. For another three min- 
 utes they pivoted in midring, and this time the 
 round seemed a long one to Henry. The steady 
 exchange of one blow for two was beginning to 
 take effect. 
 
 "Step round more!" urged Tony. "Open 
 Mm up!" 
 
 "Not on your life!" said Henry. "One of 
 us is going to back up first, and then there 'U be 
 plenty of stepping round!" 
 
 A portion of this prophecy was fulfilled to- 
 ward the end of the fourth rib-rending session. 
 
 [221] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 The thunder from the gallery suddenly took on 
 a new note. It could hardly have grown louder, 
 but it jumped to a highei pitch and became a, 
 shrill clamor, which seemed to have in it an 
 expression of triumph long deferred. Slowly 
 but surely the Iron Man was giving ground. 
 Henry did not step away from his task, he did 
 not stop fighting for an instant, but inch by 
 grudging inch he was retreating toward the 
 ropes. 
 
 It was the beginning of the end. O'Day 
 knew it, and put a few extra pounds behind the 
 short straight jolts that he was driving into 
 Henry's unarmored section. Tony Mustolini 
 knew it and twisted a damp towel in his fingers 
 as he crouched outside the ring, his eyes on a 
 level with the canvas. The reporters knew it 
 and made hasty notes. Everybody knew it but 
 Henry. 
 
 "I'll get him yet!" he gasped when he came 
 to his comer. 
 
 "What did I tell you?" panted O'Day as he 
 dropped into his chair. " He 's licked now — and 
 I haven't hit him above the shoulders once! 
 He's gone!" 
 
 Henry was not gone, but Henry was going. 
 For the first time in his life he had found ail 
 opponent who ignored his chilled-steel jaw 
 and was whipping him at his own game. In 
 vain Tony begged him to cover up and play for 
 a single finishing blow. Henry shook his head. 
 He was in the condition so aptly described as 
 "punch drunk." 
 
 [222] 
 
SCBAP IKON 
 
 "The best he'll ever get is a draw," said he 
 three minutes later, which was the same as ad- 
 mitting defeat. 
 
 "He's weakening fast," was O'Day's report, 
 "but I'll say this for him — ^he's a game dago !" 
 
 The sixth was a cruel period for Henry, but 
 he managed to weather it somehow. His gloves 
 seemed to weigh a ton apiece ; his shoes seemed 
 made of lead ; every swing of his tired arms cost 
 him an effort; every blow that found his bat- 
 tered stomach cost him excruciating pain; but 
 he continued the unequal struggle with all that 
 remained of the famous Iron Man — ^his blind 
 fighting instinct and his brute courage. He was 
 barely able to gasp when he rocked back to his 
 comer. 
 
 "Draw — sure. One tough — ^bird!" 
 
 "He can't stop you," said Tony, and knew 
 that he lied. 
 
 The seventh round saw the end of the contest 
 and the making of an interesting bit of ring 
 history. Henry fought till the last ounce of 
 strength was gone and then he began to stagger. 
 Quick^as a flash O'Day switched the point of 
 attack and whipped a savage uppercut home to 
 the unprotected jaw. 
 
 Henry reeled against the ropes ; his legs bent 
 under him and his hands dropped to his sides. 
 
 It was then that the redhead proved himself 
 a ring general. Nothing so plainly stamps the 
 real class of a fighting man as the manner in 
 which he goes about the delivery of the master 
 stroke. The bungler, dazzled by the prospect 
 
 [223] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 of early victory, loses Ms head and rushing in 
 tries to beat his victim to the floor with a flurry 
 of wild swings, none of which finds a vital spot. 
 The craftsman takes his time, 
 
 O'Day stepped back, measured the distance 
 with a cool and practiced squint, located the 
 target, and stepped in again swiftly. The blow 
 that ended the fight came all the way from his 
 knee, and the padded fist crashed home just be- 
 low and in front of the left ear. The Old 
 Master himself could not have done it better, 
 though the chances are that he might have been 
 a bit more merciful. The Iron Man collapsed 
 in a huddle of arms and legs, rolled over on his 
 side, quivered a few times and was still. 'Day 
 took one look at his work and started for his 
 corner, tearing at the glove lacing with his 
 teeth. The referee was already counting the 
 ten seconds that marked the passing of cham- 
 pionships, the ending of dreams, and the begin- 
 ning of stern realities. 
 
 Five minutes later Henry was able to leave 
 the ring. Those nearest the aisle leading to 
 the dressing room saw the tears streaming down 
 his cheeks and laughed at him. 
 
 "He seems to take it to heart," said one re- 
 served-seat patron to another. 
 
 "Oh, well, he gets paid for it," said the other. 
 
 Hoarse and breathless the gallery gave Henry 
 hail and farewell. 
 
 "It was a long time coming to him," said 
 [224] 
 
SCKAP IKON 
 
 the dollar customers, ''but when he got it he 
 got it good! . . . Some fight!" 
 
 Tony bolted the door of the dressing room be- 
 hind him. Then kneeling beside the rubbing 
 table he put his arms about Henry's heaving 
 shoulders and tried to comfort him. 
 
 "Don't take it so hard, old kid," whispered 
 Tony. "It's tough — ^it's awful tough, I know, 
 but the best of 'em get it some day. It's part 
 of the game. I'll make another match with this 
 fellow — ^" 
 
 Henry shook his head. 
 
 ' ' No, ' ' he mumbled ; " no more matches. I 'm 
 through. I been knocked out; licked first, and 
 then knocked out. I can't heed that guy. This 
 is my finish — ^good-by, ole Iron Man!" 
 
 " Don 't talk like that, ' ' begged Tony. ' ' You 
 didn't train much, but the next time " 
 
 Once more the broken gladiator shook his 
 head. 
 
 "There won't be no next time. Tou don't 
 understand, Tony. I been stopped, put out. 
 They won't call me the Iron Man no more. It's 
 me for the junk shop, like he said before the 
 fight." 
 
 "He said it after the fight, too, Henry. It 
 was when I got you back to the comer. He 
 came over to shake hands, but you — you didn't 
 know it. And he stood there and laughed. 
 'There's your brother!' he says — ^loud, so the 
 newspaper men coidd hear. 'Put him in a sack 
 and lug him back to the junk shop. Scrap iron 
 is worth a few cents a pound, anyway ! ' That's 
 
 [225] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 what he said, Henry. You ain't going to let 
 him get away with stuff like that, are you?" 
 
 ' ' How can I stop him ? ' ' wailed Henry. ' * He 
 told the truth, at that. I feel all busted up in 
 little pieces. Scrap iron, that's what I am now 
 ■ — scrap iron!" 
 
 rv 
 
 Very few modern gladiators retire to private 
 life without first receiving the silent hint of 
 empty chairs in the reserved-seat section. They 
 pull off their gloves only when assured that the 
 public will no longer pay to watch the last flick- 
 ering of the flame of youth. 
 
 Henry Mustolini exchanged one distinction 
 for another ; he quit the ring while still a draw- 
 ing card. There were other matches in pros- 
 pect; the first knockout registered against him 
 had revived interest in his remarkable career; 
 and there was a general demand for a second 
 meeting with O'Day. It came from the ring 
 patrons who had missed the first encounter and 
 therefore felt themselves defrauded. 
 
 "Nothing doing," said the pieces of the Iron 
 Man. 
 
 Tony argued and expostulated, but could 
 make no headway against the stubbornness that 
 was one of Henry's characteristics. 
 
 "They'll say you're a quitter." 
 
 "Let 'em." 
 
 ' ' They'll say you're afraid of 'Day. ' ' 
 
 "Well, that's all right." 
 
 Tony thought that it was all wrong, but in 
 [226] 
 
SCEAP IKON 
 
 time h.e accepted the situation with as much 
 grace as he could muster, and made a round of 
 the newspaper offices bearing the news that the 
 Iron Man had fought his last fight. 
 
 "You see," he explained, "we always figured 
 to quit when somebody came along and stopped 
 us. We don't have to fight if we don't want 
 to ; we got ours and we're going to hang onto it. 
 Our record is good enough to quit on — one hun- 
 dred and forty-seven fights, and only one knock- 
 down. "Where can you beat that ? ' ' 
 
 In the meantime the red-headed thunderbolt 
 who scrap-heaped the Iron Man reaped the re- 
 ward of the victor and had the Eialto all to 
 himself. O'Day purchased a ready-made suit 
 of an eye-aching plaid, some startling neckwear, 
 a cheap cameo ring, a cane with a handle of 
 imitation ivory, fashioned to represent the head 
 of an alligator, and patent-leather shoes with 
 uppers of mustard-colored cloth. After win- 
 ning two more battles in whirlwind style he 
 took himself out of town in search of further 
 conquests. 
 
 After 'Day's departure it was thought that 
 Henry would emerge from his retreat and adorn 
 the cigar stands and pool-parlor entrances as 
 of yore; but this was an error. Literally, as 
 well as figuratively, the Iron Man had gone back 
 to the junk shop, and there buried himself 
 among the bottles aad the sacks. No amount of 
 coaxing could make him show himself on the 
 street; he would not even attend the weekly box- 
 ing contests. 
 
 [227] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 "If I went." said he to Tony, "they'd call me 
 'Scrap Iron.' Yeh, him and the newspapers 
 hung that name on me — ^hung it on so it '11 stick. 
 I'll never get rid of it. I guess I '11 help the old 
 man wit' the business. It's all I'm good for 
 now." 
 
 A fair amount of pride is a blessing, and too 
 mueh of it is a curse, but the man who suddenly 
 finds himself stripped of the last shred of self- 
 respect is indeed to be pitied. In his simple, 
 elemental fashion Henry had taken great pride 
 in the title of Iron Man; losing it he felt that 
 he had lost everything that made life worth 
 living. 
 
 Tony, watching his brother closely, became 
 alarmed. He knew the mental collapse that 
 often follows years of solid punching about the 
 head, and he tried hard to rouse Henry from 
 his lethargy. Tony found him one day sitting 
 among the empty bottles and spelling out the 
 press notices of his past. 
 
 "You got to quit this, Henry," said he. "It 
 ain't doing you any good. You're letting your- 
 self get all out of shape." 
 
 "What do I want to stay in shape for?" asked 
 Henry dully. 
 
 "So's to be healthy, for one thing. Come 
 ont to the barn and put the gloves on with me. 
 It'll stir you up." 
 
 Henry protested, but Tony finally gained his 
 point, and from that time on the brothers boxed 
 daily, though nothing was ever said about a 
 return to the ring. When properly stung Henry 
 
 [228] 
 
SCEAP IKON 
 
 would lower his head and show flashes of his old 
 form. He seldom mentioned O'Day by name, 
 but the redhead was often in his thoughts, 
 
 "If somebody would only lick that guy," 
 he would say, apropos of nothing, "I'd feel 
 better about it. But he's winning right along. 
 They're touting him to be champion some day. 
 It was in the paper." 
 
 "If he gets to be champion," suggested Tony, 
 "so much the better for you. We can say it 
 took a champion to stop you. ' ' 
 
 "But I want him licked!" cried Henry. 
 ' ' Licked ! It 's about the only thing I do want ! ' ' 
 
 "Well," said Tony, "he'U get it one of these 
 days. They all do." 
 
 "And that's the truth," said Henry mourn- 
 fully, and would have continued the conversa- 
 tion along those lines, but Tony wisely changed 
 the subject. 
 
 Six months later O'Day returned to town 
 wearing two diamonds of the sort that looks 
 best by electric light, and the haughty manner 
 of a conquering hero. He brought with him a 
 brisk, weasel-faced little man who answered 
 to the name of Spider Foley, and who lost no 
 time in informing the newspaper men that he 
 was 'Day's manager and would soon make the 
 redhead a world's champion. He also stated 
 that O'Day was ready to box any lightweight 
 at any time and under any conditions, but the 
 real truth he told to Michael Callahan, the local 
 promoter of glove contests. 
 
 [229] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 "No," said the Spider, "we ain't here hunt- 
 ing a real fight. Of course, if we can pick up 
 something soft that's different. I'd let my boy 
 go on and spar an exhibition or kick over a set- 
 up, but nothing tougher than that. He's as 
 g'ood as matched with Young Daly now, and if 
 we lick Daly the old champ will have to take 
 notice of us. So we ain't taking chances. If 
 your folks here want to see O'Day, show us 
 money enough, find something soft and we'U 
 talk business. Your Iron Man is barred." 
 
 "Our Iron Man has quit," said Callahan. 
 "I'm hearing that he's gone just a little bit 
 daffy." 
 
 "O'Day thought he might want a return 
 match," said Foley, "and he barred him be- 
 cause we don't want to have to train for any- 
 body until we take on Young Daly. . . . WeU, 
 who can you get for us? And it better be 
 ten rounds. O'Day ain't enough of a boxer to 
 show up well in less." 
 
 Callahan inquired among the local pork-and- 
 beaners, but found them lacking in enthusiasm. 
 The wrecker of the Iron Man was greatly re-, 
 spected, and none of the local lightweights 
 wanted his game. With one accord they began 
 tp make excuses. Soapy Brodie mentioned a 
 ,wounded thumb and blamed a medicine ball. 
 Waterbury Holmes thought the short end of the 
 purse was too short. Dangerous Doyle needed 
 a month in which to train. CaUahan had nearly 
 abandoned hope, when a human sacrifice walked 
 iato his office. 
 
 [230] 
 
SCBAP lEON 
 
 ' ' Hello, Tony, ' ' said the promoter. * ' Haven 't 
 seen much of you lately, but I can give you the 
 answer now. O'Day won't fight your brother 
 again." 
 
 "I don't want him to," said Tony, "but — 
 how about me?" 
 
 "You!" 
 
 ' ' Me, "was the cahn reply. ' * Why not ? It 's 
 a set-up you're after, ain't it? O'Day is the 
 card, no matter who he meets. And then there 's 
 a lot of people round this town who have always 
 wanted to see me in the ring. I'll give 'em a 
 run for their money — ^while I last. . . . Speak- 
 ing of money, how much is the loser's end?" 
 
 An hour later Spider Foley heard the good 
 news, and O'Day, who had accompanied his 
 manager to Callahan's office, grinned as he 
 listened. 
 
 "It's bound to draw like a mustard plaster," 
 said Callahan, "because it's the Iron Man's 
 brother, and he's a natural-bom set-up — ^never 
 had a fight in his life. We can talk it up in the 
 newspapers and make it look like a case of 
 Italian revenge " 
 
 "And there might be something in it, too," 
 said O'Day. "That manager dago ain't stuck 
 on me — ^much. I saw it in his eye the night I 
 stopped his brother. . . . Oh, well, all I ask is 
 that you have him searched for a knife before 
 he gets into the ring!" 
 
 "Bunk!" exclaimed Callahan. "Tony ain't 
 after revenge; he's after the short end. He 
 [231] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 always was a wolf for the coin. He told me so 
 himself. Said he knew I wanted a set-up and 
 he didn't mind taking one on the jaw for a piece 
 of money. Tony's a business man." 
 
 "Well," said O'Day, "his brother was some 
 fighter, at that." 
 
 "When the familiar red bathrobe bobbed down 
 the aisle with Tony Mustolini inside it there was 
 a cheer from the gallery. It came from those 
 who had loyally supported the Iron Man during 
 his long campaign. They would have cheered 
 Henry, too, but he was not among the shirt- 
 sleeved attendants. 
 
 "If I should show up," he had explained to 
 Tony, "they'd 'Scrap Iron' me to death. I got 
 to see this battle, kid, but it'll be from 'way up 
 under the roof. And I never was no good as a 
 second anyway. . . . Whatever you do, Tony, 
 don't let that guy get at your belly. He'U tear 
 you in two ! ' ' 
 
 So when Tony's curly head ducked under the 
 ropes the Iron Man was in the very top row of 
 the gallery, his sweater rolled up to his ears 
 and his cap pulled low over his eyes. He dared 
 not cheer for fear of inviting recognition, and 
 he did not know how to pray. He was very 
 uncomfortable. 
 
 When the time came for introductions Tony 
 whispered something in Finnegan's ear, and 
 that worthy gentleman listened carefully and 
 [232] 
 
SCKAP IBON 
 
 did his best to look intelligent. Foghorn 's voice 
 was as clear as ever, and his ideas as clouded. 
 He muttered a rehearsal as he led Tony to the 
 middle of the ring. 
 
 ' "Scrap Iron Murphy, gen'elmen!" he bel- 
 lowed. "Scrap Iron Murphy!" 
 
 Now 'Day's remark at the close of the bat- 
 tle with the Iron Man had been given wide pub- 
 licity by the newspapers, and a roar of laughter 
 came from the packed house. The redhead, in 
 his comer, looked up suddenly, and a grin split 
 his homely countenance. Henry, safe under the 
 roof, dodged as if a blow had been aimed at 
 him. Foghorn Finnegan began to smile, for he 
 perceived that he had said something clever. 
 
 "What did Tony do that for?" Henry asked 
 himself. "Is he trying to kid me — or what?" 
 
 O'Day was wondering along the same lines, 
 and following his usual custom he exchanged 
 words with his opponent under cover of listen- 
 ing to the referee. 
 
 ' * Say, wop, where do you get that scrap-iron 
 stuff?" 
 
 "Say, Irish," countered Tony, "that's ad- 
 vertising. I'm in the junk business. After the 
 fight come down and climb on the scales. I'll 
 make a price on what's left of you — ^bum dia/- 
 monds and all. They're junk if ever I saw 
 any." 
 
 And then, without waiting to hear 'Day's 
 retort, Tony turned to his corner. The referee 
 grinned as he signaled the timekeeper. Before 
 the gong rang Tony took a comprehensive sur- 
 
 [233] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 vey of the gallery, but he could not locate Henry. 
 "Pretty cool for the first time out," said the 
 experts. "Look at him counting the house!" 
 
 Whang ! 
 
 'Day left his comer at a shuffling trot. He 
 had not thought it necessary to do much train- 
 ing for a set-up, and was therefore anxious to 
 win in a hurry. Infighting was his specialty, 
 and he planned to get close to his man and stay 
 there. To his intense disgust he discovered 
 that Tony had no inclination to play an oppo- 
 nent's game, but seemed to prefer long-range 
 sparring. 
 
 'Day hesitated an instant and then charged, 
 but ran plump into an extremely workmanlike 
 Jeft jab, which threw him off his balance and 
 spoiled the direction of his opening shot. 
 'Day struggled to close quarters, but suddenly 
 found both arms scientifically pinned by a 
 clinch. When he ripped out of that embrace a 
 short right hook came from nowhere and rocked 
 his bullet head on his shoulders. A cheer 
 dropped from the gallery. 
 
 "Aw, come on and fight!" growled O'Day. 
 
 "Come on yourself!" replied Tony through, 
 set teeth. " I 'm right here. ' ' 
 
 He was not there when O'Day rushed in with 
 a full-arm swing, and before the redhead could 
 recover his balance his nose, mouth and eyes 
 were full of stinging left jabs. 'Day's first 
 round was a succession of short savage rushes ; 
 of blows that were blocked ; of swings that went 
 wild; of baffling cliaches and wasted effort. 
 [234] 
 
SCEAP IRON 
 
 Tony, bright-eyed and alert, and having the 
 twin advantages of faster footwork and longer 
 reach, found much nse for his straight left jab, 
 and when the round ended there was a thin 
 streak of crimson on 'Day's chin. The cheer- 
 ing was all for Tony. Expecting nothing of the 
 Iron Man's brother, the spectators were agree- 
 ably surprised and told themselves that the bat- 
 tle would be a good one — as long as it lasted. 
 
 * ' Yeh, he 's clever, ' ' admitted 'Day to Foley ; 
 "but one good poke'U take all the speed outa 
 him." 
 
 "You got a nice lead," said Tony's chief ad- 
 viser. "Play him careful. Box him, that's 
 the stuff!" 
 
 For the next five rounds Tony boxed, while 
 the spectators marveled aloud at the value of 
 the talent that had been hidden ia managerial 
 soil. O'Day did everything in his power to 
 make the elusive Italian stand up and fight, but 
 Tony jabbed and sidestepped and clinched and 
 jabbed again, and never once did he risk an even 
 exchange of solid blows. The redhead's face 
 offered mute evidence that Tony's left hand 
 had a sting in it, and somewhere in the sixth 
 round it occurred to O'Day that training was 
 a very good thing, though he blamed the flat- 
 tened condition of his nose for the shortness of 
 Ms breath. 
 
 "He's beginning to grunt," said Tony in 
 his comer. " I 'U trade him a few next round. ' ' 
 
 "Don't be a sucker!" warned his advisers. 
 '* * Box him. Take a decision. ' ' 
 
 [235] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 The seventh, opened up much as the other 
 rounds had done, but Tony seemed to be grad- 
 ually increasing the pace. For more than two 
 minutes he boxed with O'Day, and then sud- 
 denly stepped close to his man and opened a 
 vicious short-arm assault on his stomach. The 
 first blow that landed was a jolty right-hander 
 with all Tony's weight behind it, and it hurt 
 O'Day; but he rallied instantly and replied in 
 kind. 
 
 Now it had been no trick to pump both fists 
 into Henry's stomach, but O'Day soon proved 
 to his own satisfaction that landing solidly on 
 Tony's midsection was quite another matter. 
 Tony was not swinging his blows, but shooting 
 them straight as arrows; what was more, he 
 was timing them accurately and blocking 
 shrewdly with his elbows. The redhead was 
 a stubborn fighter, but no fool. There was a 
 very serious expression on his battered counte- 
 nance as he went to his comer at the end of the 
 round. 
 
 The pavilion was in such a tremendous up- 
 roar during the minute's cessation of hostilities 
 that a small riot in the gallery attracted little 
 attention — such a riot as might be caused by 
 the sudden descent of a strong man from the top 
 row, via the heads and shoulders of the popu- 
 lace. It was Henry Mustolini, battling his way 
 to the ringside, and as he advanced he gave 
 tongue : 
 
 ' ' Clean him, Tony ! Clean him, kid ! ' ' 
 
 The redhead cast a sullen eye over the excited 
 [236] 
 
SCKAP IRON 
 
 audience. It was his left eye. The other was 
 closed to a purple slit. He drew breath in 
 short, sobbing gasps, and even in that moment 
 of stress he found something unpleasant to say: 
 
 "A set-up — ^hey? . . . You're a — hell of a-r- 
 manager !" 
 
 Somebody bounced through the ropes in the 
 other angle of the ring. It was the long-lost 
 Iron Man, and he hurled himself upon his 
 brother and would have kissed him but for the 
 interference of the handlers. These wisely der 
 cided that it was no time for consanguineous 
 affection. Henry's yell followed Tony as he 
 answered the summons of the gong: 
 
 "Clean him, kid! Clean him, kid! Clean 
 him for me ! ' ' 
 
 'Day, breathing like a leaky accordion, but 
 game as any wind-broken badger, met Tony 
 somewhere near the middle of the ring; and 
 this time no tantalizing left hand plumped into 
 his face. For seven rounds Tony had been 
 fighting cautiously, assuring himself of every 
 possible advantage. He opened the eighth with 
 a reckless two-handed assault on O 'Day's red 
 and laboring stomach. It might have been the 
 sight of Henry, wild-eyed and eager; it might 
 have been the knowledge that his man was 
 weakening fast ; at any rate Tony tossed science 
 outside the ropes and offered O'Day the one 
 thing he had been praying for — an even ex-, 
 change of the sort that had whipped the Iron 
 Man. 
 
 'Day flinched under the first blow, but low- 
 [237] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 ered his tousled thatch, set his teeth and called 
 up his heaviest guns for a counter attack. It 
 was do or die quickly with him now, and he knew 
 it. Had he gone into that toe-to-toe encounter 
 fresh and strong, the outcome would have been 
 problematical, but O'Day was bringing to that 
 open market a very sick stomach and a fatal 
 shortness of breath. There was nothing wrong 
 with his heart, however, and as he stood for- 
 ward to his bitter task the house rose with a 
 yell. Above the mighty chorus one voice soared 
 like the blast of a cracked bugle : 
 
 "Forme, kid! Forme!" 
 
 Tony made no pretense of blocking 'Day's 
 blows or tuning his own; he simply fought as 
 fast as his fists could fly. The first solid thump 
 that landed under Tony's heart shook him to 
 the knees ; the second one did not hurt so much ; 
 the third he scarcely felt. In point of blows 
 delivered it was nearly an even thing; in point 
 of punishment inflicted it was anything but a 
 fair exchange. 
 
 One man had trained on electric lights and 
 rich food; the other had been through a long 
 and careful preparation for just such an en- 
 counter as this. One man was floundering on 
 his feet; the other was putting the strength of 
 his unshaken legs into his punches, and lifting 
 them home with murderous effect. 
 
 At the end of a long, long minute 'Day be- 
 gan making futile attempts to block those tear- 
 ing short-arm jolts. A little later he folded 
 both arms across his tortured stomach, bent 
 [238] 
 
SCRAP IKON 
 
 forward from the waist, and threw up his bullet 
 head with a sudden jerk, butting Tony squarely 
 upon the bridge of the nose. It was a deliber- 
 ate foul — ^the last resort of a fighter made des- 
 perate by punishment. It was the first time 
 Tony had ever been fouled; pain and rage made 
 him a maniac. 
 
 A blind unreasoning instinct told Tony to con- 
 tinue the attack on 'Day's body, and savagely 
 he obeyed. Head down, stomach covered, 
 O'Day retreated before the doubled fury of 
 that assault. 
 
 It was no part of his plan to unfold his arms 
 and reply to it. Toward the end of the round, 
 when Tony had worn himself out, he would 
 
 ' ' Tony, the jaw ! The jaw ! ' ' 
 
 The words seemed to come from a great dis- 
 tance. Over and over and over again he heard 
 them, until at last they began to convey a mes- 
 sage to Tony's dazed brain. It was then that he 
 saw, none too clearly, the trap into which he 
 had fallen — ^the foul that had tricked him into 
 losing his head and wasting his strength. 
 
 He sensed in the crouching retreating figure 
 before him something more than defense; 
 O'Day, badly hurt and nearly at the end of his 
 string, seemed to be waiting, waiting. And 
 then, even as he flailed away at his staggering 
 foe, Tony felt elbows through his gloves and 
 became aware of the lowered guard and the un- 
 protected downtumed face. 
 
 "Tony, the jaw!" This time the message 
 came clear as a beU. 
 
 [239] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 O'Day, head bent and watching warily with 
 his one good eye, saw Tony's black shoes shift 
 suddenly upon the canvas, the left foot ad- 
 vanced, the right one drawn back ; he caught the 
 flash of a wet glove dropped to a level with the 
 right knee. He realized what was coming and 
 tried to lift his tired arms to proteci his face, 
 but even as they started to move, something 
 flicked his left wrist ever so lightly, something 
 traveling swiftly from below — and that flick of 
 the wrist was Martin 'Day's last definite im- 
 pression of the one battle that he will never 
 forget. 
 
 The full-arm uppercut that smashed his jaw 
 and ended his career picked him clear off the 
 floor and then dropped him miles deep in ob- 
 livion. 
 
 When 'Day recovered consciousness the first 
 thing he saw was an extended hand; the first 
 thing he heard was the even pleasant voice of 
 Tony Mustolini. He refused the hand, but 
 Tony's jocular remarks lingered with him for 
 many a day. 
 
 "Don't forget the number, Irish. Highest 
 price for junk of all kinds. Bring your dia- 
 monds along and weigh in. ' ' 
 
 Here a sneering face thrust itself over Tony's 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Going to be a champion, hey?" taunted the 
 Iron Man. "Scrap Iron, hey? Scrap Iron 
 yourself, and see how you like it ! " 
 
 "Gittuhell away from here!" screamed 
 [240] 
 
SCEAP IRON 
 
 Spider Foley. "Ain't yon done enough to 
 Mm? Can't you see his jaw is busted smack 
 in two!" 
 
 Later the Spider was more diplomatic. Hat 
 in hand he sought Tony in the dressing room. 
 
 "Listen," said Foley, "I am a man of few 
 words, but them words I mean. I thought I had 
 a champion of the world on my staff, but you 
 licked him — licked him good. Chances are, the 
 doc says, you ruined him for life. 'S all right. 
 No hard feelings. Now I got no use for a loser, 
 but if you'll put yourself under my pers'nal 
 management I'll ab-so-lutely guarantee to make 
 you the lightweight champion of the world in- 
 side a year. Yes, sir, champion of the world ! 
 "What do you say?" 
 
 "Nothing doing," said Tony. "Henry and 
 me, we bought the old man out last week. We 're 
 in the junk business " 
 
 "The junk business!" cried Foley. "But 
 you could be the champion! You licked 
 O'Day " 
 
 "Sure I did," said Tony, "but I licked him 
 as a favor to Henry, here. Didn't I, old boy?" 
 
 "Ain't it the truth!" grunted the Iron Man. 
 **You did something else too, kid. You showed 
 'em that all the Mustolini boys are game guys I 
 Come on, let's go home!" 
 
 [241] 
 
THE PEAEL BROOCH 
 
 MISS KITTY MAHONEY saw it first. It 
 was in Sol Solomon's window on Upper 
 Main Street. 
 
 As the pearl broocli plays an important part 
 in this story, it might be just as well to describe 
 it. It was about the size of a silver half dol- 
 lar, and of the circular design known as a sun- 
 burst. From its center tiny pearls radiated in 
 graceful curves, said center being marked and 
 accentuated by a diamond almond as large as 
 the head of a pin. 
 
 When Miss Mahoney 's eyes fell upon this gem 
 of the jeweler's art it was reposing chastely 
 upon a square of black velvet, flanked on one 
 side by a rubber-handled revolver and upon the 
 other by a collection of ancient coins. Beside 
 the velvet was a card, upon which was written : 
 "A Genuine Bargain!" 
 
 "Oh, see that pearl thing!" cried Miss 
 Mahoney. "Don't you think it's elegant, Mr. 
 Beaver? I always did love pearls. ' ' 
 
 Oscar Beaver squinted critically along his 
 five-cent cigar, shifted his weight from one foot 
 to the other, and replied heavily : 
 [242] 
 
THE PEAEL BROOCH 
 
 "Uh-huli!" he said. "Sure!" 
 
 Mr. Beaver was not a brilliant conversa- 
 tionalist. Physically and mentally, he was con- 
 structed along heavy, durable lines. Words 
 came from him reluctantly and in small instal- 
 ments. Just because a young man does not 
 talk with the thoughtless abandon of a parrot, 
 it does not necessg,rily follow that he cannot 
 think. Oscar Beaver was thinking deeply and 
 with all the concentration at his command. 
 There returned to his memory a chance remark 
 dropped by Miss Mahoney half an hour before : 
 
 ' ' My birthday is next month. On the tenth. ' ' 
 
 Even a very stupid young man might have 
 traced some subtle connection between that 
 statement and the voluble admiration of the 
 pearl brooch. 
 
 Miss Mahoney noticed his preoccupied air, 
 and as they moved away from the window she 
 said: 
 
 **Mr. Beaver, I wouldn't wish to have you 
 think for a minute that I 'm like some girls, hint- 
 ing around for a birthday present. I hope 1 
 got too much pride for that. But wasn't that 
 a lovely piece of j ew 'Iry ? ' ' 
 
 "Uh-huh!" said Mr. Beaver. "Sure was." 
 
 During the rest of the evening Mr. Beaver 
 was more silent than usual, and at eleven 
 o'clock, when Mr. Solomon was closing up for 
 the night, he had a caller. 
 
 "What do you get for that pearl thing in the 
 window?" demanded the visitor abruptly. 
 
 [243] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 "Vich pearl thing?" asked the proprie- 
 tor. 
 
 ' ' That round thing with the diamond in the 
 middle of it." 
 
 "Oh, dot sunburst!" said Mr. Solomon, sud- 
 denly beaming with enthusiasm. "Ah, my 
 friend, dot is a real bargain. Genuine pearls. 
 No imidation stuff. No gold plate. All good 
 goods. I give you my word. " 
 
 "Nix!" said Mr. Beaver shortly. 
 
 Mr. Solomon sighed. 
 
 "To you," said he, and his smile would have 
 melted ice. "I make the price forty-seven dol- 
 lars. If I should let you have it for forty-six 
 I lose money. Wait, my friend, I show it to 
 you. You know real pearls when you see 'em, 
 and " 
 
 "Uh-huh!" said Mr. Beaver as he vanished 
 through the front door. 
 
 "Hey! Come back!" wailed Mr. Solomon. 
 * ' Take it for forty dollars ! ' ' 
 
 Oscar Beaver did not hear him, and it would 
 have made no difference if he had. Seven dol- 
 lars one way or the other mattered little, and 
 it was the first question which lingered in the 
 young man's mind as he swung down the 
 street. 
 
 Forty-seven dollars! So far as Oscar was 
 concerned, the price of the pearl brooch might 
 as well have been forty-seven hundred. It 
 would have made the possession of the trinket 
 no less remote. 
 
 When a young man wrestles heavy packing 
 [244] 
 
THE PEABL BROOCH 
 
 cases at twenty-jBve cents an hour, and has a 
 mother and two small sisters to support — and 
 does it — there is very little left in the pay enve- 
 lope for pearl brooches. 
 
 Forty-seven dollars! And Miss Mahoney's 
 birthday was on the tenth of next month, Os- 
 car Beaver walked down the street, turning the 
 pearl brooch over and over in his mind — always 
 with the price tag attached. Plainly the thing 
 couldn't be done short of a miracle, and Oscar 
 Beaver had small acquaintance with miracles. 
 Miss Kitty Mahoney was the nearest thing to 
 one which had ever come into his dull life. 
 Forty-seven dollars! Oscar Beaver shook his 
 head. No, it couldn't be done. 
 
 The next morning he had no appetite, and his 
 mother questioned him anxiously : 
 
 "Don't you feel well this morning, son? 
 You ain't touched your fried mush." 
 
 "Aw, I'm all right," said Oscar stolidly. 
 
 "Where was you last night?" asked the 
 mother. ' * Out with the boys ? ' ' 
 
 "Naw!" said the son. "I was just walking 
 around." 
 
 "Maybe you didn't get enough sleep," sug- 
 gested Mrs. Beaver. "It was late when you 
 got in." 
 
 "Uh-huh!" said Oscar. 
 
 Mrs. Beaver looked after him as he left the 
 house, his lunch pail in his hand. 
 
 "I hope he ain't going to be sick," she said. 
 "He's been acting kind of funny lately. It 
 [245] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 ain't like Mm not to relish his food. If he 
 should get sick now " 
 
 Illness is a luxury which no young man can 
 afford at the rate of twenty-five cents an hour. 
 
 If any one had told Mrs. Beaver that her son 
 was "going with that Mahoney girl," she would 
 have been amazed and very possibly indignant. 
 
 "Oscar is a good boy," she used to boast to 
 the neighbors whose sons were not held up as 
 models of thrift and deportment. "He's as 
 steady as an old, married man. Never any beer, 
 never any gambling, never any foolishness with 
 the girls. Every Saturday night he brings his 
 envelope home to me, sealed up just the way he 
 gets it at the window. He wouldn't spend as 
 much as a five-cent piece on himself without ask- 
 ing me first. Ever since the old man died he 's 
 been just that way, and he's better to the kids 
 than his father ever was. That's the kind of 
 a boy to have!" 
 
 The neighbor women agreed with Mrs. Beaver 
 to her face, but shook their heads behind her 
 back. 
 
 "It ain't human nature," Mrs. Slattery used 
 to remark. "A boy's a boy, I say, and you 
 can't make an old man out of him. He's bound 
 to have his fun some time, as sure's you're 
 bom, and Oscar ain't going to be a slave to his 
 mother aU the days of his life. It ain't human 
 nature." 
 
 But self-denial, if practiced constantly, in 
 time becomes a habit of mind as well as of body. 
 JThe reliable Oscar, six years deep in a rut, ae- 
 
 [246] 
 
THE PEABL BEOOCH 
 
 cepted his lot with all the phlegmatic patience 
 of a beast of burden. The thing had to be done, 
 and that was all there was to it. 
 
 The men at the wholesale honse where he 
 worked once tried to alter Oscar's views. They 
 took him to task because of his habit of disap- 
 pearing on Saturday nights with his pay enve- 
 lope unopened. 
 
 "It's about time this guy bought a drink," 
 announced Jerry Gavigan, a teamster, and the 
 buUy of the stable gang. 
 
 "Buy your own drinks," growled Oscar. 
 
 One word hurried on to another, each one 
 harder than its predecessor. Finally Gavigan 
 crossed the line between wind and war with an 
 epithet calculated to stir the fighting spirit in 
 a Turk. Larry Delaney, stable boss, and ex- 
 pert in such matters, described the fight by 
 rounds in two short sentences : 
 
 "They was only two blows struck. Oscar 
 hit Jerry, and Jerry hit the floor." 
 
 Gavigan was taken to the hospital with a 
 broken jaw and three loose teeth. Oscar went 
 home to his mother with the seal on his pay 
 envelope unbroken. He explained to her that 
 a packing case fell on his right hand and bruised 
 the knuckles. 
 
 After that affair Oscar had a certain amount 
 of fighting to do. His swiftly won reputation 
 carried with it an obligation understood by 
 young men of his kind. Just as every Western 
 
 [247] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 killer of note became a target for lesser bad 
 men in search of fame, so did Oscar's men in 
 search of fame. It amounted to something to 
 whip the man who had whipped the redoubtable 
 Gavigan, and Oscar met the aspirants as they 
 came, though without enthusiasm. He never 
 moved aJx inch out of his way to find trouble, but 
 he never retreated an inch when trouble came 
 to find him. Patient, slow to anger, and of very 
 few words, he would wait until it became certain 
 that the only way out led through battle. Then 
 he would lower his head and charge like a bull, 
 his right fist cocked and primed at his side. 
 He seldom! had to hit a man more than once. 
 
 Oscar knew nothing of scientific boxing, and 
 cared less. When he fought his only idea was 
 to have it over as soon as possible, and the ele- 
 ment of personal dislike never entered into his 
 conflicts. After some time he came to feel a 
 grim satisfaction in his prowess, for fighting 
 was almost his only recreation. His fame 
 spread over the East Side and reached San Fer- 
 nando Street and the haunts of the railroad 
 men. 
 
 It was Miss Kitty Mahoney who gave Oscar 
 the first hint of his growing reputation. It hap- 
 pened at the Switchmen's baU, where he met the 
 yoimg woman, 
 
 "You ain't the Mr. Beaver that's such an 
 awful fighter, are you?" demanded Miss 
 Mahoney, with an arch smile. 
 
 Oscar's face turned the color of Flemish 
 sunset. 
 
 [248] 
 
THE PEAEL BROOCH 
 
 ' ' Aw, I've had a few mix-ups, I guess. Noth- 
 ing much." 
 
 ' * I think it 's simply terrible for men to fight, ' ' 
 cooed the young woman, one eye upon Charlie 
 Kitts, who had brought her to the ball. Charlie 
 was hovering in the background, glowering at 
 Oscar, restrained from violence only because 
 of the discretion which is the better part of 
 valor. 
 
 "Aw, I never go looking for it," muttered the 
 hero uncomfortably. "I never start nothing." 
 
 "But you wouldn't let anybody run over 
 you?" suggested Miss Mahoney sweetly. 
 
 "Huh-uh!" said Oscar. 
 
 That evening Charlie Kitts was treated to a 
 lesson in feminine tactics. Having brought 
 Miss Mahoney to the ball, he had every right 
 to expect a monopoly of her company, instead 
 of which he was forced to stand aside and watch 
 that lively young woman trying all her wiles 
 upon another youth, and that youth a "tough 
 guy" and a fighter. 
 
 At midnight Charlie took a firm grip on his 
 courage, and shouldered his way to Miss 
 Mahoney 's side. She was busily engaged in 
 conversation with Mr. Beaver, who was reply- 
 ing in monosyllables. 
 
 * ' Come on, kid ! ' ' said Kitts abruptly. " Let *s 
 get outa this. ' ' 
 
 "But I don't want to go home yet," said Miss 
 Mahoney, pouting. "It ain't late, is it?" 
 
 "Late enough," said Charlie sourly. "You 
 [249] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 know I got to go to work at five in the morning. 
 Come on!" 
 
 Miss Mahoney suddenly slipped her hand 
 through the crook of Oscar's elbow, and that 
 young man's whole body stiffened with pleasur- 
 able surprise. 
 
 "You go if you want to," she said calmly. 
 " I 'm going to stay. Mr. Beaver '11 see me home. 
 Won't you?" 
 
 "Sure thing!" said Oscar. "Sure thing!" 
 
 "Going to make a fool of me, are you?" 
 snarled Kitts. ' ' Got a new guy on your staff, 
 eh? Well, all I got to say is " 
 
 Oscar Beaver stepped forward, but Miss 
 Mahoney clung to his arm. 
 
 "You boys behave!" she cried shrilly. 
 " A-in't you ashamed of yourself, Mr. Kitts, to 
 be starting something right here on the floor 
 before everybody?" 
 
 "Aw," said Oscar, "he won't start nothing." 
 Then to the outraged Kitts: "Beat it!" 
 
 Charlie beat it. He explained afterward that 
 it was only his respect for the lady which kept 
 him from assaulting Oscar upon the spot. 
 
 Thus young Mr. Beaver came to regard him- 
 self as Miss Mahoney 's "steady company." It 
 was his first experience of the sort, and there- 
 fore very serious. 
 
 Kitty Mahoney was not without expert knowl- 
 edge of young men and their ways with a maid.. 
 She had tripped lightly through many affairs; 
 but Oscar Beaver, so strong, and yet so simple — 
 yes, even bashful to the point of timidity — ^wa* 
 [250] 
 
THE PEAELi BBOOCH 
 
 a new type to her. The young men whom she 
 had known were not overtimid. Most of them 
 had, attempted to kiss her — ^too soon — ^which is 
 to say that they took advantage of the very 
 first opportunity which presented itself. There 
 is in such mattery a time limit which should be 
 decently observed, and Miss Mahoney had a 
 stinging rebuke for those who failed to ob- 
 serve it. 
 
 "Quit that, freshie. I ain't that kind of a 
 girl. I don't let a man kiss me until I'm ac- 
 quainted with him. ' ' 
 
 It seemed to Miss Mahoney a remarkable 
 thing that Oscar Beaver had never presumed to 
 put his arm about her waist, never once tried 
 to kiss her. Eemarkable and aggravating. 
 She amused herself by putting him through his 
 paces after the fashion of a performing bear, 
 and it pleased her that the undefeated cham- 
 pion of the East Side and the terror of San 
 Fernando Street should hold her in such re- 
 spectful awe, obeying her lightest whim. She- 
 experimented with him after a scientific method 
 all her own. The hint about the pearl brooch 
 came under the head of an experiment. Miss 
 Mahoney, having dropped the seed and called 
 attention to it, waited the outcome with hope- 
 fulness. 
 
 "Hey, kid," said Larry Delaney to Oscar, 
 "want to make fifty bucks?" 
 
 "Quit your kidding," said Oscar, exploring 
 the contents of his lunch pail. 
 
 "This is no kid," said Larry. "This is on 
 [251] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 the level. Do you want to make fifty bucks?" 
 
 ""Well," said Oscar, selecting a corned-beef 
 sandwich, "I guess I could use the change! 
 What's the idea?" 
 
 "On the ninth of next month," explained 
 Larry, "there's going to be a big benefit per- 
 formance at the Grand Theater. Some fellow 
 is sick or dead, or something, and his lodge is 
 giving a blow-out to get some coin. Steve 
 Slattery is going to be there." 
 
 "Slattery, the fighter?" 
 
 "There ain't but one Steve Slattery, is there? 
 To make it a good drawing card, Steve offers 
 fifty bucks to any man who can last four rounds 
 with him." 
 
 Oscar looked up, his mouth open. 
 
 "Me!" he said, tapping his breast with the 
 remains of the sandwich. "Me get up there on 
 the stage with a. regular fighter ? Not on your 
 life!" 
 
 "Why not?" argued Larry. 
 
 "I never had a glove on in my life." 
 
 ""What difference does that make? You 
 wouldn't be expected to do anything but keep 
 him from knocking you out. If you stick the 
 four rounds you get the dough. That's soft 
 enough, ain't it?" 
 
 "It is — the way you say it," mumbled Oscar. 
 
 "Fifty bucks is a lot of money for one night's 
 work, ' ' said Larry. " If I was as husky as you 
 are I'd take a chance." 
 
 "Uh-huh!" said Oscar. 
 
 When the one-o'clock whistle blew, Oscar 
 [252] 
 
THE PEAEL, BROOCH 
 
 went to work with a germ planted deep in his 
 mind. Forty-seven from fifty leaves threa 
 
 in 
 
 That night he went walking with Miss 
 Mahoney. When a young man has no money in 
 his pockets it is not considered safe to walk in 
 the direction of the bright lights and the ice- 
 cream parlors ; but Oscar allowed Miss Mahoney 
 to lead him toward Upper Main Street. She 
 paused under the three golden balls. 
 
 "Why, it's still there!" she exclaimed. "I 
 was afraid somebody might have come along 
 and bought it." 
 
 "Uh-huh!" said Oscar. 
 
 "I wonder if it's so awful expensive?" 
 
 "Forty-seven dollars." Oscar blurted out 
 the words before he thought. 
 
 "Oh!" said Miss Mahoney. And she 
 squeezed Oscar's arm. 
 
 Once more Mr. Solomon had a late caller. 
 
 "AboTit that pearl thing," said Mr. Beaver. 
 "There ain't much chance for you to sell it 
 before the tenth of next month, is there?" 
 
 Mr. Solomon elevated his shoulders and wig- 
 gled his fingers. 
 
 "Make me a deposit," he said, "and I put it 
 in the safe until you come after it. Shall I put 
 it away for you?" 
 
 "M-m-well," said Mr. Beaver slowly, "don't 
 put it away exactly. Just kind of hold onto it 
 for me. Forty-seven bucks, wasn 't it ? " 
 
 [253] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 Mr. Solomon was a student of human nature. 
 Pawnbrokers usually are. Through, the shop 
 window he had observed Miss Mahoney earlier 
 in the evening. He regarded the pearl brooch 
 as sold — and for the top price. He could afford 
 to hold it at the figure. 
 
 Several- days passed. Once more Oscar 
 Beaver and the lady of his affections were tak- 
 ing the evening air, slightly tainted by the prox- 
 imity of a glue factory. 
 
 "There's going to be a.fine show at the Grand 
 next Thursday night," said Miss Mahoney. 
 "Everybody I know is going." 
 
 "Uh-huh!" said Oscar. 
 
 "Charlie Kitts wants me to go with him." 
 There was an unmistakable accenting of the last 
 word in the sentence. 
 
 "Is that guy still sticking around?'* asked 
 Oscar. 
 
 "I want to go the worst way, but I don't- 
 want to go with him. ' ' 
 
 Oscar saw that his hand was called. 
 
 "I'd take you myself," he said, "but I got 
 a date for next Thursday." 
 
 Miss Mahoney pouted. 
 
 "If that ain't the meanest thing!" she said. 
 
 "Aw, what do you want to go see a boxing 
 match for?" demanded Oscar. "It ain't no 
 place for a lady." 
 
 "But all the girls are going," persisted Miss 
 Mahoney. "There's going to be singing and 
 dancing and a regular vaudeville show. I'll bet 
 70u're going with another girl!" 
 
 [254] 
 
THE PEABL BEOOCH 
 
 ''Quit that stuff!" growled Oscar. "You 
 know better:" 
 
 "You said you had a date," said Miss 
 Mahoney. 
 
 "Well, I have. But it ain't with no girl, take 
 it from me." 
 
 "And you can't take me?" 
 
 Oscar shook his head. 
 
 "Not a chance; I would if I could, but I 
 can't." 
 
 "You could break that old date if you cared 
 anything about me ! " 
 
 "That's just the reason I can't break it." 
 
 "Pshaw! I don't believe it!" 
 
 "Don't, then." 
 
 "Would you be mad if I went with some one 
 else?" 
 
 ' * Not mad at you. ' ' 
 
 "A girl likes to go to a show once in a while. 
 I ain't been to a show since I — since I don't 
 know when." 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't go to this one." 
 
 "But why? What's the matter with it?" 
 
 ' ' I can 't tell you why, but I wish you wouldn 't, 
 that's all." 
 
 "You're just jealous — ^that's all the matter 
 with you." 
 
 "Of Kitts? Where do you get that stuff? 
 Forget it!" 
 
 "You ain't got the right to dictate who I 
 shall go with!" 
 
 "I ain't trying to, I'm just asking* yon not 
 to go next Thursday night." 
 
 [255] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 ''Suppose I don't go with Charlie Kitts?" 
 
 "Don't go with anybody. Stay at home." 
 
 "Huh! That ain't any fun. I haven't been 
 a single place for weeks, and when I've got a 
 chance to go somewhere you kick about it. 
 Don't you think that's selfish?" 
 
 "Maybe. But I don't want you to go. I'll 
 tell you why afterward." 
 
 ' ' Tell me now. ' ' 
 
 "I can't." 
 
 After a conversation of this sort, what more 
 natural than that Miss Mahoney should make 
 up her mind that Oscar's unreasonable request 
 was based upon a dog-in-the-manger policy? 
 His failure to make any explanation fought 
 heavily against him, and there might have been 
 an open rupture had not Miss Kitty remem- 
 bered, just in the nick of time, that Oscar had 
 taken the trouble to price the pearl brooch. 
 That meant something. It is inadvisable to 
 quarrel with a "gentleman friend" upon the 
 eve of one's birthday, as every young woman 
 knows. 
 
 Because of this, Oscar Beaver was allowed to 
 go away thinking that he had won his point. 
 In her feminine way, Kitty Mahoney was some- 
 thing of a strategist. 
 
 IV 
 
 Steve Slattery sat in his dressing room at the 
 Grand Theater while one of his satellites laced 
 his fighting shoes. Through an open door 
 
 [256j 
 
THE PEAEIi BBOOCH 
 
 came the braying of vaudeville vocalists, the 
 whang of an orchestra, and the rapid clatter of 
 dog steps. Stage hands stole glances at the 
 star of the evening, for Slattery was a great 
 man — in the provinces. Once he had almost 
 whipped a champion. Steve's manager entered, 
 carrying a pair of boxing gloves. 
 
 "How 'bout him?" demanded the fighter. 
 
 "A tapioca," said the manager, whose name 
 was Kahn. ' ' Something soft. Says he 's never 
 been in the ring before. All he's got to wear 
 is a bathing suit and rubber-soled shoes." 
 
 "You never can tell about these four-round 
 exhibitions," said Steve oracularly. "They're 
 liable to slip over a ringer on you any time." 
 
 "No chance," said the manager. "This is 
 just one of those rough guys. I've picked most 
 of the padding out of these gloves." 
 
 * ' Fair enough, ' ' said Slattery. * * Now for the 
 bandages. Did you get that tea lead?" 
 
 A judicious mixture of adhesive tape and tea 
 lead — tin-foil has also been used — ^put on a 
 fighter's hand by an expert amounts to some- 
 thing very like brass knuckles. When, in addi- 
 tion to this, the padding is removed from cer- 
 tain portions of the glove, a blow jars heavily 
 and cuts like a knife. Slattery was taking no 
 chances, even though the management guaran- 
 teed the fifty in case it should be required. It 
 was his reputation he was thinking of. He 
 grinned as he watched Kahn's deft fingers at 
 work. 
 
 [257] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 "Hey, don't put on too mucli of that stuff," 
 said he. 
 
 "We should worry!" said the manager. 
 "What do you care what happens to this guy?" 
 
 "I ain't worrying about him," said Steve; 
 "but if you get on too much of that stuff I might 
 break my hands." 
 
 Slattery occupied the star dressing room. 
 Away down the other end of the corridor, in a 
 five-by-seven coop, Oscar Beaver, considerably 
 more than half naked, and pink with embarrass- 
 ment, nervously listened to the advice which 
 Larry Delaney poured into his ears: 
 
 "Don't get it in your head that you can hurt 
 this fellow, and, whatever .you do, don't mix 
 with him. Clinch as much as you can, and cover 
 up your jaw. Listen to that!" 
 
 A great roar came from the male portion of 
 the audience. 
 
 ' ' That 's Steve, ' ' said Larry= * ' He 's going to 
 punch the bag and a few stunts first. Better 
 get out into the wings now, and, remember, 
 don't look at the crowd. You might get stage 
 fright." Oscar moved along the narrow pas- 
 sageway like a man in a dream. Then for what 
 seemed like a very long time he waited between 
 high canvas walls, listening to the quick, drum- 
 ming thud of a punching bag. The sound died 
 away at last, and he heard a voice announcing 
 the "event oif the evening, a four-round bout be- 
 tween Steve Slattery, the pride of the Pacific 
 coast, and an unknown." 
 [258] 
 
THE PEABL BROOCH 
 
 "GVan!" hissed Larry in Ms ear. "Get 
 out there!" 
 
 Oscar stumbled forward ; a bright light shone 
 in his eyes, and a wave of warm air, heavily 
 laden with cheap perfume, almost choked him. 
 He was on the stage for the first time in his 
 life. 
 
 A young woman in the third row caught 
 her breath sharply, and her escort chuckled 
 nervously. 
 
 "Why, look who's here!" he sneered. "I 
 don't wish your friend any bad luck, but he's 
 got an awful nerve going up against a real 
 scrapper." 
 
 "Can't we get out?" whispered Miss 
 Mahoney. "I want to go homei" 
 
 "And have everybody laughing at you I" said 
 Mr. Kitts. "I guess not!" 
 
 "And to think I've been going around with 
 him!" murmured the young woman. 
 
 "You oughta be more careful of your com- 
 pany," said Kitts. "Eemember, I told 
 you " 
 
 Still in a trance, Oscar was shunted down 
 toward the footlights, and introduced as "The 
 Unknown." There was prolonged cheering, 
 not unmixed with catcalls and howls. Many 
 friends of Oscar's victims were in the house. 
 
 The excitable Delaney, stripped to undershirt 
 and trousers as is the custom of seconds and 
 advisers, a sponge in one hand, a bucket in the 
 other, and a bath towel draped oyer his shoul- 
 
 [259] 
 
TAKING THE COTTNT 
 
 ders, jerked his head toward the small ring. 
 
 "Git in your comer!" he said. 
 
 Oscar found himself sitting on a stool, a rope 
 chafing the back of his neck. Delaney was fum- 
 bling with the gloves — great, clumsy affairs, 
 with many layers of padding over the knuckles. 
 Across the way the same office was being per- 
 formed for a thick, hairy man who had an un- 
 pleasant smile. 
 
 A third man beckoned from the middle of the 
 ring, and Oscar advanced, obeying a vicious 
 prod from Delaney. 
 
 "What are they doing now?" quavered Miss 
 Mahoney. 
 
 "The referee is tellin' 'em about the rules," 
 said Kitts. 
 
 But this is what Kahn was saying to Oscar : 
 
 ' ' Take a brace, you big stiff ! We ain 't going 
 to kill you — not in the first round, anyway. 
 And if you lay down Steve will lick you in the 
 dressing room. Understand?" 
 
 Oscar nodded. 
 
 Soon afterward a bell rang, and Oscar went 
 forward to meet the thick, hairy man, who, 
 instead of beginning to fight, circled about him 
 with his left hand advanced. Oscar turned, too, 
 as if on a pivot. Suddenly, and without warn- 
 ing, something hard and heavy caught him 
 squarely on the bridge of the nose, and drove 
 his head back until it seemed that his neck must 
 snap under the strain. For an instant the pain 
 blinded Oscar, but when his eyes cleared there 
 was the hairy man, dancing in front of him. 
 [260] 
 
THE PEAEL BKOOCH 
 
 Oscar shook his head and plunged forward. 
 Again his head snapped back on his shoulders, 
 and he felt a warm flow upon his lips. 
 
 "That's it, Steve!" said the referee. "Cut 
 him to pieces with your left, and then cross him 
 with the right." 
 
 Slattery closed in, and began shooting his 
 leaded left with pitiless accuracy. Every jab 
 ■went straight to the mark, for Oscar did not 
 know enough to cover or clinch, and the pro- 
 fessional gave him no time to set himself for 
 the only punch he knew — a right swing. In 
 two minutes the undefeated champion of the 
 East Side was reeling from one side of the ring 
 to the other, blind, dizzy, choked with blood, and 
 all but helpless. 
 
 "It's a bum show!" ^Tinted Slattery to the 
 referee. "I'll let him go another round." 
 
 When the bell rang Oscar started for the 
 wrong comor, but'Delaney sprang after him 
 and towed him back to his own stool. 
 
 "What's the matter with you?" snarled 
 Larry. "Why don't you clinch? Get those 
 gloves up over your face. He'll murder you 
 if you don't." 
 
 Oscar mumbled something through thick lips. 
 
 "Can't hit him!" said Larry. "Nobody 
 thought you could, but that's no reason why you 
 should stand up there like a cigay-store Indian 
 and let him jab the face off you! Duck, you 
 fool! Lay all over him, and clinch. It's your 
 only chance." 
 
 Oscar's head was still humming when De- 
 [261] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 laney pushed Mm into tlie middle of the ring for 
 the second round, but he remembered enough of 
 Larry's sermon to save him for the first thirty 
 seconds. He staggered to close quarters, and, 
 holding on with one arm, flailed wildly with the 
 other, while Steve grinned and the gallery 
 roared. Then a snapping uppercut drove him 
 backward to the ropes, and once more the pro- 
 fessional went to work with his left. Toward 
 the end of the round, when Oscar was rocking 
 and stumbling nke a drunken man, Kahn nodded 
 at his fighter. 
 "That's enough," he said. "Finish him!" 
 Oscar heard the words, and understood. 
 Through a red mist, he saw Slattery steady him- 
 self, Ms right hand poised. "When the glove 
 moved Oscar ducked Ms head, guided only by 
 the blind instinct of self-preservation. The 
 punch, with every ounce of Slattery 's strength 
 beMnd it, caught bim two inches above the left 
 ear, and sent him reeling across the ring and 
 against the ropes. 
 Women screamed, and the gallery shouted: 
 "Knock Mm out, Steve! Stop him, Slat- 
 tery!" 
 
 But Slattery stood stiU in the middle of the 
 ring, Ms right hand dangling at Ms side, and 
 a queer, twisted expression upon his ugly face. 
 Obeying a sign from his manager, he advanced 
 and the men were locked in a clinch when the 
 bell rang. 
 "You're all right!" crackled Larry Delaney 
 [262] 
 
THE PEAKL BROOCH 
 
 hysterically. "He can 't hurt you with the right 
 hand." 
 
 "Can't hurt me!" mumbled Oscar. "Feel 
 that lump on my head!" 
 
 There was a disagreement in Slattery's cor- 
 ner also. 
 
 ' ' I told you not to put so much of that stuff 
 on my hands," growled Steve. "I busted my 
 hand on that big stiff ! It 's all your fault, too. ' ' 
 
 "You only think it's broke," said Kahn. 
 
 "I wish you had it instead of me," said the 
 fighter. "I've busted my hands often enough 
 to know. I copped him right on the top of that 
 thick head of his. Wow — ^but it hurts ! " 
 
 "You can stop him with your left," urged 
 Kahn. "You don't need your right for a bum 
 like this fellow." 
 
 "It's easy for you to talk," grumbled Slat- 
 tery. 
 
 Oscar's stage fright was wearing away by de- 
 grees, and in the third round he actually blocked 
 a few of the cutting lefts which Slattery shot at 
 his battered features, and essayed several giant 
 swings, which, though they missed the mark by 
 a foot or so, made him friends in the gallery. 
 He paid for his temerity with a rapidly clos- 
 ing eye and several new cuts. At the end of the 
 round he walked unsteadily to his comer, and 
 the gallery cheered him. 
 
 "0-o-o-h!" shuddered Miss Mahoney. "I 
 can't bear to look at him ! Isn't it horrible?" 
 
 "Slattery's only fooling with him," said 
 [263] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 Eatts, hopefully. " He '11 never let him last the 
 next round. He can 't afford to. ' ' 
 
 The final round opejued like a whirlwind. 
 Stung by the taunts of the gallery, Steve rushed 
 in like a preliminary fighter, stabbing, ripping, 
 and uppercutting with his left. Oscar clinched 
 repeatedly, but once Slattery caught him under 
 the chin in the break-away and dropped him to 
 the floor. Kahn began to count rapidly : 
 
 "One, two, three, four " 
 
 "No, you don't!" said Oscar thickly, stum- 
 bling to his feet. 
 
 "Have I got to kill you?" panted Slattery. 
 "Why don't you be reasonable and lay down?" 
 
 ' ' Because you can 't make me ! " said Oscar. 
 
 The theater was in an uproar. Men rose in 
 their seats and howled advice. Women cov- 
 ered their faces and peeped through their fin- 
 gers, squeaking hysterically. Battered, bruised, 
 and loose at the knees, Oscar staggered about 
 the roped inclosure, wide open to every attack. 
 His hands were at his sides, for he was too 
 weak and dazed to lift them. Long before he 
 had ceased to feel the pain of the blows that 
 had rained upon his face. He was conscious 
 only of the impact as the leaded knuckles drove 
 home. 
 
 "Quit, you fool!" said Kahn. "You'U be 
 murdered!" 
 
 A slight rocking motion of the head was the 
 only sign that the boy heard and understood. 
 
 When the bell rang he was hanging upon the 
 ropes, helpless ; and Slattery, who had fought 
 [264] 
 
THE PEAEL BBOOCH 
 
 himself into utter exhaustion, was pecking away 
 at his face with weak lefts. 
 
 A third time Mr. Solomon had a late caller — 
 a young man with two black eyes, the right one 
 tightly closed, and variously held together with 
 sticking plaster. So awful was the apparition 
 that language forsook the pawnbroker. 
 
 "Got that pearl thing?" asked the battered 
 one through puffed lips. 
 
 "I give you my word," said Mr, Solomon, "I 
 wouldn't have Imown it was you. What hap- 
 pened?" 
 
 "Had a fight," mumbled Oscar. "Hurry 
 pp and gimme that thing. I want to go home." 
 
 He produced two twenty-dollar gold pieces 
 and some silver. Mr. Solomon, exclaiming to 
 himself, hastened to obey. 
 
 On the night of the tenth of the month Oscar 
 Beaver crossed the small lawn in front of the 
 Mahoney residence. Kaw beefsteak and pink 
 courtplaster had done something for him, but 
 not enough to risk the lights of the parlor. 
 "What he had to say would be said on the front 
 porch — in the dark — and the fingers of his right 
 hand clutched a small plush box. 
 
 His foot was on the lower step when he heard 
 voices, and through the open window came the 
 smooth tones of Mr. Charles Kitts : 
 
 "Of course if I'd ha' known about it in time, 
 I wouldn't have taken you to«the show. I know 
 how you feel about it." 
 
 "Never mention his name to me again," said 
 [265] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 Miss Mahoney. "The idea of him mixing up 
 with prize fighters, and then having the nerve 
 to come around here! The idea!" 
 
 "I'd have to want fifty dollars pretty bad to 
 take what he got," said Mr. Kitts. "Did you 
 see his nose?" 
 
 "Yes," said Miss Mahoney, with a laugh. 
 ' ' Didn 't he look too funny for any use ? " 
 
 Oscar Beaver removed his foot from the 
 lower step, and backed slowly away into the 
 darkness. 
 
 Mr. Solomon, protesting violently that the 
 thing couldn't be done, took the pearl brooch 
 back at thirty dollars. It is now in the window, 
 and Miss Mahoney has often called Mr. Kitts' 
 attention to its singular beauty. So far Mr. 
 Kitts has been able to compromise on a basis 
 of ice cream soda and a trip to the moving- 
 picture show. 
 
 Oscar Beaver has promised his mother that 
 he will never fight again, and the chances are 
 that he will keep his word. 
 
 [266] 
 
THE EEVENGE OF KID MOEALES 
 
 THE records of the old Spanish, mission at 
 Santa Barbara prove that he was chris- 
 tened Manuel Carlos Eodriguez, but it 
 was not under that mouthful of musical syllables 
 that he rose in the world, the first Mexican pugi- 
 list of prominence. We now have several 
 swarthy battlers — some of them very good ones 
 and some very bad — ^but it was Manuel (pro- 
 nounce that Mon-weU, please) who blazed the 
 new trail and demonstrated that a Mexican does 
 not always need a knife when he goes to war. 
 Like the average drug derk, Manuel had some- 
 thing just as good, if not better. His right 
 hand carried the anaesthetic when delivered from 
 any possible angle — ^uppercut, hook, cross, jab, 
 or swing. If all Mexicans were similarly gifted 
 our champions would hail from the sister re- 
 public, and Sheffield would be forced to find a 
 new market for her cutlery. 
 I Manuel Carlos began fighting at the mature 
 age of seven, not because he liked it but because 
 he attended a public school where the "railroad 
 Irish ' ' predominated. ' ' Licking the greasers ' ' 
 was a daily diversion, and Manuel furnished 
 
 [267] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 his share of the entertainment for at least five 
 years, when he discovered, quite by accident, 
 that he could strike a harder blow with his right 
 hand than any other boy in the school. 
 
 "Toughie" Gallegher, the champion of Ana- 
 capa Street and the beach section, gave Manuel 
 the opportunity to make this important discov- 
 ery. Toughie was fourteen, and large for his 
 age; Manuel was twelve and correspondingly, 
 small, but this earned him no sympathy. He 
 was the only "greaser" in sight, and Toughie 
 was spoiling for a fight. Manuel had learned 
 by bitter experience that running away was use- 
 less ; it only postponed the evil day and added 
 to the punishment when caught, so he sullenly 
 took off his coat and faced the inevitable. 
 
 Toughie, safe in the knowledge that he could 
 end the fight whenever he saw fit, prolonged 
 the agony cruelly. He toyed with his small op- 
 ponent, jabbing him first in one eye and then in 
 the other, between whiles paying attention to his 
 nose and mouth. Manuel fought with the des- 
 peration of a cornered tabby cat, but his frantic 
 rushes and ineffective swings brought nothing 
 but hilarious applause from the audience. 
 
 At last Toughie paused, and looked upon his 
 work, well satisfied with himself. Manuel's eyes 
 were puffed, his nose was trickling gore, and his 
 lips were split. 
 
 "You're a game little greaser, anyway," said 
 Toughie magnanimously. ' * Here, see if you can 
 hit me once." He dropped his hands at his 
 
 [268] 
 
THE EEVBNGE OP KID MORALES 
 
 sides, thrust out his chin, and braced himself, 
 legs wide apart. 
 
 Manuel doubled up his right fist into a ball, 
 and hurled himself forward, striking with every 
 ounce of strength in his lean little body. Toughie 
 saw the blow coming, and drew back his head, 
 just far enough to bring the point of his chin 
 into violent contact with the brown fist. He had 
 intended to make Manuel miss, and kick him 
 on the shins before he could recover his balance, 
 but the Mexican was a poor judge of distance, 
 and overshot the mark; the blow which should 
 have landed back of the ear caught the cham- 
 pion of Anacapa Street fairly on the point. 
 Toughie Gallegher staggered backward and 
 went down like a log. Manuel stood astride 
 of him for an instant, his eyes flashing and his 
 teeth bared. When he saw that his tormentor 
 was unconscious, all the pent-up rage of five 
 years boiled over in his soul. He threw himself 
 upon the prostrate bully and began mauling him 
 with both hands. I regret to say that he used 
 his finger nails as well, and when the other boys 
 dragged him away, screaming and swearing by 
 turns, he had left his permanent mark upon 
 Toughie 's face in the shape of a deep twin fur- 
 row from the outer comer of the left eye to the 
 chin. 
 
 "An' the nex' fella what go to fight me," 
 yelled Manuel hysterically, ' ' I keel him ! I tear 
 the eyes out ! I keel him ; you see if I don ' I " 
 
 That was Manuel's first victory. He paid for 
 it with a dozen unmerciful whippings, for 
 
 [269] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 Toughie was bent on wiping away the disgrace 
 of that knockout, but lie could not beat out of 
 Manuel's head the memory of that moment when 
 he saw the redoubtable Gallegher flat in the 
 grass. 
 
 The time soon came when Toughie thought 
 twice before going to war with the little Mexi- 
 can. Billy Willis, a retired lightweight of local 
 reputation, taught Manuel to box. The boy 
 picked up the rudiments of the game as a pigeon 
 picks up wheat. He had aU the lithe, catlike 
 grace of the men of his blood, which, under in- 
 struction, developed into a fast, tricky defense, 
 and coupled with the tremendous power of his 
 right-handers, made him cock of the walk. At 
 eighteen he ruled over the beach district like a 
 czar. 
 
 At nineteen he weighed one hundred and 
 twenty-five pounds ; Toughie Gallegher weighed 
 one hundred and ninety and drove a truck when 
 sober. There are some who remember how Man- 
 uel pulled that overgrown lout from the driver's 
 seat and thrashed him in the middle of State 
 Street for all Santa Barbara to see. 
 
 From this matinee performance it was but a 
 step to the ring. Billy Willis took his protege to 
 Ventura, where, under the name of "Kid Mo- 
 rales," he won a fierce seven-round encounter 
 with an unknown featherweight from Los An- 
 geles who had been tempted from home by the 
 promiise of a soft mark. 
 
 "If this greaser is soft," said the victim, 
 [270] 
 
THE REVENGE OF KID MOKAUES 
 
 "what are the hard ones like? He's got a kick 
 like a mule!" 
 
 Kid Morales received nine dollars as his share 
 of the purse, and bought his mother a shawl and 
 a pair of shoes with the money. His next little 
 journey was to Oxnard, where he fought the 
 lightweight champion of the beet fields, and 
 whipped him in three whirlwind rounds. People 
 began to point him out on the street, and speak 
 of him as "Kid Morales, the fighter." Manuel 
 bought a new suit of clothes for eight dollars, 
 and tasted the sweets of public recognition. 
 
 Inside of a year he fought a dozen battles, 
 winning nine of them by knockouts, and losing 
 but one decision on points. Unquestionably a 
 clever manager might have made a champion 
 out of him by taking charge at this period of 
 his development, but Billy Willis liked whisky 
 too well to be very much interested in anything 
 else, and allowed Manuel to degenerate into a 
 typical pork-and-bean preliminary fighter — a 
 yoimg man without a trade or desire to work, 
 no horizon beyond the next cheap fight, 
 and no prospects save th^ immediate dollar. 
 This was a pity, for Manuel had many good 
 points, but good points are always the ones 
 soonest blunted by idleness. A steady job would 
 have made another man out of Manuel. 
 
 Between fights he lounged about the street 
 comers, smoking cigarettes and talking about 
 himself. If his word was doubted he was always 
 ready to furnish proof, and because there was 
 no one to tell him that he was throwing away 
 
 [271] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 salable material Manuel wasted at least ten 
 thousand dollars ' worth of hooks and swings in 
 barrooms and back alleys for which he received 
 nothing — ^not even credit. 
 
 Worse than all else, he developed a taste for 
 raw whisky, and when he ' ' had an edge on" was 
 inclined to be vindictive and quarrelsome. In 
 one of these ugly moods he disagreed with Billy 
 Willis, and, after whipping his manager very 
 thoroughly, Manuel drifted away from the home 
 town, determined to fend for himself in the fu- 
 ture, and give no man a cut of his earnings. 
 His mother heard from him occasionally — al- 
 ways with a money order inclosed — and by the 
 blue slip she knew that Manuelito had been 
 fighting again. 
 
 Kid Morales played his lone hand for two 
 years with varying fortunes. He would not 
 train faithfully — as a matter of fact, he did not 
 know how — but he was always willing to fight, 
 and this made him popular with certain man- 
 agers who were quick to take advantage of 
 Manuel's lack of business instinct. As a gen- 
 eral thing, he asked but two questions about a 
 match— "When?" and "How much?" 
 
 One morning Kid Morales was sitting in the 
 outer office of a successful fight promoter, wait- 
 ing to borrow two dollars on the strength of his 
 last victory. At last he was admitted to the 
 sanctum of the great man. 
 
 "Hello, Morales!" said the promoter — call 
 him Smith for short. "You're the very fellow 
 I've been wanting to see. Sit down." 
 [272] 
 
THE EEVENGE OP KID MOEALES 
 
 Kid Morales sat down and turned tis som- 
 brero over and over in Ms hands. He had never 
 before been asked to take a chair in the inner 
 office — his business was usually transacted 
 standing. 
 
 "Kid," said Smith, "can you do the light- 
 weight limit?" 
 
 * ' Sure ! ' ' answered the fighter. ' ' For a long 
 time I don't make weight, but I think I can do 
 her all right." 
 
 * ' How 'd you like a main event ? ' ' asked Smith. 
 
 "Weeth who?" demanded Morales, surprised 
 into caution. 
 
 "Charlie Duffy," said Smith, eying Morales 
 shrewdly. 
 
 "Hoi" said Morales. "That fella he leeck 
 Yo'ng Murphy an' Keelpatrick, an* that 
 bunch?" 
 
 "He's the one," said Smith. "Tough guy. 
 Do you want him ? ' ' 
 
 Morales lighted a cigarette, blew a puff into 
 the air, waved his hands airily, and smiled. 
 
 "I fight anybody, everybody," he said, with a 
 grin. "Fightin'j she's my business. "What I 
 care, eh ? How much I get for it ? " 
 
 "Two hundred and fifty." 
 
 "Win, lose, or draw?" 
 
 Smith nodded. 
 
 " Ha ! " chuckled Morales. * ' I fight weeth oP 
 Jim Jaffray for that much coin!" 
 
 ' ' Good I ' ' said Smith. " I 've been after Duffy 
 for the last six months, and now he says he'll 
 take the July date, but because he's going to 
 
 [273] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 fight in San Francisco in September he won't 
 take on either Peterson or Dunn. They're pretty 
 tough birds themselves, and Duffy has been side- 
 stepping 'em, but he says I can pick any one 
 else, and it will be all right. If you are sure you 
 can make the weight, you'll get the match." 
 
 Kid Morales glanced down at the slight bulge 
 in his waistline. 
 
 "I got little belly on me," he said modestly, 
 "but she come right ofE soon as I go on the road 
 a few times." 
 
 "No more booze now," warned Smith, "and 
 ease up on those cigarettes. You go out to Ma- 
 haffey's place, and tell him I sent you there 
 to train. I'll pay your expenses, you furnish 
 your own sparring partner." 
 
 "AU right," said Kid Morales. 
 
 That afternoon Smith wrote a letter to Duf- 
 fy's manager, from which a paragraph might 
 be quoted: 
 
 He ia a Mexican and a sort of a tramp, but he has won 
 three flghta in the town — all with bums — and he should be a 
 fair sort of a card, though, of course, DufEy would draw, 
 matched with any one. Duffy ought to drop him inside of five 
 rounds, as Morales takes no care of himself, and has never 
 really trained for a fight in his life. Better come on here as 
 Boon as you can, and make a bluff at working to stimulate the 
 interest. We don't want to make it look too ea^. 
 
 n 
 
 Bad Morales, quartered at Mahaffey's road 
 
 house, assured of three meals a day, and two 
 
 , hundred and fifty doUars after the fight, allowed 
 
 nothing to worry him. Duffy, he knew, was a 
 
 [274] 
 
THE EEVENGB OP KID MORALES 
 
 prominent contender for the lightweiglit oham- 
 pionship, a fast boxer, a tremendous punisher, 
 and a clean finisher, but these things did not 
 disturb the Mexican. He was to get as much 
 for losing as for winning, and two hard years 
 had knocked the last spark of ambition out of 
 his soul. In all probability Duffy would win, 
 but two hundred and fifty dollars would buy a 
 suit of clothes and unlimited whisky and ciga- 
 rettes, and after the money was gone there 
 would be other fights. Kid Morales wasted no 
 time in laying plans for the future. 
 
 Charlie Duffy came to town, wearing dia- 
 monds and an air of confidence. 
 
 ' ' A Mexican ? ' ' said he, with a sneer. * * Who- 
 ever heard of a game greaser? I'll make this 
 one quit in three rounds. ' ' 
 
 Manuel read this statement in the morning 
 papers and showed his white teeth above the 
 rim of his coffee cup. 
 
 ' * I don ' know where thees fella get off to make 
 cracks like that," said he. "I never queet in 
 my life. Plenty fellas goin' leeck me, maybe, 
 but nobody goin' scare me. No railroad Irish 
 goin' scare me, anyhow," he added, as an after- 
 thought. ' ' I been raise ' weeth that gang. ' ' 
 
 The newspaper men, quick to scent a "grudge 
 fight," egged each man on, taking a mischievous 
 pleasure in stirring up personal feeling. Kid 
 Morales repeated his remark about railroad 
 Irish, and on the day before the fight matters 
 had advanced to such a pass that Duffy was 
 promising to make the "greaser" show the yel- 
 
 [275] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 low and jump out of the ring, while Morales 
 was stoutly maintaining that the only men who 
 had ever quit to him were Irish, and therefore 
 not game. 
 
 The men met for the first time at three o 'clock 
 on the day of the fight — the hour set for the 
 weighing. Duffy's lip curled as Manuel dropped 
 his bath robe and stepped on the scales. He 
 took, note of the great, driving muscles in the 
 smooth brown back and the trim waist, for Kid 
 Morales was in condition for the first time in 
 two years, and had every external appearance 
 of a man fit for a hard battle. In this respect 
 the Mexican had the advantage, for Duffy, sat- 
 isfied that he would be able to win without ex- 
 tending himself, had put in less than a week's 
 work, and was soft and short of breath. 
 
 Duffy was well versed in the Fitzsimmons' 
 method of overawing an opponent, since known 
 as "goat-getting." He lost no time in begin- 
 ning the operation. 
 
 "Well, Kid," said Duffy pleasantly, "I hope 
 you ain't going to quit to-night. The people 
 want some sort of a run for their money, you 
 know. Be as game as you can, and try to stick 
 for three rounds, anyway." 
 
 Kid Morales nodded soberly. 
 
 "I never queet yet," he said. "I never see 
 the Irishman could make me queet, either." 
 
 "Take a look at me!" said Duffy. 
 
 "I look at you to-night," said Morales. "Wat 
 you tryin' to do? Talk yourself into winnin' 
 thees fight, no?" 
 
 [276] 
 
THE EEVENGB OF KID MOEALES 
 
 The newspaper men chuckled, and Duffy's 
 face flared brick red. He started to splutter, 
 but his manager, with a fine eye for dramatic 
 e'ffeot, leaped between the men and hustled 
 Duffy away. 
 
 "Charlie might have jumped him right 
 there," said the manager afterward. "He's 
 awful hot-headed, and when he gets his Irish 
 up he ain't got a lick of sense." 
 
 "You didn't seem to scare him much," said 
 a newspaper man to Duffy, as the latter was 
 hurrying into his clothes. 
 
 "Aw, he was scared white!" answered the 
 fighter. "Wait till I get a poke at his chin and 
 you '11 see him rim like a rabbit. ' ' 
 
 "Maybe he will and maybe he won't," said 
 the reporter. "Don't let anybody tell you that 
 this brown baby isn't dangerous, because 
 he is. Watch that right hand all the time, be- 
 cause if he gets you with it, you'll know that 
 you've got a fight on your hands." 
 
 "He couldn't hit me with a buggy whip!" 
 boasted Duffy. 
 
 At nine o 'clock Kid Morales, escorted by his 
 trainer and two seconds, entered the dressing 
 room at the fight pavilion. In his coat pocket 
 there was a pint flask of whisky — as yet un- 
 touched. The seconds might provide the spring 
 water and the smelling salts ; Kid Morales clung 
 to the stimulant which had carried him through 
 many a hard fight. 
 
 While he was slowly removing his clothes and 
 preparing for the ring, a bustle on the other side 
 
 [277] 
 
TAKING THE COUKT 
 
 of the low partition announced the arrival of 
 his opponent. 
 
 ' ' Gee, but I feel like a champion ! ' ' said a loud 
 voice, which Morales had no trouble in identify- 
 ing as Duffy's. "It'll be a short fight, boys. 
 I'm going to drop this greaser in three rounds, 
 sure!" 
 
 "Don't pay any attention to that!" growled 
 Mahaffey, the chief second. "He's only tryin' 
 to buffalo you, Kid. Forget it!" 
 
 Then up spoke Duffy's manager, his voice 
 pitched to reach the unseen audience. 
 
 "Nobody likes this guy," said he cheerfully. 
 "He's only a Mexican, and he ain't got a friend 
 in the house. Pile into him at the tap of the 
 gong, and give him all the rough stuff you've 
 got. They wouldn't do anything to you if you 
 should happen to hill him. It wouldn't even 
 be manslaughter. Tear his black head off, 
 CharUe!" 
 
 "Hah!" said the fighter scomfuUy. "He 
 won't take more than one good punch without 
 quitting. If he'll stay and mix it with me, I'll 
 murder him in the ring." 
 
 ' ' Send the bum back to the brakebeams, where 
 he figures," urged another voice. "He's got a 
 nerve going up against a real fighter!" 
 
 "I 'ill send him to the hospital!" pnarled 
 Duffy. ' ' Same as I did that fellow in Milwau- 
 kee. Fractured skull, he had, didn 't he ? " 
 
 "Concussion of the brain," corrected the 
 manager. "He ain't right yet, that guy. Never 
 mind the hospital, Charlie. Send this greaser 
 
 [278] 
 
THE KEVENGE OF KID MOBALBS 
 
 straight to tlie morgue. Here's one time when 
 you can cut loose, and hit just as hard as you 
 want to without being afraid of gettin' pinched. 
 Make it the morgue for his I" 
 
 Kid Morales heard every word. He was not 
 etxaotly frightened, but the reference to the 
 morgue did not please him. His stomach felt 
 uncomfortably cold, and he remembered all the 
 things he had ever heard about Duffy's tremen- 
 dous punishing power. Something prompted 
 him to reach for the pint flask. 
 
 "She make me fight better," said Morales. 
 
 "Might as well be drunk as scared to death," 
 said Mahaff ey, xmder his breath. ' ' If you listen 
 to what this Duffy says, he'll talk you out of a 
 chance to win. That's the way he beat Young 
 Murphy — kept kidding him until Murph 
 dropped his guard and went in wild, and then 
 — ^bang! Here! What ye tryin' to do? Drink 
 aU of that stuff? Leave a little for politeness ! ' ' 
 
 A little later Kid Morales found himself in 
 the ring. The chill had gone from his stomach, 
 and the faint tremors from his knees ; the alco- 
 hol was doing its work. 
 
 Duffy was borne in on a wave of cheers. He 
 did not offer to shake hands. Kid Morales, re- 
 membering the morgue, kept his seat, and a 
 buzz went through the house. 
 
 "They're sore at each other," said the ring- 
 siders. "They won't shake hands. It ought to 
 be a peach of a fight." 
 
 When the men went to the center for instruc- 
 tions Duffy offered a suggestion. 
 
 [279] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 "Warn this greaser about a foul," said he. 
 "They tell me that whenever he's taking a lick- 
 ing he fights dirty." 
 
 "I'll warn you both," said the referee. "I 
 will allow no technical claim of foul unless one 
 or the other of you is hurt. Fight as long as 
 one arm is free, and protect yourselves in the 
 break. Go to your comers." 
 
 in 
 
 Kid Morales went slowly to the center, crouch- 
 ing slightly, his left extended at full length. 
 Duffy walked over in the most unconcerned 
 manner in the world, and without a shadow of 
 a feint shot his left glove to Manuel's face. 
 The Mexican clinched immediately, and Duffy 
 brought his lips close to Manuel's ear. 
 
 "Now, then, you Mexican hairless dog," said 
 he, "are you going to fight, or are you going 
 to quit?" 
 
 Morales hurled Duffy from him, but as he 
 went the white boy ripped home with a stinging 
 short uppercut which rattled Manuel's teeth, 
 and the crowd cheered. The blow did not travel 
 more than six inches, but the force with which 
 it impinged on Manuel's chin inspired that 
 young man with a healthy respect for Duffy's 
 hitting power, and caused him to wonder what 
 would happen if the Irishman ever "pulled one 
 from his hip ' ' and landed it in the same place. 
 
 The men sparred for several seconds, and 
 then Duffy drove a left to the body. Morales' 
 [280] 
 
THE REVENGE OF KID MORALES 
 
 guard went down, and over came the right hand, 
 a clean blow, delivered with crushing force. 
 Manuel ducked and took it on his forehead, but 
 even so he was almost knocked to the floor. 
 He staggered backward, but recovered in time 
 to clinch as Duffy pressed in to follow his ad- 
 vantage. 
 
 "See him hanging on!" yelled Duffy to the 
 referee. "He wants to quit already!" 
 
 "Break!" ordered the referee, but Manuel 
 clung until the official was forced to go between 
 the fighters, when he skipped nimbly out of 
 danger. 
 
 "I knew you had a streak!" taunted Duffy, 
 advancing again. "Come on and fight, you 
 yellow-hammer! Don't quit in the first round. 
 Give the people some sort of a run for their 
 money ! ' ' 
 
 "Don't listen to him!" bawled Mahaffey. 
 "Take your time and cop him with that right!" 
 
 "Fight! Fight! "roared the crowd. "Goon 
 and fight!" 
 
 Duffy ended the round in a series. o£ rushes. 
 Morales blocking with elbows and forearms, and 
 covering his jaw with his left shoulder.. Not 
 once during the first round did he attempt to 
 land a bloW. For the first time in his ring ca- 
 reer, Kid Morales was afraid. Here was a man 
 against whom his defense availed little ; a man 
 who could hit him when he wanted to and knew 
 how to hit hard. Manuel thought of the boy in 
 the hospital in Milwaukee, and hunched his left 
 shoulder higher than ever. 
 [281] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 In his comer Manuel pleaded for the bottle, 
 and Mahaffey gave it to him with a sarcastic 
 grin. 
 
 "You couldn't be fightin' any worse," said 
 he, "Perhaps the booze will give ye a little 
 courage." 
 
 In the second round Duffy succeeded in feint- 
 ing Morales wide open to the right swing, and 
 the Mexican went down with a thump. He 
 found himself at the count of three, and opened 
 his eyes. Duffy, leaning upon the ropes, was 
 looking down at him and laughing. 
 
 "Stay there, you dog," said the Irishman. 
 ^'Go on and quit. You've got an excuse." 
 
 Slowly Manuel hauled himself to his knees. 
 His better judgment told him to remain on the 
 floor. His brain was whirling and his limbs 
 were numb; there was a dull ache at the back 
 of his head. All the life had been knocked out 
 of him by a single blow — it was a new experi- 
 ence and an unpleasant one. 
 
 ' ' Come on ; get up. I dare you ! ' ' said Duffy. 
 
 ' ' Seven — eight — ^nine ' ' 
 
 Manuel got on his feet, and began to run, 
 Duffy pursuing him with both hands flying. 
 Luck favored the Mexican. A buzzing right 
 hander barely grazed his chin, and before Duffjl 
 could recover his balance. Morales had both 
 arms pinned at his sides, and was hanging on 
 for dear life. He clinched until the referee tore 
 him away by main strength, blocked another 
 swing, and clinched again. He was still hug- 
 ging Duffy when the bell rang, and the very 
 [282] 
 
THE BEVENGB OF KID MORALES 
 
 shingles on the roof rattled to the hoots and 
 jeers of the crowd. 
 
 "Can he hit?" asked Mahaffey, with profes- 
 sional interest, as he waved the smelling salts 
 under Manuel's nose. 
 
 ' ' Hit !" gasped the Mexican. " I see him start 
 that one. I'm wide open; I can't go in; I can't 
 go back. Bam! He catch me on the jaw. I 
 think the roof she fall in." 
 
 "Why don't you do some fighting yourself?" 
 demanded Mahaffey. "Get in there and take 
 a chance." 
 
 "I ain't started weeth him yet," said Manuel. 
 
 "Better start quick, then," said Mahaffey, 
 with a wink at the newspaper men. 
 
 ' * One more little shot and I begin ! ' ' said Man- 
 uel. 
 
 Another scalding swallow of liquid courage 
 and he was on his feet, walking none too stead- 
 ily, to the middle of the ring. 
 
 "Are you going to fight now?" asked Duffy, 
 as he circled about his prey. 
 
 "Yes, maybe I fight now," answered Manuel. 
 
 "Good news!" said the Irishman. His left 
 glove shot forward, straight as the drive of a 
 piston. Manuel's head jerked backward, and 
 he was conscious of a sickening pain at the 
 bridge of his nose — a pain which spread until 
 his very teeth ached and his eyesight became 
 blurred. A warm stream trickled down over his 
 chin. 
 
 "Greaser blood, eh?" said Duffy. "Why- 
 it's red! They told me it was yellow. Let's 
 
 [283] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 draw some more of it and see ! ' ' He struck again 
 before Manuel could leap to a clinch. 
 
 "Where's that right hand of yours?" in- 
 quired Duffy. 
 
 "She's here," said Manuel. 
 
 "You boys quit talking, and do some fight- 
 ing!" ordered the referee. "Break there, Mo- 
 rales!" 
 
 "Well, he talk weeth me," said Manuel, slip- 
 ping out of the clinch and retreating, his gloves 
 held high, his elbows protecting his stomach. 
 
 "Get a fire ax and open the greaser up," 
 suggested a ringsider. "He's tied up in a knot 
 like a tarantula ! ' ' By defensive tactics Manuel 
 reached the end of the third round without fur- 
 ther damage. The crowd was in an uproar, and 
 Mahaffey had a message from Promoter Smith 
 which caused Manuel to blink his eyes. 
 
 "The boss says," remarked Mahaffey, "that 
 if you don't do some fighting in the next round 
 he'll have you thrown out of the ring, and you 
 won't get a cent." 
 
 "But," expostulated Manuel, "he says he pay 
 me — ^win, lose, or draw. ' ' 
 
 "He won't pay you anything unless you 
 fight!" said Mahaffey. "You haven't taken a 
 punch at this fellow in three rounds, and all 
 you're doing is running and covering up. Mind 
 now, unless you do something you'll be thrown 
 out of the ring. What's more, Smith never lets 
 up on a fellow that dogs it and spoils a show for 
 him. He'll queer you and chase you out of the 
 business. Now, get busy!" 
 [284] 
 
THE EEVENGE OP KID MOKALES 
 
 If Manuel was entirely lacking in ambition, 
 he was not without a keen appreciation of the 
 silver fruits of his toil. Minus the two hun- 
 dred and fifty dollars there would be no com- 
 fortable period of idleness, no new clothes, less 
 whisky, and fewer cigarettes. 
 
 Manuel's first wild impulse was to rush out 
 of his corner, and stake everything on a whirl- 
 wind exchange of blows. Then he remembered 
 the two jaw punches, and the overhand right on 
 the forehead and his valor oozed away. Why 
 mix it with a man who favored that style of 
 fighting? Manuel knew that if he could get at 
 Duffy's jaw with his right hand, the battle 
 would not be quite so one-sided, but he had 
 noticed that no matter how careless the Irish- 
 man seemed to be, his left shoulder was always 
 well hunched to cover the vulnerable spot. If 
 he could only get thaf shoulder down 
 
 The crowd cheered derisively when Manuel 
 left his corner. 
 
 "Why don't you fight. Morales?" 
 
 "Yellow as a canary bird!" 
 
 "Give him a little more booze and a knife!" 
 
 "Come on!" begged Duffy. "Ain't you got 
 any nerve at all? Take a chance!" 
 I And, by way of encouragement, he proceeded 
 to jab Manuel's battered nose. Manuel began 
 to use his left, hooking and jabbing cautiously, 
 but there was no steam behind the effort, and 
 Duffy laughed at him. The men in the audi- 
 ence slipped on their automobile coats and 
 edged over toward the aisles. 
 
 [285] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 "A rotten show!" was tlie general verdict. 
 
 The round was half over when Duffy found 
 an opening for a right uppercut, and whipped 
 it in like a flash. It had speed, and it was a 
 showy punch, but that was aU, for Duffy was 
 not "set" to lift his weight into the blow, yet 
 the Mexican flopped forward to his knees, his 
 head resting upon the floor. The referee took 
 one disgusted look, and began to count. 
 
 ' ' He ain 't hurt ; he 's quitting ! ' ' bawled Duffy, 
 waving his hands at the crowd. "I didn't hit 
 him hard enough to break an eggV 
 
 Manuel heard him distinctly, and his small, 
 black eyes flashed fire. He had all he could do 
 to repress a grin. Once more he pulled himself 
 together, and at the nine count he came unstead- 
 ily to his feet, eyes vacant, jaw sagging, reel- 
 ing like a drunken man — as indeed he was. 
 
 "Grood night!" said Mahaffey, with a snort. 
 "Pipe his knees. And that didn't look to me 
 like a hard punch, either. 
 
 Some such thought flashed through Duffy's 
 mind at the same time. Possibly he had been 
 mistaken about the force in that uppercut. He 
 swung again, Manuel dodged awkwardly, and 
 stumbled into a clinch, his legs wide apart and 
 quivering, and his head rolling from side to side. 
 
 "Gee!" grunted Kid Morales. "That one, 
 she shake me up ! " His eyes were half closed to 
 a beady glitter, every muscle was relaxed, and 
 he seemed helpless. 
 
 "Yes, and I'll shake you up worse the next 
 time!" said Duffy. 
 
 [286] 
 
THE REVENGE OF KID MORALES 
 
 ' ' Break ! ' '•ordered the referee. ' ' Let go, Mo- ' 
 rales ! ' ' 
 
 Manuel cautiously disengaged Ms right hand, 
 and stretched his arm at full length, the glove 
 slightly higher than Duffy's head. By such a 
 motion a fighter sometimes signifies his inten- 
 tion of breaking "clean," and Duffy so inter- 
 preted it. He dropped his guard instantly, and 
 stepped back, sneering. 
 
 What followed came so swiftly that no warn- 
 ing yell could reach Duffy's ears. As the Irish- 
 man's left glove fell at his side, Manuel stif- 
 fened from heel to shoulder, the great back 
 muscles leaped under the skin, and down came 
 the right hand like a slanting thunderbolt, full 
 on Duffy's unprotected jaw. It was half hook, 
 half swing, a blow which would have felled a 
 Sharkey, and wrapped in that brown glove was 
 Manuel's hope of two hundred and fifty dollars 
 — ^the new clothes, the whisky, the cigarettes, 
 and the long, comfortable period of idleness. 
 
 Duffy toppled forward upon his face, and 
 never twitched a muscle while the referee count- 
 ed him out. 
 
 IV 
 
 In the dressing room Kid Morales drank the 
 rest of the whisky, and listened to an indistiaet 
 mumbling on the other side of the partition. 
 
 "But— what was it? What happened?" a 
 querulous voice was asking over and over. 
 
 "You dropped both hands — like a sucker," 
 said Duffy's manager, "and the greaser copped 
 
 [287] 
 
TAKING THE COXJNT 
 
 you on the jaw. Didn't I tell you to watch, out 
 for his right hand? He stalled like he was hurt, 
 and you fell for it." 
 
 "I'll fight him again!" wailed Duffy. 
 "There ain't a greaser on earth can lick me, 
 Tommy! You know it!" 
 
 Many fists drummed on the door. 
 
 "The newspaper boys," said Mahaffey. 
 "They want to see you." 
 
 "Sure !" said Kid Morales, regretfully exam- 
 ining the empty flask. "Let 'em come in." 
 
 The victor sat on the edge of the rub-down 
 table, and received congratulations modestly — 
 or as modestly as a man may when clad only 
 in a pair of fighting shoes. 
 
 "What do you want to say about the fight?" 
 asked one of the reporters. 
 
 "You want to know?" 
 
 "Sure thing!" 
 
 "You put it in the paper, w'at I say?" 
 
 "You bet we will!" 
 
 Manuel raised his hand. 
 
 ' ' Everybody be quiet ! " he said. On the other 
 side of the partition the muttering died away, 
 and each word carried straight into the hostile 
 camp. 
 
 "Listen!" said Kid Morales. "You think 
 maybe I hit that fella pretty hard, no? Bah! 
 I jus' rap him easy — like so!" He made a lan- 
 guid pass through the air with his right hand. 
 "I jus' hit him once in all the fight. You ask 
 me w 'at I got to say. I tell you : Duffy, he queet 
 like a yella dog — he queet!" 
 [288] 
 
EASY PICKING 
 
 OLD BIED" BENNETT was not a 
 prophet, nor in any way related to one ; 
 nevertheless, he was considerably with- 
 out honor in his home town. Worse than that, 
 he was out of a job, and there were those who 
 talked of tarring and feathering him and riding 
 him upon a rail. 
 
 His was not a case of talent passing unrecog- 
 nized. The small matter of a business arrange- 
 ment with another gentleman of the gloved le- 
 gion leaked out and became common scandal, 
 whereat the outraged public arose and howled 
 like a wolf in the snow. The Old Bird was at 
 once placed upon the black list until such time 
 as the fight fans should forget that he had al- 
 lowed "T-bone" Eiley to stay ten rounds and 
 take a bloodless decision over him. When a 
 man bets two to one on his excellent judgment 
 and loses because of prearrangement on the 
 part of his favorite, he is apt to recall the cir- 
 cumstances for some time. 
 
 "Just my luck!" whined Old Bird, with bit- 
 terness. ' ' T-bone has to go and get his nose wet 
 and pull a George Washington on me!" 
 
 [289] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 Old Bird had often feelingly referred to him- 
 self as the Tinluckiest fighter living, and the last 
 turn of affairs had gone far to convince him of 
 the truth of the statement. With just a tiny bit 
 of luck, he might have been the lightweight 
 champion of the world instead of the king of all 
 pork-and-beaners and the toughest trial horse 
 in the Queensberry stable. 
 
 Old Bird was a pugilistic fixture. Some years 
 before he had fluttered into town from nowhere, 
 unannounced by any press agent, and carrying 
 his credentials in his right hand. 
 
 It so happened that Peter Mulcahey, fight 
 promoter and friend of all deserving battlers 
 who were inclined to be reasonable about money 
 matters, was grooming Tommy Derrick, a prom- 
 ising pork-and-bean performer, for the main- 
 event class. Mulcahey, a shrewd judge of a 
 drawing card, believed that one more hollow 
 victory would put Derrick in line for higher 
 honors, but the local pork-and-bean boys, valu- 
 ing their health, refused to appear in the role of 
 a stepping-stone. At this juncture, Old Bird 
 furled his dusty wings in Peter Mulcahey's 
 outer office, and announced his willingness to 
 "meet any one-hundred-and-thirty-three-pound 
 boy in the world." The odd thing about it was 
 that he meant it. 
 
 Peter Mulcahey was relieved. The gods of 
 sport and good business demanded a sacrifice, 
 and here was one, ready to hand, clamoring to 
 be offered up for the nominal sum of twenty- 
 five dollars. Old Bird was elected without a 
 [290] 
 
EASY PICKING 
 
 dissenting vote, and the club press agent re- 
 ferred to him hopefully as "a rising lightweight 
 of the Middle West." 
 
 Old Bird trained as much as two whole days, 
 and, having been advanced a small sum* for liv- 
 ing expenses, entered the ring full of mince pie 
 and stern determination. He had never heard 
 of this man Derrick, never seen his picture in 
 the Police Gazette, and consequently did not 
 think much of his prowess. Tommy Derrick en- 
 tertained similar sentiments regarding Old 
 Bird, a condition of affairs ripe for surprises. 
 
 The result of that battle was a severe disap- 
 pointment to Peter Mulcahey, for his local star 
 set with great suddenness, never to rise again. 
 Mr. Nobody from Nowhere waded through 
 Tommy Derrick with a succession of right 
 swings mostly fetched from the hip, and Tommy 
 went direct from the ringside to the hospital, 
 where he remained until his ribs grew together 
 again. Old Bird was immediately matched with 
 another pork-and-beaner with like result, bar- 
 ring the hospital bill. In six months Bennett 
 established himself as the best third-rater in the 
 West, and Peter Mulcahey graduated him into 
 the main-event class, where men are paid in 
 three figures instead of two. 
 
 Old Bird whipped every second-rater whom 
 he could hit with his right hand, and passed on 
 into the first division, where he met what he 
 called hard luck, and the wisest of the ringside 
 critics called "class." He took a few draws be- 
 cause of his aggressiveness, scored one famous 
 
 [291] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 kaock-out, and lost four decisions on points. 
 The great difference between a first-class fight- 
 ing man and a second-rater lies in speed; the 
 top-notchers were too fast for Old Bird. He 
 could not hit them; he was a selling plater 
 against stake horses. 
 
 Peter Mulcahey stuck to him nobly, and at 
 last secured for him a match with the Old Mas- 
 ter, the negro champion, last of that great ga- 
 laxy of lightweight stars of the nineties. The 
 Old Master no longer had the fire of youth, the 
 vitality which had carried him through one hun- 
 dred battles, but he retained his marvelous clev- 
 erness, and Old Bird's chance for a world's 
 championship disappeared in a blinding flurry 
 of jabs, jolts, hooks, and uppercuts which 
 left him dazed and battered at the end of twenty 
 rounds. From beginning to end, Old Bird never 
 ceased swinging his pulverizing right at that 
 lean, brown jaw; not once had he been able to 
 hit the mark. The Old Master made him miss 
 by a fraction of an inch, and Bennett blamed 
 his luck when he should have given the negro 
 credit for remarkable judgment of distance. 
 
 "Yo' pretty strong, white boy," the Old 
 Master mumbled to him in the eighteenth round, 
 "but thass all — ^yes, thass all. Some day yo'll 
 hit somebody with that right swing an' knock 
 him up in the gallery." 
 
 That night marked the top of the grade for 
 
 Old Bird. After that his way led downhill. 
 
 Before very long, he found himself established 
 
 as the trial horse for all newcomers — ^the 
 
 [292] 
 
EASY PICKING 
 
 younger men with championship aspirations. 
 If he whipped them, people said it was to be 
 expected ; he got little credit, and less money. 
 If they whipped him, they passed on to better 
 matches. Old Bird Bennett was the official 
 stumblingblock in the lightweight path, and the 
 fate of a stumblingblock is to be kicked by every 
 traveler who passes that way. 
 
 It was during the period of his decline that 
 Old Bird made his business arrangement with 
 T-bone Riley. T-bone was no embryo cham- 
 pion, and the match was made as a "filler." 
 Old Bird should have whipped him in three 
 rounds without a minute's preparation, and, 
 this being the general opinion, Bennett ruled 
 the favorite at two to one. His admirers were 
 grateful for the sudden influx of T-bone money, 
 and snapped it up hungrily. Then Old Bird 
 went into the ring, and boxed like an inebriated 
 fishwife. T-bone stabbed him for ten sickening 
 rounds without a return. The referee saw his 
 duty, and did it like a man, the gallery roared 
 murder, and still all would have been well, had 
 not T-bone celebrated his victory in a manner 
 to muddle the intellect and loosen the tongue. 
 He told all he knew. It was not much, but it 
 was enough. 
 
 Honest confession is said to be good for the 
 soul, but some people who have given it a trial 
 claim that it is bad for business. The reporters 
 heard about it, of course, and the next day a 
 great moral wave swept over the pugUistic com- 
 munity. Old Bird's picture was in all the pa- 
 
 [293] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 pers, together with the announoement that 
 Peter Mulcahey had barred him as an undesir- 
 able citizen and a faker. 
 
 Old Bird made it his business to hunt up his 
 loquacious friend Riley, and when he found him 
 the ten-round decision was speedily reversed, 
 but T-bone's broken jaw did not mend matters 
 — it only made them worse. It was as if Ben- 
 nett had pleaded guilty to the indictment. 
 
 Having been accustomed to fight whenever he 
 ran short of funds, Old Bird soon found himself 
 in a nasty predicament. He might have gone 
 to work, of course, but no man who has ever 
 fought a champion of the world for twenty 
 rounds is likely to do that sort of thing unless 
 there is no other method of obtaining three 
 meals a day. 
 
 After a precarious few weeks, during which 
 time Old Bird learned that the friends of a 
 man's prosperous days seldom follow him into 
 an eclipse, he became a sparring partner, work- 
 ing for board and lodging and fifteen dollars a 
 week. He boxed with men whom he might have 
 beaten in a punch, and the knowledge was gaU 
 and wormwood to him. While other boys fought, 
 he squatted ia the comer, nursing a towel and 
 telling himself that he could lick "the both of 
 'em" in the same ring. Sometimes he told him- 
 self the truth, for Old Bird had never lost his 
 annihilating right-hand swing, and when he hit 
 a man squarely with it the floor came up and 
 bumped him. 
 
 Old Bird went regularly to call upon Peter 
 [294] 
 
EASY PICKING 
 
 Mulcahey, but that moon-faced philanthropist 
 had but one answer for him : 
 
 ' ' Not yet ; the paper boys won't stand for it. ' ' 
 
 "Aw, they've stood for lots worse frames!" 
 said Old Bird, one day. ' ' You know they have ! ' ' 
 
 "I know it, but they don't," said Peter. 
 "There wasn't anybody to get drunk and tell 
 'em. You was advertised by your loving 
 friends, and now you've got to lay dead until 
 it blows over. See?" 
 
 "But I can't wait always!" Bennett expos- 
 tulated. "I'm gettin' to be a old guy, and what 
 fighting I do has got to be done pretty quick. ' ' 
 (He was almost twenty-seven, which is a green 
 old age for a pork-and-beaner.) "Couple more 
 years and I'm through." 
 
 "You might go somewhere else and try your 
 luck," suggested Peter. 
 
 "A swell chance!" said Old Bird sarcasti- 
 cally. "I ain't got no dough, I ain't got no 
 manager, I ain't got nothing. If I just had a 
 manager now — ^wit' money — aw, what you 
 laughin ' at ? Worse fighters 'n me has had man- 
 agers!" 
 
 n 
 
 Then, out of a clear sky, the manager with 
 money put in an appearance. Joe Terry, a local 
 sporting man, returned from a campaign 
 through the Northwest, and lost no time in lo- 
 cating Old Bird. 
 
 "I understand you're in bad around here," 
 said Terry. 
 
 [295] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 "Y/orse than that," said Old Bird dejectedly. 
 "Just because I boxed a feller easy and lost a 
 decision on points, they took my cue out of the 
 game. By the looks of things, I'll have to get 
 me a sandbag and start sticking people up on 
 the dark streets. ' ' 
 
 "I know a better way than that," said Terry, 
 "Perfectly legitimate, too. We can cop all the 
 money in Oregon." 
 
 "I never knew they had any money in Ore- 
 gon," said Old Bird. "That's a farmer State, 
 ain't it?" 
 
 "That's why they've got money," said Terry. 
 "Every one of those apple growers has got an 
 automobile and a bank roll." 
 
 * * "Well, go on ; go on ! Spring it ! " urged Old 
 Bird impatiently. 
 
 "There's a little place up there called Par- 
 kerton," said Terry, "and every man in the 
 town is a sport. They've got a kid named Ar- 
 thur CuUen — a lightweight — and they think he 
 can lick anybody in the world. He's cleaned aU 
 the farmer boys in that section, put out a few 
 mill hands, and licked a few tramp fighters that 
 they brought in for him. I saw him fight a fel- 
 low from Seattle last week, and those apple 
 tossers were offering three and four to one on 
 Cullen. I took a little of the short end on gen- 
 eral principles, but my man fought like a lob- 
 ster. The point is this : "Why can't you go up 
 there under an assumed name and go to work 
 in a livery stable or something " 
 
 "Me? Work?" There was reproach in Old 
 [296] 
 
EASY PICKING 
 
 Bird 's tone. ' * What do I know about horses ? ' ' 
 
 "Well, of course it wouldn't have to be a 
 stable job, ' ' said Terry soothingly. * ' Anything 
 would do so long as it's work. You couldn't go 
 up there as Bennett, the fighter, because the first 
 thing they'd do would be to look up your rec- 
 ord, and then they wouldn't give odds. Maybe 
 they wouldn't even let Cullen fight you. If 
 you should drift in there like a bum out of 
 a job and go to work, they wouldn't suspect 
 anything, and you could get into a few rough- 
 and-tumble fights, just to get the town people to 
 talking about you. They'U do the rest because 
 they are always on the lookout for somebody 
 to fight Cullen. You show up bad in your 
 training — ^box like a hayseed, and get knocked 
 down a few times — and they'll bet their heads 
 off at two and three to one. I'll come along and 
 grab every dollar in sight, you biff this apple 
 picker once on the chin, and we cut the money 
 even. How does that sound to you?" 
 
 "Fair enough," said Old Bird. "How much 
 money will you bet?" 
 
 Joe Terry unbuttoned his vest, and brought 
 out a small, black wallet, from which he extract- 
 ed four one-thousand-dollar bills. He spread 
 them out on the table and looked at Old Bird. 
 
 ' ' Where did you say this place was at ? " asked 
 the fighter. 
 
 in 
 
 The big-town sports are apt to sneer at their 
 brethren in the villages, but nowhere does the 
 
 [297] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 sporting spirit bum with whiter, fiercer flame 
 than in the small centers of population. The 
 little-town sports buy the annual record books, 
 and study them with great care. Their knowl- 
 edge lacks thd'personal element, but it is aston- 
 ishingly complete from a statistical standpoint. 
 They are familiar with the performances of the 
 athletic idols of the past and present ; they know 
 the name of the horse which holds the quarter- 
 mile record; they can tell offhand how many 
 rounds Sullivan and Kilrain fought for the 
 championship, and they can reel off a dizzying 
 string of big-league batting averages. They are 
 not given to betting blindly, but once convinced 
 that they have a ' ' good thing, ' ' they produce the 
 bank roll and bet until nothing but the woolen 
 string remains. 
 
 Parkerton was a very sporty little town, as 
 the new waiter in "Wade 's Eestaurant observed. 
 He went about his duties with a supercilious air, 
 but, though his nose was slightly tilted, his eyes 
 and ears -yere alert, and he learned many things 
 of an interesting nature. His proud spirit re- 
 belled against his menial task, but he comforted 
 himself with the reflection that it would not last 
 long. It was hard work to conceal his contempt 
 for these "small-town jays," but he did the best 
 he could, and cast about him for an opening. 
 
 On the third day of Old Bird's martyrdom, a 
 quiet, clear-eyed youth entered the restaurant, 
 and ordered liver and bacon. The young man 
 wore a small diamond upon his finger, and an- 
 other one in his tie, and, after he had gone, 
 [298] 
 
EASY PICKING 
 
 Old Bird found a silver quarter upon tlie table. 
 
 "You know who that was?" asked the cook, 
 ■with the air of one about to impart startling 
 information. 
 
 "Nah," said Old Bird. 
 
 "That was Art Cullen," said the cook, paus- 
 ing to note the effect. 
 
 "What of it?" asked Old Bird woodenly. 
 "What did he ever do?" 
 
 ' * You never heard of Art Cullen, the fighter? ' ' 
 demanded the cook, in amazement. 
 
 "No; and nobody else ever did," said Old 
 Bird. "Who did he ever Hck?" 
 
 "He's licked everybody he ever fought," said 
 the cook. "Fred McGilligan, Johnny Nash, 
 Young Nelson, Kid Dickey, and a whole raft of 
 lightweights. Guess you've heard of Kid Dickey, 
 ain't you? He's from Portland, and a tough 
 boy. Cullen put him out in three rounds." 
 
 "Why don't he go and lick some real fight- 
 ers?" said Old Bird. "I never had a glove on 
 in my life, and I'll bet he can't lick me, even." 
 
 * ' Huh ! ' ' sneered the cook. * * You wouldn 't be 
 -a mouthful for that boy ! He 'd just hit you once, 
 and you wouldn't know nothing for an hour." 
 
 ' ' Wouldn 't I ? " said Old Bird, with a grin. ' * I 
 can scrap a little myself." 
 
 "That's what they all say," remarked the 
 cook. ' ' They all think they can fight until this 
 boy gets at 'em, and then they change their 
 minds. He's a hum-dinger, I tell you !" 
 
 "He's a farmer, that's what he is!" said Old 
 Bird. 
 
 [299] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 "Well, they're goin' to get a good man to 
 come up from San Francisco to try him out," 
 persisted the cook. "Billy Gillis, or Mike Bald- 
 win, or some of them good boys." 
 
 Old Bird, who had knocked out Gillis in one 
 round and Baldwin in five, laughed scornfully. 
 
 "You can laugh if you want to," said the 
 cook; "but don't get the idea that this boy Cul- 
 len ain't a fighter. Jim Dabney — ^he runs the 
 pool room, you know — says that CuUen can hit 
 harder than any lightweight he ever saw, and 
 he's seen lots of 'em. Jim used to live in Den- 
 ver. He ought to know. ' ' 
 
 An indignant knife-handle tattoo summoned 
 the new waiter to the front of the house and 
 ended the conversation, which was just as well, 
 for he had something to think about. If the lo- 
 cal sports were planning another match for 
 CuUen, there was no time to lose. Old Bird had 
 not been favorably impressed with Terry's sug- 
 gestion that he should take part in a street fight 
 for the sake of the advertising. He had all the 
 seasoned fighter's distaste for giving away that 
 which he might sell. Besides, he believed he 
 knew a better way. 
 
 The next day CuUen, accompanied by three 
 friends, entered the restaurant. Old Bird set 
 his chin at an aggressive angle, and sauntered 
 over to the table, fumbling in his pocket as he 
 went. 
 
 "What have you got to-day?" asked Cullen 
 of the new waiter. 
 
 "This!" said Old Bird, and tossed a twenty- 
 [300] 
 
EASY PICKING 
 
 five-cent piece upon the table. ' ' You was in here 
 yesterday and left this by your plate. If yon 
 did it by accident, all right ; but if you thought 
 you could slip me a measly two-bits on the side, 
 you've got another think coming. See? No 
 apple picker like you can hand me anything!" 
 
 CuUen looked up in some surprise, and his 
 friends stirred uneasily in their chairs. 
 
 "Why, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings," 
 said CuUen quietly. ' * I thought ' ' 
 
 "What do I care what you. thought?" snarled 
 Old Bird. "Just because you've licked a few 
 tramps, you think you're a big feller around 
 here, don't you? You,keep your two-bit pieces, 
 and buy a new hat. You need it. You a fighter I 
 I never had a glove on in my life, but I'll bet 
 I can take you out in the street now and show 
 you up!" 
 
 CuUen 's face grew red, more from embarrass- 
 ment than anger. . 
 
 ' ' Pshaw ! ' ' said he. "I 'm sorry you feel that 
 way about it. I wouldn't have done it.if I had 
 known — honest I wouldn 't. You oughtn 't to get 
 sore about a little thing like that " 
 
 "What I said goes!" interrupted Old Bird. 
 "I can Uck you, bare knuckle, with the gloves, 
 rough-and-tumble — any old way. I'd just like 
 to show you where you get off!" 
 
 Cullen looked at his friends, and smiled sheep- 
 ishly. 
 
 "I don't fight for fun," he said, at length, 
 ' ' I quit that a long time ago. ' ' 
 
 "Backing up, are you?" sneered Old Bird. 
 [301] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 "I thought SO. You don't look like a game guy- 
 to me!" 
 
 "Hold on!" said one of CuUen's friends. 
 ' ' There 's a way to settle this. If you think you 
 can fight, Art here will give you a match and you 
 can have it out in the ring and get some money 
 for it. Is that all right, Art?" 
 
 ' ' Sure, ' ' said Cullen. ' ' Any time, ' ' 
 
 ' ' You 're on ! " said Old Bird quickly. * ' Gim- 
 me two weeks to train in, and I'll knock the 
 swell head off this guy. I got to have that long 
 to get used to fighting with gloves on." 
 
 "That's all right," said Cullen. "Take as 
 long as you want." 
 
 That night there was but one topic of conver- 
 sation in Parkerton. The tough waiter at Bob 
 Wade's place had been looking for trouble, and 
 was about to find it. The situation made a 
 strong appeal to Parkerton 's sense of humor. 
 
 "It was rich!" said Clay Eaton, one of the 
 restaurant party. "This tough guy comes up 
 and bawls Art out about a tip. Wanted to go 
 in the middle of the street with him. Then 
 Frank Pierson suggested making a match of it, 
 and the waiter says he'll have to have two weeks 
 to get used to fighting with gloves on his hands ! 
 Can you beat that? Art's pretty mad at this 
 bird, and he's liable to go at him strong. He's 
 never walloped a fellow as hard as he could yet, 
 and what he'll do to this hasher will be plenty! 
 I wouldn't miss it for an acre of apple trees!" 
 
 The humor of the situation broadened and 
 deepened when "George Williams" — the new 
 [302] 
 
EASY PICKING 
 
 waiter's name — ^went into active training. His 
 "road work" consisted of a leisurely two-mUe 
 stroll, and in the afternoons, clad in a bathing 
 suit and rubber-soled tennis shoes, he plunged 
 about the back room of the town gymnasium, 
 stabbing the air with awkward lefts and swing- 
 ing his right ponderously. 
 
 "Say, what d'you call that stuff?" asked the 
 local sports. 
 
 "Shadow boxing!" panted George Williams. 
 "It makes you clever and fast on your feet." 
 To prove it, he gave an exhibition which would 
 have disgraced a bogged hippopotamus, and the 
 sportff laughed and winked behind their hands. 
 
 Williams announced that he would be pleased 
 to box with volunteers, and Dan Lacey, a book- 
 keeper, put on the gloves with him, and almost 
 knocked him out in the second round. 
 
 "You hit too hard!" puffed Williams, feel- 
 ing his jaw. "A sparring partner ain't sup- 
 posed to try and kill a man ! ' ' 
 
 "You ought to have told me sooner," grinned 
 Lacey. '^ome on ; I won 't hit you hard again. ' ' 
 
 "I got enough for to-day," said Williams; 
 and that night it was all over town that Dan 
 Jjacey Jiad made the tough waiter quit with a 
 tap on the jaw that would not have broken a 
 window-pane. 
 
 The next day a well-dressed stranger arrived 
 from the south, and announced that he was in 
 the market for unimproved real estate. Abe 
 Augustine, who dealt in lands, showed the vis- 
 itor several promising bits of property, and al- 
 
 [303] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 most sold him ten acres in an adjoining valley. 
 Almost, but not quite. 
 
 "What do you do here to amuse yourselves?" 
 asked the stranger, who said his name was Pen- 
 field. 
 
 "Going to have a prize fight next Thursday 
 night at the opera house," said Augustine. 
 ' ' You ought to stay and see it. It won 't be much 
 of a fight because it'll be too one-sided. We 
 got a kid here that can knock the socks off any 
 lightweight in the Northwest." 
 
 "You don't say so !" ejaculated Penfield. "I'd 
 like to see him work." 
 
 "I'll take you over to his place this after- 
 noon," said Abe obligingly. "He sure can step 
 some." 
 
 Penfield watched CuUen go through his stunts 
 with an experienced eye, reserving his opinion 
 until the finish. 
 
 "Well," said Abe, "what do you think of 
 him ? Ain 't he pretty nifty with his hands ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' Too slow to suit me, ' ' said Penfield. " He 's 
 wide open all the time, emd he has to set himself 
 for every punch. I don't like him." 
 
 "I'd like to bet you that he wins," said Abe, 
 with an eye to business. 
 
 "I may take some of that after I've seen the 
 other man," replied Penfield. "Almost any- 
 body ought to lick this CuUen." 
 
 "Bet you two to one he wins !" said Abe sud- 
 denly. 
 
 "Show me the other boy first," said Penfield 
 cautiously. 
 
 [304] 
 
EASY PICKING 
 
 "I guess he's over at the gymnasium," sug- 
 gested Abe. "What say we go there now?" 
 
 **I don't mind," said Penfield. 
 
 Williams, despite his awkwardness and his 
 other failings, seemed to make quite an impres- 
 sion on the stranger. 
 
 "Now, that's my notion of a fighter!" said 
 Penfield heartily. "He hasn't had the experi- 
 ence, of course, and he isn't very clever, but he's 
 determined, and I like the way he swings that 
 right hand. He '11 stop Cullen if he hits him. ' ' 
 
 "Bet you two to one!" said Abe. 
 
 "How much?" asked Penfield, reaching for 
 his pocketbook. 
 
 That night the news sped about town that 
 there was some easy money at the Parkerton 
 House, and there was an immediate scramble 
 to reach it first. 
 
 Penfield did not seem particularly anxious, 
 but it was possible to talk him into backing the 
 short-ender, and that was all Parkerton wanted 
 to know. It was not, Penfield explained, that 
 he regarded Williams as a good fighter, but that, 
 in his opinion, Cullen was a very bad one. Lo- 
 cal pride was injured by this argument, and 
 avenged itself by piling up the dollars on Par- 
 kerton 's pride. Penfield covered it slowly and 
 at times with some show of rehictance. 
 
 "You fellows may know more about a fighter 
 than I do," he would remark, "but I think I'm 
 a fair judge, and I can't see this Cullen at all. 
 He didn't show me anything." 
 
 "Better watch him Thursday night," sug- 
 [305] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 gested the local sports. "He may show you 
 something then." 
 
 "I'U do that," said Penfield. "And don't you 
 overlook this boy WiUiams. He may be green, 
 but his heart is in the right place. He looks 
 like a fighter to me." 
 
 On Wednesday night Joe Terry issued his 
 orders. 
 
 "We've got a barrel of money up," said he, 
 "and I want this CuUen knocked out. On a 
 decision, we'd be sure to get the worst of it. 
 And when you»crack him, let it be on the jaw. 
 Give 'em no chance to call a foul. ' ' 
 
 "What's he look like?" growled Old Bird. "I 
 never saw the sucker except in his street 
 clothes." 
 
 "He ain't a bad boy at all," said Terry. 
 "Boxes well, but he's awfully slow. You can 
 time him with that right hand of yours and 
 knock him into the middle of next week." 
 
 "Think anybody's onto us?" asked Old Bird 
 anxiously, 
 
 " Not a soul ! ' ' chuckled Terry. ' ' They think 
 they're putting one over on me, and every time 
 they look my way they have to laugh. Oh, you 
 can trust these small-town boobs to trim you for 
 the last cent you've got ! Why, one of 'em was 
 in this afternoon, wanting to bet two hundred 
 against my watch and pin.! They think I'm so 
 foolish that I oughtn't to be trusted with money. 
 That hash-house quarrel of yours was a clever 
 stunt. They're all looking for a grudge fight." 
 
 "Another thiag," grunted Old Bird, "we bet- 
 [306] 
 
EASY PICKING 
 
 ter be ready to vamp on that midniglit train. 
 You never know how these small-town guys will 
 take a trimming. As soon as I out loose they'll 
 tumble that something has been slipped over on 
 'em, and they may turn nasty." 
 
 "I bought the tickets the day I got to town," 
 said Joe. 
 
 IV 
 
 Every sport in Parkerton stood up and yelled 
 when CuUen walked out on the stage and entered 
 the ring. Percy Hoskyns, the leader of the town 
 orchestra, waved his fiddle bow and struck up 
 "Hail to the Chief." 
 
 When Old Bird appeared, he was greeted with 
 a generous cheer and a great deal of laughter. 
 He had discarded the bathing suit and the tennis 
 shoes, and was correctly garbed in ring attire. 
 He looked out over the flaring gas jets which 
 served as footlights, and grinned. 
 
 "Do your laughin' early, you rubes!" he 
 muttered. "You won't feel so fresh in a little 
 while." 
 
 Joe Terry strolled upon the stage and inspect- 
 ed CuUen's bandages and gloves. He explained 
 that as he was backing the other man he could 
 not afford to take chances. A Portland saloon 
 keeper had been imported to act as referee, and 
 Jim Dabney, master of ceremonies, introduced 
 him in a ten-minute speech which dragged in 
 the climate, the bumper apple crop, the increase 
 in real-estate values, and the glorious future of 
 Parkerton. The true "Western booster never 
 
 [307] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 overlooks an opportunity for advertising. 
 
 "Duke me, kid!" said Old Bird to CuUen, 
 when the two men appeared for instructions. 
 CuUen was plainly surprised, but he smiled 
 frankly and extended his glove. 
 
 "No hard feelings," said he. "May the best 
 man win!" 
 
 "That's the dope!" said Old Bird. 
 
 When the bell rang, Old Bird danced out of 
 his comer with the alacrity of a man going to 
 work at a favorite trade. He feinted three times 
 with his left, skipping in and out, and then 
 lunged forward behind a straight jab aimed at 
 CuUen 's nose. The apple picker jerked his 
 head aside without moving his feet. Old Bird's 
 left lead whistled between shoulder and ear, 
 and he floundered, wide open and helpless, into 
 a terrific smash over the heart. Old Bird 
 clinched, granting with pain and astonishment. 
 The men who can "slip a punch with the head" 
 are scarce ; a one-armed man might almost tick 
 them off on his fingers. Still, it might have 
 been an accident. Old Bird decided that it could 
 not have been design; no apple picker ever 
 learned Kid McCoy's tricks ! 
 
 Again Old Bird circled cautiously and lashed 
 out with a straight left ;. again CuUen whipped 
 his face out of the way, and this time the trip- 
 hammer right buried itself to the wrist in the 
 soft roll of flesh just below the rib line. It was 
 a savage blow, and for an instant Old Bird was 
 very sick. He tried to hang on for a few sec- 
 onds, but CuUen drove him iuto the open with 
 
 [308] 
 
EASY PICKING 
 
 half a dozen rasping rights and lefts which 
 sounded like the drum solo in a Sousa inarch. 
 
 Old Bird hopped ten feet away, and prepared 
 to box at extreme long range. He wanted time 
 to think, time to readjust his opinion of this 
 rube fighter. He had expected to surprise Cul- 
 len ; Cullen had surprised him. More than that, 
 CuUen had hit him as hard as he had ever been 
 hit in his life, and Old Bird remembered, with 
 regret, that he had done very little real train- 
 ing for this rural picnic. He was in no condi- 
 tion for a long, hard battle. Infighting seemed 
 to be the rube's specialty; Old Bird decided to 
 continue the engagement at fuU-arm range. He 
 had no stomach — or, rather, too much stomach 
 — for any more of those short smashes below 
 the rib line. A man in first-class condition could 
 not hope to survive many of them; a man un- 
 trained and soft about the midriff would find 
 them plain murder in the first degree. 
 
 Old Bird made up his mind to pin his hopeoh 
 the big trump which had taken so many pugilis- 
 tic tricks — the one-way ticket to dreamland. He 
 would feint the farmer open to a tremendous 
 right swing, and knock him through the ropes 
 aJid into the orchestra pit. 
 
 Old Bird began to spar carefully, endeavoring 
 to draw Cullen into position. The apple picker's 
 eyes twinkled; he noted that Bennett was carry- 
 ing his right hand low and well back toward 
 the hip. 
 
 ' ' What you got there ? ' ' asked Cullen. ' ' Why 
 [309] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 don't you shoot your sixteen-incli gun once and 
 let's see if it's any good!" 
 
 "Come on and fight!" growled Old Bird. 
 
 "Anything to be obliging!" said CuUen, and 
 came in like a sunbeam. 
 
 Before Old Bird could get his deadly right 
 into action something extremely solid bumped 
 him under the chin, and he felt the soles of his 
 feet leave the floor. The next point of contact 
 was the back of Old Bird's head. He was not 
 knocked out, but for an instant it seemed that 
 the milky way had moved into the Parkerton Op- 
 era House. It was the third time in his life that 
 Old Bird had been knocked flat with a single 
 blow and the first time that it had been done 
 with a punch which he did not know was coming. 
 The bell ended the round at the count of eight, 
 and Old Bird rocked back to his corner. 
 
 ""What did he do that with?" mumbled the 
 veteran, as he nosed the green bottle. 
 
 "A little short left hook," said Terry. "It 
 didn't travel more than ten inches. For the 
 love of Mike, watch out for this guy. He ain't 
 as soft as he looks." 
 
 "TeU me something I don't know," muttered 
 Old Bird. "I never even saw him start that 
 last one. It was a beaut ! ' ' 
 
 " He 's got a bad body punch there, " cautioned 
 Terry. ' ' You ought to stop those. ' ' 
 
 "You didn't see any of 'em get by me, did 
 you?" retorted Old Bird. "Help me out of the 
 chair now; I'm going to stall that I'm hurt, and 
 cop him with my right. ' ' 
 
 [310] 
 
EASY PICKING 
 
 The bell rang, and Terry fairly lifted Old 
 Bird to his feet and pushed him into the ring. 
 He did not seem to want to go, and the apple 
 growers shouted with laughter at the spectacle 
 which Old Bird presented as he wabbled toward 
 the center of the ring. His hands were open 
 and swaying at his sides, his head rocked drunk- 
 enly on his shoulders, and his shoes dragged 
 along the floor. It was a trick which he had 
 learned from the Old Master, who m turn had 
 learned it from Bob Fitzsimmons. CuUen, wait- 
 ing for him in the middle of the ring, dropped 
 his guard and looked appealingly at the ref- 
 eree. As he did so, the Old Bird led his big 
 trump and led it from his hip. Out of the cor- 
 ner of his eye CuUen saw it coming and ducked 
 his head. A matter of two inches saved him 
 from annihilation. The big trump would have 
 taken the trick had it not been for the sudden 
 downward movement of CuUen 's head; as it 
 was Old Bird's glove caught him squarely on 
 the cheek and sent him head over heels into a 
 comer of the ring. 
 
 The Parkerton sports came up with a howl 
 of rage. 
 "Foul! Foul!" 
 
 "What kind of fighting do you call that?" 
 "He hit him when his hands was down!" 
 "Dirty work! Eotten! S-s-s-s! Bo-o-o-h!" 
 The Portland saloon keeper knew his busi- 
 ness. He began counting at once, walking to- 
 ward CuUen as he did so. At three that young 
 man was sprawling on his back; at four he be- 
 
 C311] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 gan to collect Ms arms and legs; at seven lie 
 was waiting, both gloves and one knee on the 
 floor. The referee marked the seconds with his 
 right arm, while with the left he repulsed the 
 impetuous charges of Old Bird, who was danc- 
 ing about like an angry fox terrier, ready to 
 dash in with the finishing blow the instant Cul- 
 len should come to his feet. At eight the local 
 warrior turned his head toward his comer and 
 his left eyelid flickered perceptibly. Had Old 
 Bird seen this, perhaps he would not have 
 rushed in so recklessly as his opponent straight- 
 ened from the floor ; perhaps he might have re- 
 remembered that there is no copyright on 
 a "stall." 
 
 Old Bird charged with his right hand drawn 
 back like a scythe, head forward and chin jut- 
 ting well out over his chest ; Cullen came from 
 the floor with one bound, and a left hook came 
 with him all the way. It stopped under Old 
 Bird's chin, a skyrocket exploded in his brain, 
 ,once more the stars passed iu swift review, and 
 then came thick, black darkness, impenetrable 
 and enduring. 
 
 Light and reason returned simultaneously. 
 Old Bird found himself reclining on a sofa in 
 the star dressing room and a mild-faced old 
 gentleman was putting some bottles back into a 
 black satchel. 
 
 "Feel better now, son?" asked the doctor 
 kindly. 
 
 "I feel worse!" mumbled the veteran. 
 "What's the matter with my mouth?" 
 [312] 
 
EASY PICKING 
 
 "You've got four broken teeth," said the doc- 
 tor; "but it might have been your neck, so you 
 can't complain." 
 
 "But I had him Hcked!" protested Old Bird. 
 "He was down, wasn't he? And I went in to 
 clean him, and " 
 
 "And he hit you with one that he fetched 
 from China!" snapped Joe Terry. "You're a 
 wise guy, you are! He wasn't hurt at all; you 
 copped him away up on the cheek bone, and he 
 worked the stall right back. Only he got away 
 with his, and you didn't. If this guy is a sucker, 
 I don't know where you get your wise ones ! ' ' 
 
 There was a commotion at the door, and the 
 victor entered, followed by Jim Dabney, the 
 Portland referee, and as many of the local 
 sports as could find standing room. They seemed 
 very cheerful. 
 
 "How are you, Bennett?" asked Cullen, offer- 
 ing his hand. 
 
 Old Bird stared at the farmer fighter with 
 open mouth, and Joe Terry drew in his breath 
 with a whistling sound. 
 
 "Huh?" gurgled the defeated warrior. 
 "What's that?" 
 
 "Oh, we smoked you out," grinned Dabney. 
 "I had my suspicions you was a fighter the 
 minute you hit town. When you started train- 
 ing I wasn't so sure, but when your friend here 
 began to bet, I thought there was a nigger in the 
 woodpile somewhere. This afternoon a few of 
 us boys began comparin' notes and countin' up 
 bets, and then we knew that there was some- 
 
 [313] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 thing doing. I got tlie files of tlie Police Gazette 
 for five years up in my place, and we pawed 
 through 'em until we found out what we was 
 up against. Turned out all right, though, and 
 I guess the odds were about right, eh, boys? 
 "What do you think of our little rube fighter! 
 Pretty good, ain 't he ? " 
 
 "If he'll sign a contract with me," said 
 Terry, "I'll make him the next lightweight 
 champion; that's how good I think he is." 
 
 "You're a little bit late, friend," said Jim 
 Dabney. "We may be hayseeds up here in 
 Parkerton, but we know a fighter when we see 
 him. I've got this boy tied up for ten years, 
 and as soon as the apple crop is in I'm going to 
 take him down to San Francisco and get a 
 chance to bet some money on the short end for 
 a change." 
 
 "Apples!" sniffed Terry scornfully. "I 
 wouldn't monkey with all the apples in the 
 world if I had a fighter like that on my staff!" 
 
 Old Bird said no more until he was hoisting 
 himself into an upper berth on the southbound 
 train. 
 
 ' ' Hey, Joe ! " he whispered. 
 
 Terry grunted in reply. 
 
 "A feller told me once," said Old Bird, "that 
 aU the wise guys in the cities came in from the 
 small towns. He sure said an armful then, 
 didn't he?" 
 
 [314] 
 
FOE THE PICTUEES 
 
 JOHN — "GEIZZLY" — GAVIN, middle- 
 weight diampion of all the world, and the 
 most distinguished knocker-out of his gen- 
 eration, squirmed on a chair in the star dressing 
 room of the Imperial Vaudeville Theater and 
 tried to do two things at once, but with indif- 
 ferent success, for Nature had designed him on 
 simple and elemental lines. 
 
 The champion was attempting to give an in- 
 terview to a representative of the press^ — giving 
 it as a cow gives milk, by having it wheedled 
 out of her in driblets — and at the same time he 
 was endeavoring to make safe and cautious 
 double-entry into a pair of purple silk tights — ' 
 quite an undertaking for a man unacquainted 
 with high-browed reporters and unused to flesh- 
 ings of any sort. 
 
 Gavin did not wish to offend the interviewer, 
 who was young enough to denounce himself as 
 a "special writer" and seemed sensitive about 
 it; neither did he wish to split the tights, which 
 were new and dangerously thin, and the mighty 
 intellect which had dragged John Gavin from 
 a machine shop to the very pinnacle of fame was 
 
 [315] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 vibrating rapidly between two points of distrao- 
 tion. Those who bave never been bombarded 
 with personal questions while struggling with a 
 new pair of purple silk tights can never appre- 
 ciate the delicacy of the situation. 
 
 "Er — Mr. Gavin," said the journalist hope- 
 fully, "would you mind telling the readers of 
 the Morning Messenger what you think of the 
 theatrical business ? I mean how does the stage 
 appeal to you from the standpoint of a pugi- 
 list?" 
 
 "Kotten!" growled the champion as he care- 
 fully eased a bulging calf into its silken sheath. 
 "Eotten!" 
 
 The interviewer brightened perceptibly. 
 Here, he told himself, was something worth 
 while. 
 
 "You mean, then," said he eagerly, "that the 
 moral influence of the theater is — ^is " 
 
 "Moral influence, hell!" grunted Gavin. "I 
 don't know nothing about moral influence. I 
 ain't no preacher, and I ain't no knocker 
 either. ' ' 
 
 "But," said the perplexed youth, "you just 
 said the stage was rotten. ' ' 
 
 "Any business," remarked the champion, "is 
 rotten when you want to be doing something 
 else. I'm a fighter, I am; and I'd rather step 
 four rounds with Cock-eyed Mahoney than make 
 a fool of myself in front of an audience. But 
 my manager signed a contract and it's up to 
 me to deliver. Me, I think the show business is 
 rotten." 
 
 [316] 
 
FOB THE PICTURES 
 
 "I see. Your criticism is based on purely 
 personal grounds." 
 
 " Yeh. I guess so. Write it up any way you 
 like. You'll do it anyhow." 
 
 The young man looked rather bewildered, but 
 caught his breath and tried a new tack. 
 
 "Mr. Gavin," said he, "would you mind tell- 
 ing me why they caU you 'Grizzly'? Is it be- 
 cause you fight like a bear?" 
 
 "If I fought like a bear," said the champion, 
 * ' I would have been licked long ago. All a griz- 
 zly can do is to get you into a clinch and hug you 
 to death. That ain't fighting." 
 
 The champion rose and suir^eyed his purple 
 legs, examining their reflection in the mirror 
 and nearly twisting his head off in order to se- 
 cure a rear view. 
 
 "Then why do they call you 'Grizzly'?" 
 
 * ' Because I 'm so hairy. They hung that name 
 on me out West, and it'll stick, I guess. That's 
 why I have to wear these fool things. And my 
 chest — ^^say, if I had 'Welcome' worked on it 
 I could lay down on my back and pass for a door 
 mat." Again the champion studied his reflec- 
 tion in the glass, running the tips of his fingers 
 over his silken thighs. "They feel kind of 
 smooth and nice, at that," said he, half apolo- 
 getically, but with a trace of pride. "Cotton 
 is good enough for anybody; but silk — ^well, 
 silk is class. You got to admit it — silk is class. 
 . . . Anythingelseyou want to askme?" 
 
 "Why, yes. Some of the boys in the office 
 want to know how long it will take you to whip 
 
 [317] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 Mr. Summers. This isn't for publication, you 
 understand. I — I think they might make some 
 bets." 
 
 Grizzly Gavin grinned from ear to ear. 
 
 "Yeh. They might — if they knew. Listen: 
 If I knew the answer to that question I'd win 
 myself wealthy, snow-baUing the right round 
 in the mutuals. It's sure to be a big betting 
 fight, and I'd get rich." 
 
 ' ' You 're confident of beating him, of course ? ' ' 
 
 Gavin stopped grinning and his brows wrin- 
 kled into an ugly scowl. 
 
 "Confident? Say, as sure as you're setting 
 there, I'll tear his block off! I'll fix that jay) 
 of his so he can't wag it at no more newspaper 
 men in a hurry! I'll knock him kicking like a 
 shot rabbit — you can bet your last nickel on it ! " 
 
 "They say that Mr. Summers is very scien- 
 tific." 
 
 "Yeh," said Gavia with great scorn. "All 
 them fighters that can't stand a good wallop, 
 they have to be clever. They run, and they 
 duck, and they sidestep, and they poke at you 
 with a straight left that wouldn't dent a derby 
 hat, but when it comes to real fighting — ^huh, 
 they ain't there!" 
 
 "I gather, then, that you haven't a very high 
 opinion of Mr. Summers." 
 
 "Don't gather the pot till all the chips is in. 
 Swifty Summers is no soft proposition, and no 
 push-over. He's licked some tough men. He's 
 fast on his feet, he's clever, and he's tricky as 
 the devU. And when he gets an opening for that 
 
 [318] 
 
FOE THE PICTUEES 
 
 right hand there ain't no cream puff in the 
 glove when it comes across. There's a kick in 
 it — a good kick. He's no cinch, but I'll tear 
 into him so hard that he'll never get a chance 
 to set himself and land with his right. I'll run 
 him ragged, and if I can stop him in the first 
 round I'll do it. There's one thing you can 
 pay about me if you want to — ^I never yet let a 
 man stay a minute longer than I could help. 
 I don't believe in stalling to give the crowd a 
 run for its money. I'm out to win, and win 
 quick. That's why they come to see me fight. 
 I'll be right on top of Summers the minute that 
 bell rings." 
 
 "May I quote you as saying that?" 
 
 "Sure, quote me! Why not? Everybody 
 knows that's my style of fighting. I go to 'em 
 and trade slams till they drop. That's how I 
 got my title, and by the way, the championship 
 belt is in the trunk there. It cost a thousand 
 bucks — all solid gold where it ain't silk ribbon, 
 and that diamond ain't no phony stone, either. 
 Want to see it?" 
 
 "I'd be delighted," murmured the reporter. 
 "I never saw a championship belt before. I — 
 I am not attached to the sporting department. 
 I write special articles ' ' 
 
 " Yeh," said Gavin dryly as he bent over the 
 trunk. * ' I kind of thought you wasn 't no sport- 
 ing editor when you first come in. . . . Now, 
 this belt was presented to me by — oh, well, 
 read for yourself what it says. Pretty good 
 from the guys in a man's home town, eh?" 
 
 [319] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 II 
 
 The American prize ring has produced hun- 
 dreds of sports, four or five genuine sportsmen 
 and a genius or two. Swifty Summers, chris- 
 tened Alexander Kittredge Duncan, was neither 
 a sport nor a sportsman, but he came very close 
 to the last classification. The proof is in the 
 fact that though he flourished more than a few 
 years ago his record remains green — if not 
 fragrant — in the memories of those who have 
 followed the ring and ringsters for a decade 
 or so. 
 
 Summers was the first real captain of the 
 padded-mitt industry; the first pugilist to rec- 
 ognize the doUar-and-cent possibilities of the 
 profession of fisticuffs. We have had many 
 "price fighters" since his day, but not one of 
 them could have taught Summers anything new 
 in the use of the double or triple cross, or the 
 knack of taking an unfair advantage of an op- 
 ponent while making it seem perfectly fair to 
 a referee, or the crowning art of scooping in 
 the loosely held dollar of commerce. From time 
 to time a great many men thought they were 
 "managing" Summers' business affairs, but 
 when the loot was divided they discovered that 
 they had been in error. There was never a 
 "manager's cut." 
 
 Starting with a fair education, Summers read 
 
 books and newspapers and made a careful study 
 
 of men. He could talk easily and entertainingly 
 
 on any topic of general interest, and with such 
 
 [320] 
 
FOB THE PICTUKES 
 
 choice of vernacular as to be understood by a 
 bank president or a safe blower. He looked like 
 a gentleman, there were times when he acted 
 like one, and he dressed with the quiet but ele- 
 gant taste of a pork packer's grandson. 
 
 Lady interviewers listened to his soft, well- 
 modulated voice and went away to rave inkily 
 about his intelligent brown eyes, his perfect 
 poise and the charm of his personality. Un- 
 questionably Swifty Summers was a very 
 smooth article. "When on dress parade he might 
 have borrowed a graduating class from the 
 president of a female seminary; but stripped 
 down to his warped and twisted soul he was 
 as unscrupulous as a scorpion, and fully as dan- 
 gerous. There was not a trick in his trade which 
 he did not know and use, and sometimes he in- 
 vented new ones, as was the case in his first 
 important ring battle. 
 
 Said Cock-eyed Mahoney, the Fighting Steve- 
 dore, to his chief second: "He's a nice-spoken 
 lad, this Summers, an' I kind o' hate to muss'm 
 up. When we was in that first clinch he whis- 
 pers to me how his father is in the gallery, and 
 asks me not to show'm up too bad before the 
 old man. I think I'll box easy for a few rounds, 
 then go git'm." 
 
 * * Nix ! ' ' advised the chief second. ' ' You ain *t 
 no boxer, and he is. Tear into him ! " 
 
 "No-o," said Mahoney; "he ast me like a gen- 
 tleman, and I'll let'm stay a while — -on account 
 of his old man. I'U go easy at first. " 
 
 WhUe Mahoney was going easy he bumpea 
 [321] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 into a right liook coming hard. When he recov- 
 ered consciousness he was a sadder, madder 
 man, but not nearly so mad as he was later 
 when he ascertained that Summers was an or- 
 phan. 
 
 Now Grizzly Gavin and Mahoney were friends 
 in spite of three hard battles, and Gavin knew 
 the story about Swifty's old man. He had 
 heard other stories as well, and was resolved 
 not to listen to any proposition from Summers, 
 in the ring or out of it; but it often happens 
 that the man who will not listen to conversation 
 will lend both ears to the soothing mistle of 
 greenbacks. Four days before the battle for the 
 middleweight championship of the world Joe 
 "Wells entered Gavin's training quarters with a 
 message from the enemy. Wells was Gavin's 
 manager, caring no more for money than a 
 Circassian beauty does for her hair. 
 
 "Summers wants to see us to-night," said 
 WeUs. 
 
 "Leave him tell his troubles to a policeman!" 
 growled Gavin, who was irritable. Most men 
 are irritable after a long siege of training. 
 
 "He's got some proposition about making 
 a barrel of dough," continued Wells. "He 
 wouldn't tell me what it is, but he says it's a 
 cinch. He wants to talk it over with you and 
 see what you think about it." 
 
 "Huh! Figuring on some kind of a frame, 
 eh?" 
 
 ' ' He says not. Says the fight has got to be on 
 [322] 
 
FOR THE PICTUEES 
 
 the level, and here's the angle I don't get. 
 Here's his message : 'You tell that big stiff of a 
 Gavin that he can clean up fifty thousand dol- 
 lars on the side — fifty thousand without betting 
 a cent or posting a nickel — and he'll get it no 
 matter which one of us wins. ' ' ' 
 
 " *No matter which one of us wins!' " re- 
 peated Gavin. "I don't get the angle either. 
 Fifty thousand dollars — and no betting to be 
 done. I don't get it." 
 
 "He says it? won't take five minutes to ex- 
 plain the whole business, and then you can take 
 it or leave it. It wouldn't do any harm to 
 listen, John." 
 
 "Yeh, but suppose we're seen talking to- 
 gether. Eight away the papers would yell that 
 we were framing the fight. You know, and I 
 know, that we wouldn't frame nothing; but 
 Summers would frame his own brother. It 
 would look bad." 
 
 "He thought of that. He said that at ten 
 o'clock sharp he'd drive by here in a closed hack 
 and pick us up down at the railroad crossing." 
 
 "And the hack driver would spill it, sure!" 
 
 ' ' Now listen, John. You ought to know that 
 a hack driver never spills nothing. He's wise. 
 It's part of his trade to keep his mouth shut." 
 
 "I don't care," said the champion. "I can't 
 take chances on any newspaper talk." 
 
 "No," said Wells, "I guess you're right, 
 John. , . . Fifty thousand bucks, whether you 
 win or whether you lose. ... It sounds like new 
 stuff." 
 
 [323] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 "Look here, ' ' said Gavin suddenly, ' ' if you 're 
 so crazy to know about it why not meet the 
 hack and tell Summers to get out. The hack can 
 drive on, and me and you and him will have a 
 chat — down the railroad track where it's quiet." 
 
 ' ' Keno ! ' ' exclaimed the manager. ' ' Might as 
 well find out what he's got, eh?" 
 
 "Yeh," grunted Gavin. "And if he makes 
 any funny cracks at me I'll just poke him one 
 for luck. You tell him so." 
 
 At five minutes after ten the champion eased 
 himself out of the back door of his training 
 quarters, traversed an alley, skulked round two 
 corners and arrived at the railroad crossing. 
 The night was quite dark, but Gavin had no 
 trouble in recognizing Suromers, who stepped 
 from underneath a tree to greet him. The chal- 
 lenger was far too clever to annoy Gavin with 
 a sartorijJ display; he wore a thick sweater, 
 dark trousers, rubber-soled shoes and a cap. 
 His conversation was also suited to the occa- 
 sion. 
 
 "How 're you, champ? You look pretty fit." 
 
 "Never you worry about me," snapped Gavin. 
 "I'm fit enough to knock your head off." 
 
 Summers laughed. 
 
 "When you worked in the machine shop," 
 said he, "you quit when the whistle blew. You 
 didn't carry your tools with you all the time. 
 Let 's not quarrel till we get paid for it. " 
 
 Gavin grunted and led the way down the 
 railroad track, followed by Summers and Joe 
 [324] 
 
FOR THE PICTUEES 
 
 Wells. When he had gone two hundred yards 
 he faced about suddenly. 
 
 ' ' Now talk, ' ' said he, ' ' and talk quick. What 
 have you got?" 
 
 "The softest thing in the world," replied 
 Summers. "I've got a line on a man who can 
 take moving pictures of this fight." 
 
 "Moving pictures?" asked Gavin stupidly. 
 
 While it may seem incredible to the young- 
 sters, accustomed to a motion-picture theater on 
 every downtown block, there was a time, and not 
 go very long ago, when the amazing future ot 
 a giant industry was safely locked inside a few 
 strange-looking cameras ; and even the men who 
 carried them had but a f aiat conception of their 
 commercial and artistic possibilities. Most of 
 those men are now mUHonaires many times 
 over. 
 
 "Moving pictures?" repeated Gavin again. 
 
 ' ' That's it. You remember they took moving 
 pictures of the Carson fight?" 
 
 * * Yeh, ' ' said Gavin, ' ' I heard about it. ' * 
 
 "Well," said Summers, "they've learned a 
 lot since then. This fellow — ^his name's Isaacs, 
 and his cousin controls a string of theaters all 
 over the country — tells me he's prepared to 
 handle the picture end without our putting up 
 a nickel. He says if the fight is a good one he 
 can guarantee that our bit won't be less than a 
 hundred thousand, cold. That's on a percent- 
 age basis, of course. The fight club might have 
 to be cut in on a piece of the dough, but the 
 big chunk splits three ways — ^just you and me 
 
 [325] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 and Isaacs. How does that sound to you?" 
 
 "Reasonable," chirped Joe "Wells. ''They 
 made a barrel of dough out of the Carson pic- 
 tures — ^I know that." 
 
 "And these pictures will beat the Carson pic- 
 tures aU hollow," said Summers. "They've 
 made improvements in the camera." 
 
 "Yeh," said Gavin shrewdly, "it listens fine; 
 but what does this here Isaacs mean when he 
 says ' if it 's a good fight ' ? " 
 
 "Why," smiled Summers, "a good fight from 
 a picture standpoint. Lots of action " 
 
 "There'll be action enough," growled Gavin. 
 "There's always action when I fight." 
 
 Summers proceeded, calmly ignoring the in- 
 terruption : 
 
 "Action, and it'U have to last long enough so 
 the film '11 be worth charging a dollar to see. 
 Now, for instance, if one of us should be 
 dropped cold in the first round the pictured 
 wouldn't draw — the show would be too short, 
 understand?" 
 
 '"You bet I understand," sneered the cham- 
 pion. "Come on, Joe. We might have known 
 this crook would spring something like that. I 
 won't frame for nobody, dough or no dough!" 
 
 ' ' Just a minute ! ' ' pleaded Summers. ' ' That 
 'dough or no dough' stuff sounds great, but it's 
 foolishness. You ain 't such a money getter that 
 you can afford to pass up fifty thousand bucks. 
 Mike McCue had the title for three years be- 
 fore you licked him. Where's Mike now? 
 Working in a lumber yard in Sacramento ! Mike 
 
 [326] 
 
FOE THE PICTUBES 
 
 was a spender when he had it; you're blowing 
 yours now. Don't be a fool, Gavin! Have you 
 got fifty thousand salted down anywhere ? Have 
 you got twenty-five? Have you got enough to 
 live soft the rest of your life? You bet you 
 haven 't — and neither have I ! Here 's fifty thou- 
 sand for you and fifty thousand for me ; and the 
 beauty of it is we don't have to do anything 
 wrong to get it. We can box a nice exhibition 
 for a few rounds and then cut loose in earnest, 
 and they'll think we've only been feeling each 
 other out. Fifty thousand bucks, as sure as 
 death and taxes ! ... Do you want to go back 
 to the machine shop when you're through fight- 
 ing?" 
 
 "No-o," said Gavin, who had been thinking 
 of Mike McCue sweating in the lumber yard at 
 three dollars a day. ' ' No-o, but if I fall for this 
 what '11 keep you from trying to slip one over on 
 me?" 
 
 Summers turned to Wells with a gesture of 
 disgust. 
 
 * ' No wonder he needs a smart business mana- 
 ger!" complained the challenger. "What will I 
 get if I win this fight? Five or six thousand 
 dollars at the outside; and for that I'd toss 
 away a fortune ! " He whirled and confronted 
 the champion. ' ' Ain 't we both interested in the 
 pictures? Use your head, Gavin, use your 
 head!" 
 
 "Yeh," retorted Gavin, "it's my head that 
 tells me your word ain 't good for a nickel ! ' ' 
 
 * * So that 's it ? " cried Summers angrily. * * My 
 [327] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 word ain't good, eh? Well, I'll make it good 
 with the fairest proposition you ever listened 
 tol" He fumbled in a hip pocket, brought out 
 a leather bill fold and opened it. "You don't 
 trust me, Gavin, but I'm going to trust you. 
 Here's a thousand-dollar note — oh, strike a 
 match and look at it! It ain't Confederate 
 money ! A thousand-dollar note — and it 's yours 
 if I try to slip anything over on you. Put it 
 in your pocket, and if I don't live up to any 
 agreement we might make you can keep it. And 
 you're to be the judge. I'll leave it to you when 
 the fight is over. Is that fair or not?" 
 
 John Gavin stood with head lowered, twisting 
 ;the bit of paper in his fingers. The silence 
 lengthened until it became almost painful. He 
 was the middleweight champion of the world, 
 but never before had he held a thousand-dollar 
 note in his hands. 
 
 ' ' Where is this Isaacs ? " he asked at last with- 
 out looking up. "I — ^I guess Joe ought to have 
 a talk with him." 
 
 "He'll be at the Occidental Hotel to-morrow 
 morning," said Summers. "All he wants is a 
 promise that the fight 'U last at least four 
 rounds. It's a straight business proposition 
 with him. He can't go to a lot of expense to 
 take some pictures that won't draw." 
 
 Gavin tucked the note in his fob pocket. 
 
 "It's a go," said he slowly, "and I'll hold 
 this piece of dough as a forfeit. We'll box four 
 rounds for the pictures, but — ^watch out for 
 yourself in the fifth!" 
 
 [328] 
 
FOR THE PICTTJEES 
 
 * ' The same to you 1 ' ' grinned Summers. "It's 
 a real old knock-down-and-drag-out after the 
 fourth round — and may the best man win I" 
 
 He held out his hand and Gavin took it. 
 
 "That'll be me," said the champion. "Yeh, 
 I'll shake on it I" 
 
 in 
 
 A battle for a world's championship is 
 hedged about with a tremendous amount of 
 pomp and circumstance. The dignified pre- 
 liminaries have changed very little in twenty 
 years. The great and the near-great must 
 be introduced to the impatient multitude, and 
 so must every tin-eared, dent-nosed, light- 
 weighted gladiator wishing to "challench d' 
 winner." A cat may look at a king, and on 
 the day of a championship event the lowly pork- 
 and-beaner may grasp the hand which grasps a 
 title. 
 
 The gloves must be examined by the referee, 
 by the principals, by the chief seconds and train- 
 ers, by the towel-swingers and bottle-holders 
 and all others considering themselves interested. 
 Photographs must be teiken showing champion 
 and challenger crouched and scowling at each 
 other, the referee posed in the exact center, try- 
 ing hard to look like the great man he feels 
 himself to be. These things, and many others, 
 always happen when a championship is in the 
 balance, 
 
 John Gavin sat in his comer, grim and silent, 
 wearing his professional face. Preliminaries 
 
 [329] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 always annoyed the champion. While he waited 
 for the clearing of the ring his eyes wandered 
 to the pine platform where the motion-picture 
 camera was located. It was the first one he had 
 ever seen, and Gavin studied it curiously. Out 
 of that insignificant box was to come the money 
 which should erase the machine shop from Tiis 
 future calculations — "fifty thousand sure, may- 
 be seventy-five," Isaacs had told Joe WeUs. 
 Gavin found himself pitying Mike McCue, whose 
 championship had vanished and left no lucra- 
 tive film record behiud ; and with a vague feel- 
 ing of uneasiness he remembered that many of 
 his friends were betting on him to win inside 
 of four rounds. He knew that by abandoning 
 his usual thunderbolt style of attack he was be- 
 traying a public confidence, but, as Joe Wells 
 had pointed out, the gamblers wouldn't give him 
 a. cent of their winnings, and a man had a right 
 ^ to feather his nest deep and soft while feathers 
 were flying. 
 
 In the opposite comer sat the challenger, 
 noticeably pale and evidently nei^ous, but nod- 
 ding and smiling in response to the shrill greet- 
 ings of friends and backers. It is only the thick- 
 skulled, unimaginative, old-style type of bruiser, 
 fighting always with his hands and never with 
 his head, who endures the final agony of wait- 
 ing without feeling the strain. Tiny beads of 
 sweat dampened Summers ' forehead ; his hands 
 were in constant motion; his feet shuffled over 
 the canvas. Not once did he glance in the di- 
 rection of the motion-picture camera. 
 [330] 
 
FOR THE PICTURES 
 
 " Look at him ! " said Wells to Gavin. ' ' Scared 
 stiff, and spitting cotton!" 
 
 "JDon't fool yourself!" grunted tlie cham- 
 pion. "I seen liim in three fights, and he al- 
 ways looks like he's licked before he starts. 
 He's cool enough when he gets going." 
 
 The great moment arrived at last. The men, 
 stripped to trunks and shoes, stood in their cor- 
 ners while the announcer bawled his way 
 through the time-honored formula. Gavin, hairy 
 and broad-shouldered as a gorilla, the true type 
 of fighting man, bulked large when compared 
 with his slender, flat-muscled opponent. High 
 on the pine platform a sleek, oily, full-jeweled 
 person began turning a crank, and a second 
 later the gong cut through the tense silence. 
 
 Gavin shuffled rapidly to the center, head 
 down and right hand poised as if to annihilate 
 his opponent with one mighty swing. Summers 
 met him and immediately began dancing in and 
 out, feinting with light lefts. Gavin rushed, 
 there was a flurry of smothered blows and they 
 clinched. Summers' lips did not move, but his 
 head was on Gavin's shoulder and the champion 
 caught the message, low and reassuring. 
 
 "Make it look good, champ! Four rounds — 
 for the pictures. You rush me and I'll block." 
 
 Gavin backed out of the clinch and rushed, 
 his guard held low. As he plunged in, ready to 
 swing. Summers took one lightning step for- 
 ward and to the left, and as he did so he whipped 
 his right fist across, backed up by one hundred 
 and fifty pounds of bone, muscle and sinew. 
 
 [331] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 Gavin saw the blow coining, and in that as- 
 tounded fraction of an instjint he realized that 
 he had been tricked into leaving his jaw wide 
 open to the same vicious swinging hook that had 
 finished poor, generous Mahoney. He saw it 
 coining, and that was all. Before he could duck 
 his head or raise his shoulder Summers ' famous 
 knockout punch crashed home on the point of 
 his chin, and Gavin dropped like a log, face 
 down on the canvas. 
 
 There followed an interval of blackness and 
 oblivion, and then the prostrate gladiator be- 
 came aware of a terrific volume of sound beat- 
 ing in on him from four sides of the ring — the 
 wild hysterical yelling of men who see a cham- 
 pionship changing hands. A new note struck 
 in, clear and sharp, very close to Gavin's ear: 
 
 "Eight!" 
 
 Then Gavin knew where he was and remem- 
 bered what had happened to him. He struggled 
 to his knees, but the sunlit arena swung in dizzy- 
 ing circles before his glazed eyes and there was 
 no strength in him anywhere — ^nothing but 
 weakness and a sickening sensation of nausea. 
 He knew that he must be on his feet inside of 
 two seconds, but his numbed brain could not 
 transmit its commands to the sprawling limbs. 
 Gavin dropped forward, supporting most of his 
 weight on his hands, and in this position he 
 heard the count reach nine. 
 
 Had his very life depended on his getting to 
 his feet he could not have tried harder, but the 
 paralyzing effect of that treacherous blow was 
 
 [332] 
 
FOR THE PIOTUEES 
 
 not to be thrown off by a sheer effort of the will. 
 If Gavin had succeeded in rising he would have 
 been an open target before as merciless a fighter 
 as ever lived, but the champion did not think of 
 this. He only knew that he must be on his feet 
 before the count reached ten. . . . Now if he 
 could just get that right knee off the canvas. 
 
 A hand slapped him smartly on the shoulder 
 and three words came to him : ' ' Ten — and out ! ' * 
 
 The fight was over; and Gaviu had sold the 
 championship of the world for a thousand-dol- 
 lar note, which was good, and the word of a man 
 whose word he had said was not good. He col- 
 lapsed on his face and Summers picked him up 
 and carried him to his comer. 
 
 The new champion looked down through the 
 ropes at a white, wide-eyed young man who 
 seemed to be trying to say something. It was 
 Joe Wells, stunned by the sudden catastrophe to 
 his own personal fortunes. As Summers placed 
 the defeated fighter on his stool Gavin's eyes 
 opened and he looked up at the man who had 
 tricked him out of his title. 
 
 "Oh, you dog! You dog!" muttered Gavin. 
 
 Then Summers did a very clever thing. He 
 put both arms round Gavin's neck and bent 
 close over him. Those who were in a position 
 to see the little tableau thought the winner was 
 whispering words of comfort to the loser; 
 certainly the pitying smile on Summers' face 
 seemed to indicate something of the sort. 
 
 But this is what he was saying: "If you 
 squeal, you big hairy stiff, this crowd '11 hang 
 
 [333] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 you, and your manager too! If you want to 
 get out of this place alive you'll keep your trap 
 shut!" 
 
 Even in his shaken and befuddled condition 
 John Gavin realized that the advice was sound. 
 In attempting to fool the public he himself had 
 been fooled, and dared not lift unclean hands 
 against his partner in crime. Summers had 
 played it very safe. 
 
 High on the pine platform, black against the 
 westering sun, the sleek and oily Mr. Isaacs 
 continued to turn the crank of the motion-pic- 
 ture camera; and as he cranked he smiled. 
 
 Perhaps he smiled because his pockets were 
 full of winning tickets; perhaps he smiled be- 
 cause the film magazine of the camera was 
 empty — ^had been empty all day. Mr. Isaacs 
 was not a photographer ; he was a cross between 
 a confidence man and a sure-thing gambler. He 
 had taken chances from time to time, but he had 
 never taken so much as a snapshot in all his 
 life. 
 
 IV 
 
 The San Francisco that used to be was the 
 winter Mecca of American sports and sporting 
 men. There is a new San Francisco now, keep- 
 ing open house for all the world and making the 
 stranger feel his welcome as he feels it nowhere 
 else, but the race tracks, the wide-open pool 
 rooms, the gambling houses and the great 
 world's championship battles are things of the 
 past. They have vanished as completely as the 
 [334] 
 
rOE THE PICTUEES 
 
 deep-sea-going hacks, the cable cars that used 
 to trundle up Market Street, and the wooden 
 buildings that once lined that great thorough- 
 fare. 
 
 The good old days may have been bad old 
 days — shockingly bad when judged by the strict, 
 Middle-Western standard of morality — ^but 
 many a grizzled San Franciscan mentions them 
 with a faiat sigh of genuine regret. There 
 was always something doing in old San Fran- 
 cisco, especially in the gay winter season, when 
 the ponies were running and the town swarmed 
 with turf followers. 
 
 "What wonder, then, that Swifty Summers 
 pointed his keen nose in the direction of the 
 Golden Gate? The second year of his cham- 
 pionship had been kind to him. He had de- 
 fended his title three times without even having 
 his hair mussed and had completed a successful 
 theatrical tour. All his pockets were bulging 
 with unspent money, and well he knew what 
 city made the highest bid for men of his kidney. 
 He started for San Francisco, fully intending 
 to jostle the bookmakers into the bread line. 
 
 It often happens that the man who handles 
 his own crooked game wisely proves himself a 
 fool when he attempts to beat the crooked game 
 owned and backed by the other fellow. Sum- 
 mers, a fox in the roped arena, was a goose in 
 the betting ring. In the simple but expressive 
 language of the track, the champion was a 
 sucker for the horses. 
 
 Intent only on making a killiag and confideni; 
 [335] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 that his exclusive inside information would 
 cause great financial distress on Bookmakers' 
 Eow, Summers handed over to the block men 
 the larger portion of the money that he had 
 pried out of the effete East. The killing did 
 not materialize and he then plunged wildly to 
 recoup. Five as good-as-guaranteed tips went 
 wrong one after the other, and the champion 
 awoke to the fact that he must return to his 
 own game. 
 
 Indolent by nature, Summers had promised 
 himself a winter of soft living and easy money. 
 He had no wish to xmdergo the weary grind of 
 training for a hard fight; he felt that he had 
 earned a rest. Before his bank roll grew thin 
 he had been almost discourteous to the boxing 
 promoters. These had urged the claims of an 
 extremely tough youth named Dugan, a Coast 
 product who had blazed his way to prominence, 
 leaving a trail of battered middleweights in his 
 wake. Summers had insisted that Dugan "get 
 a reputation" — an excuse much used by cham- 
 pions when wishing to sidetrack a dangerous 
 climber. 
 
 One rainy afternoon at the race track Sirni- 
 mers was learnedly discussing mud runners 
 with Omaha Slim, and keeping a wary eye on 
 the betting ring. While thus engaged he caught 
 a glimpse of a back and shoulders that seemed 
 strangely familiar to him. 
 
 "Just like I'm tellin' you," Omaha was say- 
 ing; "them dinky-legged beetles go good in 
 the slop. You saw Amphion win the last 
 
 [336] 
 
FOE THE PICXUEES 
 
 race. Now on a dry track that dawg wouldn't 
 have been one, two, nowheres. His legs would 
 have hurt him, and " 
 
 "Hold on a minute," interrupted Summers, 
 shifting his position. "Ain't that John Gavin 
 over there, with his back to us ? " 
 
 ' ' Yeh, that 's him. He 's round here a lot this 
 ■winter." 
 
 "What's he doing?" 
 
 "Not much of anything. He's on the tobog- 
 gan for fair. I guess he never got over that 
 quick trimming you handed him. Kind of broke 
 his heart, they say. Broke him every other way 
 too. Yeh, he's round here, bettin' with the 
 dollar books, doin' the best he can, same as the 
 rest of us." 
 
 "He chased me all over the country last 
 year," said Summers, "hollering for a return 
 match. I let him holler. ' ' 
 
 "He won't be chasin' anybody now," said 
 Omaha. "He's got some trouble with his 
 back — rheumatism, maybe. And he wears a big 
 pair of black-rimmed cheaters, so I guess his 
 eyes ain't what they used to be. They go quick 
 when they go, these tough sluggers, don't 
 they?" 
 
 * ' You bet. Then he 's quit fighting ? ' ' 
 
 "Quit fighting everything but booze. He 
 could have had a match with Dugan last Septem- 
 ber, but he passed it up. Prob'ly thought 
 Dugan was hard game. Yeh, John was a good 
 ole wagon, but he done broke down." 
 [337] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 "Tougli luck," said Summers; and nearly 
 meant it. 
 
 Later in the afternoon he managed to con- 
 trive a nieeting with, the former champion. 
 Summers expected hard words, and was even 
 prepared to block a wild swing for his jaw, 
 but Gavin greeted Mm with a mUdness almost 
 pathetic. His spirit seemed quite broken. 
 
 ' ' Why, hello, Swif ty ! They told me you was 
 here. How's things?" 
 
 "Fine," said Summers, making a swift sur- 
 vey of his victim. 
 
 Gavin needed a shave, a cleaner collar would 
 not have hurt his appearance, and the suit that 
 he wore was downright shabby. 
 
 "You look it," said Gavin. "Buy you a 
 drink?" 
 
 Swifty accepted the invitation, and ordered 
 a glass of sherry, but Gavin demanded his 
 own private bottle and poured out a very stiff 
 jolt. 
 
 "Here's luck!" said he, and gulped it down 
 without blinking. 
 
 Summers watched him curiously out of the 
 corner of his eye. 
 
 ' ' Have another ? ' ' asked the champion. " I '11 
 take a cigar this time. ' ' 
 
 Again Gavin poured a staggering libation 
 and hurried it on its way. 
 
 "Hitting that stuff awful hard, ain't you?" 
 queried Summers. 
 
 "The doctor tells me to lay off, but — I can 
 [338] 
 
POR THE PIOTUEES 
 
 stand it," answered Gavin; and as if anxious 
 to prove his assertion lie slopped out a third 
 drink, filling the glass to the brim. "Things 
 going fine with you, eh? Well, I wish't I could 
 say the same. I ain't been doing much 'ihis 
 last year — gone stale or something. But there 's 
 a battle or two left in me yet." 
 
 "Sure there is!" agreed Summers. 
 
 "You know, Swifty," said Gavin, becoming 
 confidential after his third double portion, ' ' that 
 was a rotten dirty trick you played on me, and 
 it left me in a fix where I couldn't say a word. 
 Not a word! I fired Joe Wells, though. Yeh, 
 I got rid of him. He oughta known that fellow 
 Isaacs was the bunk." 
 
 "The film turned out bad," explained Sum- 
 mers quickly. 
 
 "But Isaacs cashed a lot of tickets in the 
 pool rooms afterward," said Gavin. "Oh, I'm 
 wise enough — now. You — ^you want to know 
 what made me the sorest?" 
 
 ' ' Go ahead ! ' ' grinned Summers. ' ' Get it off 
 your chest." 
 
 ' ' You wouldn 't fight rue again. You wouldn 't 
 make a return match. I — ^I thought I was en- 
 titled to one. And that stuff you handed the 
 reporters about not having to bother with a 
 man you'd licked in a punch — that was pretty 
 raw too. That hurt. Yeh, you gimme all the 
 worst of it when I was chasing you for that 
 return match." 
 
 Gavin was reaching out to pour himself an- 
 [339] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 other drink, but Summers laid his hand on 
 John's wrist. 
 
 "Maybe I was saving you for this winter," 
 said he softly. 
 
 Gavin peered incredulously through his black- 
 rimmed spectacles. 
 
 ' ' Saving me ? Quit your kidding I ' ' 
 
 "But I might be kidding on the square!" 
 persisted Summers. 
 
 "Tou couldn't even kid on the square 1" 
 Oavin spoke bitterly. "You won't fight me 
 again, and you know it ! " 
 
 "How much of a gate would we drawl" 
 
 "Fifteen thousand anyway, maybe twenty. 
 The town's full of money this year. . . . But 
 you don 't mean it. ' ' 
 
 The champion patted Gavin on the shoulder, 
 and his smile was friendliness itself. 
 
 "The reason I get away with things," said 
 he, "is because nobody ever knows just what 
 I mean. It's a good system. Can you put 
 yourself in shape — some kind of shape?" 
 
 "I'd jump out of my coffin to get in shape to 
 lick you ! ' ' 
 
 "Well," said Summers, "don't go to too 
 much trouble on my account, old boy. I'll see 
 you in a few days. And in the meantime cut 
 that stuff out. Booze ain't any good to train 
 on." 
 
 Summers walked away, but from the edge of 
 the betting ring he glanced back toward the bar. 
 He was in time to see Gavin swallow another 
 large drink. 
 
 [340] 
 
FOE THE PICTUKES 
 
 That night Andy CuUen, promoter of boxing 
 contests, accepted an invitation to dine with 
 Summers. ! 
 
 "He wants to talk business," thought Cullen 
 as he hung up the receiver, "The bookmakers 
 have got his dough and now he'll be reason- 
 able." I 
 
 The exact nature of the business that Sum- 
 mers wished to discuss proved somewhat of a 
 surprise to Cullen. 
 
 "You want to fight Gavin again! But 
 Gavin's all in — down and out. The fight 
 wouldn 't draw flies ! " 
 
 "You're a smart fellow," grinned Summers. 
 "You're ace-high with the newspaper men. 
 You can make it draw." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "By playing it up as a grudge fight. Every- 
 body remembers how he hollered two years ago 
 — ^how he chased me all over the country. To 
 be candid with you, I didn't want to fight him 
 then. Maybe I was a little lucky to stop him 
 with a punch, and I didn't want to take chances 
 on him again. It's different now. You get 
 Gavin to come out with a challenge and a good 
 strong statement burning me up for not giving 
 him a return match. That'll start everybody to 
 talking, and at the right time I'll get sore and 
 call his bluff." 1 
 
 "All fine as silk," interrupted the promoter,' 
 "but Dugan is the man they want to see you 
 fight. Gavin is drinking himself to death. He 
 
 [341] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 kills about a quart a day out at the track. Now, 
 Dugan " 
 
 Summers rapped gently on the table with his 
 closed fist and his brown eyes grew hard as moss 
 agates, 
 
 "Nothing — doing — on — Dugan. I told you 
 that before. I don 't mind telling you something 
 else: I won't train for a hard fight. I'm the 
 champion, I'm the one they want to see, and I 
 intend to dictate terms. Gavin is the only man 
 I'll meet. A daylight fight, and moving pic- 
 tures. I '11 stall along for seven or eight rounds, 
 then I'll drop him right in front of the camera. 
 That knowledge ought to be worth something to 
 you — in a betting way. Now, do you want the 
 match or not?" 
 
 ' ' Oh, hell ! ' ' grumbled CuUen. ' ' If you insist 
 on robbing a graveyard I might as well be the 
 undertaker!" 
 
 "That's talking sense. Now get hold of 
 Gavin and break the news to him. The split 
 will be eighty-twenty." 
 
 "That's an awful short loser's end," objected 
 Cullen. 
 
 "It's plenty long enough for Gavin. Man 
 alive, have you seen him lately? He looks like 
 a bum. Oh, yes, one thing more. ' ' 
 
 "What's that?" demanded Cullen suspi- 
 ciously. 
 
 "Gavin had better do his training up in the 
 
 mountains, where too many wise people won't 
 
 see him. I think he '11 try hard to get into shape 
 
 for a fight — ^he believes he owes me a lickiag; 
 
 [342] 
 
FOB THE PICTTJEES 
 
 but trying and doing are two different things. 
 Ship him to some mountain resort where he'll be 
 out of the way. We don 't want everybody in the 
 world to know that we've picked a dead one." 
 
 "You're a wonder!" exclaimed the admiring 
 CuUen. ' ' You think of everything, don 't you ? ' ' 
 
 "I figure all the angles," was the modest 
 reply. 
 
 Mighty indeed is the noble institution known 
 as the press. 
 
 Two days later John Gavin, assisted from his 
 sarcophagus by Mr. Cullen's clever press agent, 
 let out a ferocious and defiant roar, which 
 echoed and reechoed among the sporting pages. 
 Summers, said Gavin, was afraid to fight him 
 again — had been dodging him for two years. 
 He had won the title with a lucky punch, and 
 had proved that such was the case by refusing 
 to make another match. Summers, said Gavin, 
 was a fluke champion. 
 
 The fluke champion, when interviewed about 
 the matter, managed to convey the impression 
 that he was not fight-hungry, but stated that 
 should this hunger develop there were others 
 whose claims took precedence of Gavin's. 
 
 Gavin replied with a double-column blast ; and 
 the great unenlightened public began to sit up 
 and rub its eyes, demanding to know what aU 
 the noise was about. The effect of this cam- 
 paign was to stimulate interest in the former 
 champion and create a desire to see the question 
 
 [343] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 settled with fists rather than linotype machines. 
 For a solid week Summers and Gavin fonght 
 each other all over the keyboards of sporting- 
 department typewriters, at the end of which 
 time the champion descended from his high 
 horse, and articles of war were signed, wit- 
 nessed and put away in CuUen's safe. 
 
 Oavin went to the mountains while Sum- 
 mers crossed the bay, establishing his training 
 camp at Alameda. For weeks the daily doings 
 of the gladiators were recorded in the public 
 prints. Both men, said the scribes, were mak- 
 ing ready for the fight of their lives. On the 
 eve of battle they were reported to be "in the 
 pink of condition" and "fit as fiddles," though 
 what a fiddle looks like when it is fit is one of 
 the things that "no fellah can find out." 
 
 Summers was a topheavy favorite in the pool 
 rooms at odds of two to one. The racetrack 
 gamblers covered the short-end sympathy bets, 
 and pooh-poohed the idea that Gavin might 
 come back. Pugilism was not their game, but 
 they had seen Gavin paying heavy court to his 
 private bottle, and cheerfully bet twos to win 
 ones. No man, they said, could fight a hard 
 draw with John Barleycorn and knock out 
 Swif ty Summers all in the same season. It was 
 a foregone conclusion that the only way the 
 grizzly could regain his title was to drop the 
 champion for the count. 
 
 Gavin arrived in San Francisco at eleven 
 o'clock in the morning on the day of the fight. 
 [344] 
 
FOB THE PICTUEES 
 
 The men were to weigh, in at noon at a pool 
 room on Eddy Street, and when the former 
 champion and his handlers arrived the place 
 was packed to the doors and the overflow 
 blocked the sidewalk. There was little curiosity 
 as far as Summers was concerned ; most of the 
 sporting men had visited his training camp and 
 were satisfied with his condition. Gavin they 
 had not seen, and they swallowed the newspaper 
 reports with a grain of salt. They wanted to 
 see the challenger, stripped to the skin, on the 
 platform of the weighing machine. The side- 
 walk crowd gave Gavin a cheer when he ap- 
 peared, grim and tanned and sullen, a cap pulled 
 low over his eyes and the collar of his heavy 
 sweater rolled up till it covered his ears. They 
 saw no more of him than the tip of his nose 
 and the straight line of his mouth, and they got 
 nothing out of him, though they patted him on 
 the shoulders and slapped him on the back and 
 showered him with good wishes. 
 ! Gavin elbowed his way straight to the en- 
 trance, looking neither to the right nor the left. 
 He knew that the shoulder-patters and back- 
 slappers would give Summers the same welcome 
 they had given him, and in his simple honest 
 heart John Gavin hated a hypocrite. Just as 
 he crossed the threshold the clatter of hoofs, 
 the rattle of carriage wheels and loud cheer- 
 ing announced the arrival ^of the champion. 
 
 A grievous disappointment was in store for 
 the lucky ones in the inner room. They saw 
 John Gavia make the weight — ^they saw his lean 
 
 [345] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 sunburned face with the skin drawn tight over 
 the cheek bones and the angle of the jaw, and 
 they saw his bare legs. They wanted to see his 
 shoulders and chest, his back — and, most of all, 
 the muscles covering his stomach, if any. But 
 John climbed on the platform clad in a soft 
 gray shirt, which covered him completely from 
 neck to knees : and the bar, set at the prescribed 
 notch, did not even quiver. The most disap- 
 pointed man in the room was Swifty Summers, 
 hurriedly divesting himself of his clothing, pre- 
 tending a lack of interest but furtively watching 
 every move that Gavin made. 
 
 "He's a pound or so under," thought the 
 champion. "Now is he in condition or has he 
 been taking mud baths to get the ,belly off him? 
 Hell! He can't be in condition!" 
 
 Not a word passed between the fighters, and 
 it was remarked afterward that Gavin never 
 even so much as looked at Summers. Summers 
 noticed this, and it added to his slight feeling of 
 uneasiness. Men who are about to fight a 
 grudge fight do not exchange pleasantries while 
 weighing in, but it is seldom that a challenger 
 loses a chance to size up a cheimpion. 
 
 For the second time in his life Gavin sat in 
 his corner and looked at a motion-picture cam- 
 era. To be exact, he looked at a whole battery 
 of cameras, for film will buckle and CuUen was 
 taking no chances. Gavin scowled and nursed 
 the bulge of his right glove in the cup of the left. 
 He was thinking of Mr. Isaacs — Mr. Isaacs and 
 [346] 
 
FOB THE PICTUBES 
 
 the camera that did not shoot because it was 
 not loaded. Gavin's chief second nudged him. 
 
 "Hey! Wake up! They want you for the 
 snapshots! Lemme have that bathrobe." 
 
 Gavin shook his head and marched to the 
 middle of the ring, completely covered from 
 neck to heels. Not since he entered the arena 
 had he shown anything but his ankles, and this 
 prolonged exhibition of modesty was more than 
 a nervous man could bear. 
 
 ' ' Going to wear that thing all the afternoon? ' * 
 sneered the champion. "Afraid to take it off, 
 or what?" 
 
 Gavin did not even turn his head in Sum- 
 mers ' direction. He seemed to be giving all his 
 attention to the fussy little photographer. He 
 kept his opponent under tension to the very last 
 instant, then tossed his bathrobe behind him and 
 drew a deep breath, his great hairy chest rising 
 almost to his chin. Several thousand citizens 
 drew a deep breath with him, letting it out in 
 low whistles of amazement and admiration, for 
 if ever a fighting man looked fit it was John 
 Gavin that day. 
 
 Summers knew condition when he saw it, and 
 here was a miracle — a broken-down, tippling 
 has-been suddenly returned to his prime. The 
 lean flanks, the hard ridges guarding the ab- 
 domen, the powerful shoulder muscles rippling 
 under the hairy skin — ^this was the Gavin of 
 two years ago — Gavin, or a counterfeit that 
 would have deceived the elite. 
 
 Yes, it was the physical shell of John Gavin ; 
 [347] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 but what was inside it? And how had he man- 
 aged to turn hack the clock? As they fell into 
 fighting pose the challenger looked the champion 
 straight in the eye and grinned. 
 
 ' ' I got you where I want you now, ' ' said John. 
 "Eight where I been trying to get you for two 
 , years. Look me over ! ' ' 
 
 "Look you over!" answered the quick-witted 
 Summers. "I'll knock you over, same as I did 
 before!" 
 
 ' ' ' When you used to be a pool shark, trimming 
 suckers," said Gavin, "did you carry your cue 
 with you all the time? We're here to get our 
 pictures took, not to fight. You'll get aU the 
 fighting you want in a few minutes." 
 
 "Gentlemen! Gent-lemen!" murmured the 
 referee. 
 
 When the gong rang it was the old Gavin who 
 came charging out of his corner, bent on fight- 
 ing his old fight — a human battering ram hur- 
 rying into action at close range. Summers had 
 been given a moment in which to think, and he 
 had decided on a plan of battle based on the 
 assumption that the challenger was nothing 
 more than the hard-looking shell of his former 
 self. How could a man drink a quart of whisky 
 a day and come back — in five weeks ? The thing 
 was an impossibility! 
 
 "He looks good," Summers had said to his 
 seconds, "and it's a cinch he's worked hard, 
 but he can't last. I'll keep away from him for 
 
 [348] 
 
FOB THE PICTTJEES 
 
 a few rounds, and when he begins to slow up 
 I'll pick him to pieces at long range." 
 
 The plan was a good one, but before the fight 
 was ten seconds old Summers realized that it 
 would be extremely diflScult to keep away from 
 Gavin for any length of time. The champion 
 feinted and danced, side-stepped and turned, 
 twisted and dodged, but Gavin was always there 
 in front of him, hammering away with both fists. 
 Summers ducked into a clinch, but was glad to 
 duck out of it again. He prided himself on the 
 strength of his arms, but he might as well have 
 tried to pin the pistons of a locomotive as to 
 smother those short-tearing jolts to his mid- 
 section. Gavin was too strong to be handled 
 in the clinches, and the punishing power in the 
 few long-range body blows that crashed through 
 the champion's guard warned him not to stand 
 and play for an opening through which to shoot 
 his famous right hook. 
 
 Driven into a comer, Summers tried to clinch 
 again. This time Gavin almost cracked his 
 ribs in a crushing embrace, holding him long 
 enough to ask him two questions : 
 
 "Thought you was picking on a cripple, hey I 
 [What do you think of your cripple now?" 
 
 Having askedi his questions Gavin hurled 
 Summers halfway across the ring and renewed 
 the attack. Bound and round they went. Sum- 
 mers retreating under cover of a hurried and 
 harmless left jab, Gavin crowding him closely, 
 and finding time to talk to his man between 
 flurries : 
 
 [349] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 "You fought me to reform me, hey? . . . 
 Thought I was hitting the booze pretty hard? 
 ... So did everybody else. . . . Gruess that's 
 the reason you didn't bother to train. . . . 
 Looked pretty soft to you, didn't I? . . . Well, 
 I'm the hardest soft guy you ever saw I ' ' 
 
 "What's he talking about?" demanded Sum- 
 mers' chief second when the round was over. 
 "I never saw him talk in a fight before." 
 
 "He's put one over on me somehow," mum- 
 bled the champion. "I don't know how, but 
 he's done it." 
 
 "He ain't put nothin' over on you yet. He 
 can't hit you. You'll lick him, sure." 
 
 "Yes," said Summers, "I'll lick him, but — ^I 
 wished I'd trained harder for this bird!" 
 
 Eminent experts agree that the champion's 
 only chance to retain his title came early in the 
 second round. Gavin slipped and left an open- 
 ing for his jaw, and when Summers saw it he 
 forgot all about his agreement that there should 
 be eight rounds of film. — ^forgot everything but 
 the opportunity to extricate himself from a 
 dangerous situation. Quick as a flash Summers 
 set himself and let fly with his main battery, 
 putting into the shot everything that he had or 
 was or hoped to be. It was the sort of right- 
 hand pTinoh that makes and unmakes champions, 
 it was beautifully timed and perfectly executed, 
 it went straight to the chin, and it dropped John 
 Gavin to his knees. 
 
 The referee began to count, marking time 
 with his right hand and holding Summers at bay 
 [350] 
 
FOR THE PIOTUEES 
 
 with his left. Gavin shook his head, like a 
 swimmer coming to the surface after a dive. 
 Then he looked up at Summers skirmishing in 
 and out, his right hand poised for the finishing 
 blow; and as he looked, Gavin's mouth curved 
 into a scornful grin. He gathered himself to- 
 gether as a sprinter gathers himself for a 
 crouching start. 
 
 "Just wanted to see if you could hurt me, 
 Swifty. . . . You can't; it ain't in you. Now 
 look out for yourself!" 
 
 He came to his feet with a rush, diving 
 straight at Summers, who stood his ground and 
 aimed a short uppercut at Gavin's chin. The 
 uppercut missed connections, but Gavin's right 
 fist did not. It crashed home just below the rib 
 line, and it sent the champion reeling backward 
 to the ropes, sick and dizzy. 
 
 Very few world's champions have lost their 
 titles without making a desperate attempt to 
 hold them. Summers was tricky and unscrupu- 
 lous; he took the best of it whenever he could 
 and disdained the even break; but underneath 
 all his treachery and meanness was the heart 
 iof a fighting man. The tide of battle had turned 
 against him with a swiftness almost incredible, 
 but with the ropes chafing his back the cham- 
 pion made his stand, fighting as he had never 
 fought in his life. Time after time he rocked 
 Gavin's head with rights and lefts, putting into 
 them everything that the damaging body blow 
 had left him, and taking a savage beating in 
 return. Just before the bell rang Gavin landed 
 [351] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 another pile-driving punch below the rib line 
 and Summers ' knees bent under him. He would 
 have slipped to the floor had not Gavin hauled 
 him into a clinch. 
 
 "You're licked," said John, "but I aiu't 
 through with you yet. Die game — ^for the pic- 
 tures ! ' ' 
 
 As far as Summers was concerned the fight 
 ended then and there. He went to his corner 
 whipped and knowing that he was whipped. 
 He could never hope to hit Gavin any harder 
 than he had hit him in the second round, and 
 Gavin had stayed down only five seconds. 
 
 It was in the third round that Gavin added 
 insult to injury. He had just flattened Sum-, 
 mers' nose with an overhand swing, and was 
 holding the champion on his feet with his face 
 turned to the camera so that the blood would 
 show. 
 
 "I musta looked pretty bad to you that day 
 at the track," said Gavin. "Glasses, and a 
 lame back and everything. Yeh, I practiced 
 looking bad for a couple of months before you 
 showed up. I knew you wbuldn 't fight me again 
 unless you thought I was all in. You fell for 
 it. . . . AH right, referee. He's hanging on; I 
 ain't." 
 
 And later: 
 
 "The only way to catch a crook is to play 
 him crooked. . . . There's real fiUum in these 
 cameras to-day. . . . Turn your head a little so 
 they can get a picture of how pretty you look!" 
 
 With half a minute remaining, Gavin shot a 
 [352] 
 
FOE THE PICTUEES 
 
 short Ugly hook through Summers' wavering 
 guard and knocked out three of his most cher- 
 ished teeth. The champion flopped limply into 
 a clinch and received his final bit of astounding 
 information : 
 
 "Burnt sugar and water looks a lot like booze, 
 ■i > . Pours like booze, too, but it don't do you 
 no harm. ... If it did I'd be dead now. . . . 
 Yeh, I guess the bartender that made my private 
 stock '11 win him some dough to-day!" 
 
 Summers' chief second waved the bottle of 
 smelling salts back and forth under the cham- 
 pion's battered nose. 
 
 "He's murderin' you," said the adviser. 
 "Can't you mix it or nothing?" 
 
 ' ' Burnt sugar ! ' ' groaned Summers. ' ' Burnt 
 sugar and water!" 
 
 "Hey, have a sniff o' this!" ordered the 
 chief second. "Your mind is wanderin'!" 
 
 Toward the end of the fourth round the crowd 
 began to yell at the referee to stop the fight. 
 Summers was barely able to remain on his feet 
 and Gavin was playing with him, hitting him at 
 will as he wabbled wearily along the ropes. 
 
 The referee glanced doubtfully at Andy Cul- 
 len, huddled up in his ringside box, a life-size 
 portrait of woe too deep for words. Cullen had 
 bet more money than he cared to think about, 
 but he owned a third of the motion pictures, and 
 a clean knockout might enhance their value and 
 put him even with the world again. The pro- 
 moter shook his head slightly, and the referee 
 
 [353] 
 
TAKING THE COUNT 
 
 sidled over to where Gavin was alternately 
 thumping Summers in the ribs and holding 
 him on his feet to keep him from falling. 
 
 ' ' Gwan, John ! ' ' muttered the official. ' ' Gwan, 
 finish it! He's out now — out on his feet!" 
 
 Gavin glanced at the battery of cameras and 
 grinned. 
 
 "Come on, champ," he whispered. "This is 
 where you get it good — ^for the pictures!" 
 
 He backed Summers clear across the ring, 
 halting him close to the ropes and directly 
 underneath the lenses, jolted him once or twice 
 to straighten him up and then pinned his arms 
 at his sides. 
 
 "Hey, you guys up there!" bawled Gavin, 
 addressing the photographers. "Got plenty 
 of fiUum left, have you? None of them boxes 
 empty? . . . All right. Git this, all of you; 
 it's going to be good!" 
 
 He released Summers, stepped quickly away 
 from him and back again, feinting savagely at 
 the sore ribs with his left hand. Summers 
 dropped his guard and bent forward, and as he 
 did so Gavin's right glove swung full and clean 
 against his chin. The champion of the world 
 plunged head first through the ropes, breaking 
 one telegraph instrument and knocking three 
 reporters and one special writer out of their 
 chairs. 
 
 ' ' There you are ! ' ' grinned the new-old cham- 
 pion as he looked down on his work and saw that 
 it was good. ' ' That ought to make a swell fin- 
 ish — ^for the pictures!" 
 
 [354]