The Sporting Doctor

WHEN the lightweight champion of the world went to his corner after the eighth round, he was puffing badly, and his knees were shaking. "What are you stalling for, Billy?" demanded "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, Billy. Pull 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 him. A fighter, like a baseball player, a short-card dealer, or a pianist, is no better than his hands — 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 — make him fight himself out. Bough him up in the clinches." Back in the third row of the reserved seat section, a fattish young man peered through 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 Billy 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?" The f attish 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 f attish 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- 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 McLowrie. Reddy 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." 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 his 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. "Not that way!" said he fiercely. "He's a champion 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 all!" Brady grinned, and, recalling his ring manners, 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 champion as he was assisted toward the dressing room. 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 lesson to me." 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 generous 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 recommends 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 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, apropos 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 permanent 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 preternaturally grave young men with pin-feather whiskers are "Doctor" to their intimates, and rather insist upon this form of salutation. The only difference which a diploma 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. Unfortunately 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 necessity, 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 becoming 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 which 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 certainly 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 confidence. 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 interested 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." "Who said anything about money? Do you want that hand fixed up or not?" "I sure do," said the boy. "I'll be there, Doc." 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 advertisement of lhe 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 various 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 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 knew* that the lesson would not last beyond the lean period. m Another young man might 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, unreasoning 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 McLowrie. "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 will force that stiff to fight me again!" So Tacks McLowrie, who was no intellectual Sandow himself, stepped into the open market and hawked the services of the late lightweight champion of the world. Promoters were perfectly willing to give Wade matches, because he 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 championship. Wade had beaten him before quite handily, and with the bright light of the championship 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 It" 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-fehampion for fourteen rounds, and then fought 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 violent 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 middleweight constellation, whereupon the loyal Reddy Burke remarked that lie never did like that stiff McLowrie nohow, and expressed the opinion that badly made matches had been responsible 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 finished 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 I 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." "Yeh," said Beddy 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!" ' l 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, ignoring 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. "See what you get for horning in?" said Wade. "Go ahead, Doc. Get it all out of your system. Shut up, Reddy!" "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 Reddy 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 Reddy Burke. "Let him take a slant at you, boy. You're sound as a nut." 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. 11 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 physical efficiency, 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. 1 '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 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 championship, Wade virtually admitted retrogression. "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 Beddy Burke. ' * Because 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 will 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 surrendering his cigar case. "Conviviality is your trouble, eM" 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 Beddy Burke. "Listen to me 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!" "Doc," said Fred Haynes, the proprietor of the Sundown Eanch, "now that our distinguished 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 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 anaesthetic, 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" "Rave on, little one, rave on," said Haynes soothingly. "Light exercise will burn up that fat," repeated 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" "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'll 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 arrangement 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- 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 Jbe done, Fred. I want to make this boy over again — physically. In a way, I've taken a liking 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 beautiful specimen to be preaching physical regeneration 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 Lord." "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 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 exactly as he pleased, with no one to offer advice or issue orders. Tacks McLowrie had endeavored 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-1 ciation of the hardships entailed. At first the novelty of the thing interested him, 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-3ible. 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 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. ' l 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 Johansen 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'll 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 visitors 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 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 Hortont" "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 necessary. 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 population. 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. The doctor passed him the paper, and Wade glanced at the headlines and verified the signature. "I thought he was my friend!" said he bitterly. "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 will 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 youVe always got a cigarette in your mouth. You talk to me about being game and standing the gaff! 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. 1 * That may be true, "said Phelps slowly, "but 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 liver 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 Doc 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 like 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 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 cigarettes, and no booze. Are you with me?" There was no answer. 11 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 '11 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. "Hit 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 burn it up, Doc — 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 pleasant 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 plaster 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 satisfaction 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 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!" 1 ' 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." 1 ' 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!" "Go on, Billy, it's what 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 Reddy 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. Road 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 the supper table. "Say, why can't you fellows keep awake T "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." "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's place when I dropped you with a right hook!" "You bet!" said Wade. "I always had a notion," continued Beddy, "that with just us two in a barn somewhere, I could lick you. Somehow I never could fight in public, but I'm a wolf in private. Why is that, Doc?" "I don't know. Jack Jeffries couldn't fight in a ring, but he used to give Jim the toughest battles of his life." 1 ' 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 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 I" 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 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 mysterious lightweight you're trying to put over on me. Where do we go from here?" 1 "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 ^egan 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 who he is because I know how strong you fellows are for publicity, and we're under cover with our man. It's Billy Wade." "The devil you say!" ejaculated the astounded Porsano. "Billy Wade! Do you mean to tell me that he's been here all the time f" "Ever since he dropped out of sight." "The old stuff, eh? He's trying to come back?" 1 i 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," argued the doctor. "Joe, I've taken that boy all apart and put him together again. You remember how bad his hands were? I put 'em in plaster 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." "That's why you're here," said Phelps. "I'm not going to ask you to take my word for any thing. Remember Reddy 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 js 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?" "Frankie Brady." "You say it easy, Doc. There's a lot of good lightweights who want that four-flusher. Bo Brooks won't make a match unless he has all the best of it — money and every other way — and Frankie 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 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 Porsano. "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 Reddy Burke'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 Reddy 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." 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 adviser in Wade's corner; Porsano, ditto in Burke's corner, and Don Felipe Ortega, present by special favor in the capacity of timekeeper. "Yon know, Doc," confessed Porsano, as the quiet group moved from the house toward the ring, which was pitched behind the barn, "yesterday 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 certain 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 corner 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 to the 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 sullenness 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. "YouVe 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 biu;n it off in a fight. It's them burned-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 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. 11 Shake hands," said he. "No hard feelings?" 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 warrant," grunted Eeddy. "I'll meet you some where on the way." 1 ' All set I "asked Haynes. "Go to your corners. 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 corner, head down and hands low at his sides, ready to slam with either one the instant he got within range. Redder Burke, looking like a freckled little cinnamon 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 Felipe 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 out," said 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 will." "Bight!" 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 distress. 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 lie?" * ' You bet, "said Porsano. "Fve seen enough to convince me, Eeddy. You'd better quit." "Who, me?" and the little fellow fairly bristled. "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! I've turned the wolf loose!" * ' If he can fight, any faster than he's been fighting,'' said Porsano, "he is a wolf!" Billy Wade fell upon his tired sparring partner like a fury, battering down his guard and clubbing short, savage punches into the body. Beddy 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 Beddy 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! Doc! Come and look at him! He's out yet!" It was three minutes before Beddy opened his eyes. "What come off!" he mumbled. "He got you, my son," said the doctor, pass ing the smelling salts under Beddy'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 Bradys!" "Yes," said Beddy, 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!" "Well, Joe, what do you think?" asked the doctor. 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. Frankie 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 '11 be enough to start the sport ing writers after him; those fellows have written themselves into the belief that Billy 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!" 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 clean-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 decency 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 much 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. 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. Reddy Burke! What does he know about handling a fighter!" 1 ' Bob Fitzsimmons used to do that one-man-in-the-corner 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. 1 1 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 storm center and 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! ' y 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!" "You made 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 qpme 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 Bill Horton, who had seen many things but who had never before witnessed the second coming of a champion, stroked his chin, dictating mechanically 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 bull." "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 Brady was weakening fast. He felt his body sag as he fell into a clinch. Immediately Billy concentrated his attack upon the jaw, the first gun being a wicked overhand right, delivered 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 desperately, 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." 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 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 talk! "said the champion sternly. "Who was it fixed me up? 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.