One-Thirty-Three Ringside

CHARLES FRANCIS HEALY, known to all the world as "Young Sullivan," sat on the edge of his bed and stared incredulously 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 well 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, unconsciously quoting another and greater public 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 McGovern, 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 us because he's got softer matches in sight where Cline 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 cut off an arm and a leg, just 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! A fine game, that is!" "I suppose you think I ought to grab this fight with Cline?" It was more than a question; 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. l 1 1 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!" "The loser's end ought to be eight thousand, at least," said Avery, still looking at the ceiling. "And in case you don't get him, you've got a fine alibi — the weight stopped you. It was your stomach 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. 1 ' Heads! "he groaned. ' < I lose, Billy! > ' Whenever a sporting writer had reason to rake over his vocabulary for the sort of an adjective 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 "obstinate." 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 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 unprincipled 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 alii" "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 smell 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 title some day; the 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, feathers, and lightweights insist that husky aspirants shall "do the weight, ringside." Many a man has saved his title by starving an opponent 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 continued to fight as long as the other man could stand in front of him. His record was black with knock-outs, though Biddy was not the typical 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, indeed, 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 tremendous 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 sacrificing 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 frequently informed that the holder of the title had other pressing matters on his hands. The end of Avery's campaign had been the private conference with Badger and the latter's ultimatum: "One-thirty-three, ringside, or no fight." Then, with the hardihood of a man who gambles 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 its 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 appearance" "Hold on, there! ' 9 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, ignoring the sputtering Avery. "I don't want this man to come into the ring weighing a ton. 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!" 1 1 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 indignant. "Say, what's the matter with youf Who offered to toss the coin? Whose idea was that?" 1 ' Shucks! "growled Healy. "I only did that because I knew you intended to make the match anyway." "You took a chance" "Yes; and so did Steve Brodie," interrupted 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 reproaches 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. ii "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 answer, 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. 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 secretive; the other half pointed out that Avery might be preparing an unpleasant surprise for the opposition. "He's keeping Cline guessing," said the optimistic 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 received 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 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 country trying to make a rum out of me! "said Cline feelingly. "Hand it to 'em good, Mike!" "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 conference 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?" 4 * 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. "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 people 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 n n Won't you 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 bandages 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. "Typhoid 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! Why the devil didn't we think of that before we got hooked in so strong?" 1 1 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! "sighed Healy. "There you go again!" mumbled Avery. "Always putting it up to me! 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 falling 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 sending 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. 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 savi 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 rg 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. "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 presented himself at the office of the promoter of pugilistic events — a wise young man of Hebraic extraction. "Moe," said Billy, "have you made any arrangements 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 he '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 weighing machine to be used at the ringside. They probably have an expert, too, and they might be willing to send him along. I want the scales tested by a government official and balanced 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 fellow wouldn't do for five thousand bucks! Is that a fair proposition?" "As fair as a June day!" replied Goldstein. "I'll write a letter to Messmore & Jones immediately." 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. Gold stein a neatly engraved business card, bearing the name of a firm of national reputation as manufacturers of scales. In the lower left-hand corner appeared these words: "Presented by Mr. Henry C. Darling, West ern Eepresentative." Goldstein tossed the card over to Mike Bad ger, who happened to be present. "Let's see what he wants," said Goldstein. "Mr. Henry C. Darling" proved to be a dapper little person, with a close-cropped beard and nose glasses. He spoke with the crisp, incisive tones of a business man, and Mike Badger, surreptitiously 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 nothing 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 delivered 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 amateur boxer — you may have heard of him? Peter C. 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. "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!" 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!" 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 people 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 Friday 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 traveling man whose time is worth 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 church or something, when he's home!" 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 precipitated 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 will 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 satisfactory?" "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!" "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 mystery, 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 carefully 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 personally 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 representative" was alone with the weighing machine, behind a locked door. In two seconds he had 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 his 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 sentinel on guard. Two tremendous roars announced the entry of the gladiators, naked, save their socks and bathrobes. 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 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. Darling. ' l 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 his 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 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 \vith 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 earnestly for wads of chewing gum or other extraneous matter, after which fruitless quest he demanded that Healy weigh again. By this time the challenger was in his corner, 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 champion 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 you!" he said brusquely. "I'll attend to this myself!" 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 considerably 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 fifteenth 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, cautious, cool, and steady as a boxing master, 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. 1 1 Don't shake with him! "said Mike. 1 1 You Ve been licked, but by a welter-weight." "You think anybody will believe that?" cackled Healy. 4 1 '11 make 'em before I'm through," said"Mike grimly. rv 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 to a chair. "You're a nice pair of burglars, ain't you?" he demanded. "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 f 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 thc 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."