The Spotted Sheep

BILLY ALLISON was not exactly a black sheep nor yet a white one. Both colors were woven into the fabric of his character, the dark spots representing the bad impulses and the white spots representing the good ones. The mixture was fairly even. The dark spots were very dark and the white spots very white; so that a moral snapshot of Billy Allison's soul would have resembled a piece of shepherd's plaid. Billy avoided any struggles with his con- (ence — and barred himself from taking credit lor the white spots — by doing always and under all circumstances the first thing that came into his head. This system is not to be recommended to other young men with more money than they know how to spend. "Billy is a queer proposition," said old Mr. Hawley, who had been Henry Allison's business associate and best friend. "I can't seem to make him out. There's a fine lovable streak in the boy, but it lays right up against a streak of downright cussed worthlessness. What makes me so mad is that Billy can do a nice thing in as nice a way as anybody. Look at that little guttersnipe he picked up in the street with a broken leg! But the worst of Billy is that, after he's done something to make you proud of him, he whips right round and does something to make you ashamed — something that makes you want to give him a good cowhiding. It's all Henry's fault. He never should have left so much money to the boy without tying a string to it somewhere. It'll be the ruination of Billy — if it hasn't been already." The case of the newsboy with a broken leg throws a strong light on one of Billy's whitest spots. He appeared at the door of Mercy Hospital one evening with a ragged little bundle in his arms. • ' Get a curve on you 1 "he commanded briefly. "This kid has a broken leg." It was pointed out to Mr. Allison that the Receiving Hospital was the place for a newsb with a compound fracture below the knee. Bi: interrupted angrily. "You ring up Fred Hayes," said he, "and tell him that Billy Allison wants him as quick as he can possibly get here. Don't forget — Billy Allison. That '11 fetch him on the run.... It's all right, kid. We '11 have you fixed up in three shakes of a lamb's tail. Leg hurting you much?" "Naw; o' course not!" grunted the small sufferer with sarcasm. "I wisht you had it for a minute! I wisht Oh, gee!" THE SPOTTED SHEEP call — it is rather an unusual thing for an eminent bone specialist to leave his dinner to set a gamin's leg — and he thought he read the situation at a glance. 4 'How did this happen, Billy?" said he. "Speeding again? You'll kill somebody one of these days if you're not more careful." * ' Nix, doc; nix! "The patient had been listening. "You got him wrong. The guy what busted me leg tore out a mile a minute — he beat it. This sport comes along and picks me up." "Oh!" said Doctor Hayes, and looked hard at Billy, who blushed and mopped his thick eye glasses with his handkerchief. "Rats, doc! "said he, much embarrassed. "I couldn't leave the kid there in the street — might have had to wait an hour for an ambulance; and — well, say, did you ever see a gamer little rooster in your life, doc? Not a whimper out of him, by George! Not a tear! I'd like to believe I'd act as well in a similar fix." "You wouldn't," said the doctor, who was a truthful soul. "I know it," said Billy quietly. "Maybe that's why I admire gameness in others." As he was placed on the operating table in the surgery the boy opened his eyes. "Look here, doc, are you going to put me to sleep?" he demanded. "For a little while, sonny." The boy looked at Billy Allison. ' * Will you be here when I wake up, sport? ' * he asked. "This is new stuff to me. Stick round." Billy thought of his engagement with a lively lady who graced the vaudeville stage, but some thing in the boy's eyes held him. "Yes, kid; I'll be here," said Billy. The newsboy drew a deep breath. "All right, doc," said he. "Shoot the piece!" While the interne was administering the anaesthetic Doctor Hayes, gowned and rubber-gloved, sought further information. "What do you want done with him after I get him fixed up, Billy? Shall we send him home?" 1 ' What do you think I am! "said Billy. "A piker? Keep him here, of course! Give him that front room with the windows — the one I had the last time I took the jag cure. See that he has everything he wants — special nurse and all." * ' Philanthropy is something new for you, isn't it?" asked the doctor. "Philanthropy be damned!" said Billy hotly. "My dad was a philanthropist. One in the family is enough. Haven't I told you that I like this kid because he's game? The best in your old hospital is none too good for him; and he'll get it or I'll know why!" "Well, if that's the way you feel "said the doctor. "I suppose you know that you're doing a foolish thing, Billy. Nobody knows who hurt the boy; but you brought him to the hospital, and if one of those thieving ambulance chasers gets hold of this you may be sued on suspicion. I've known shyster lawyers to do worse things than that. The man who drives an automobile is fair game.'* "Let 'em go as far as they like," said Billy. "I've got all the insurance piled on to that car she'll carry — liability and otherwise. I should worry!" "I'm merely suggesting how it will look to the boy's people," said the doctor. "I'll take a chance on the kid," said Billy. While the event was fresh in his mind Allison retained his interest in his protege, calling at the hospital four times during the first week. During this period the gameness of Jakey Eosenblatt was Billy Allison's favorite topic — so much so that he bored all his friends and acquaintances with his enthusiastic recitals. Incidentally the doctor's suspicions were confirmed when Billy met Mannie Eosenblatt, Jakey's eighteen-year-old brother. Mannie was considerably less than friendly and he fixed that amateur philanthropist with a cold and suspicious stare. "If I didn't know Jakey wasn't a liar," said he, "I'd think you was the guy that run over him. I don't get you at all. What are you doin ' all this for! What's the idea?" "What's the idea of what?" asked Billy. "All this swell hospital stuff! The kid could have gone to the County Hospital for nothing." "Cheese it, Mannie! "said Jakey reprovingly. "Don't you know real class when you see it?" "Well," said Mannie sullenly, "I don't get him; an' I declare myself now — I won't be stuck for no hospital bills." "You needn't worry, "said Billy. "It shan't cost you a cent." "It hadn't better!" said Mannie ungraciously, and departed, leaving Billy midway be tween amusement and exasperation. "Don't pay any attention to him, mister," said Jakey. "Mannie, he says that nobody don't never do anything for you for nothing, and he's wondering what the comeback will be. He's all right when you get to know him, Mannie is. And, say, you ought to see him scrap! He's a bear!" "So I should judge," was Billy's dry response. Allison's interest in the youthful Eosenblatt soon waned, as did most of his fads. It died a natural death before Jakey was able to leave the hospital, and soon afterward the newsboy and his suspicious brother were forgotten; there were so very many other things to claim Billy's attention. n Old Mr. Hawley had complained about the terms of Henry Allison's will, but there were others who found no fault with that document — automobile agents, exclusive tailors, cafe own ers, waiters, actresses, and certain astute and furtive gentlemen of the sporting fraternity — left-handed beneficiaries of the Allison Estate through the open hands of the heir. The automobile agents found that Billy would usually buy a new car if it could be tuned up to beat his most recent purchase; the tailors noticed that he never mentioned prices while selecting fabrics, and respected his reticence save when rendering their quarterly statement; the cafe owners counted the nights of his appearance as bright ones; the waiters forgot to bring the change and went unrebuked; the actresses loved him for his pelf alone — poor Billy was not attractive in a physical sense, be ing undersized and near-sighted; and the sport ing gentlemen sheared him remorselessly, car ing nothing for the color of his fleece. "Of course," said they to Billy, "you can't win without taking a chance, and any man who takes a chance is liable to lose once in a while. One good thing — your money is circulating, ain't it? That's better than burying the bank roll in a tin can and letting it get moldy." "There's something in that!" said Billy. The sporting gentlemen carefully neglected to mention that it is also possible for a man to lose without taking a chance of winning. Black Jack Logan and his friends were experts at arranging speculative transactions of this sort. They had introduced Billy to a horseman who owned a mare that could not possibly lose, but had somehow managed to achieve the impossible when Billy backed her heavily to win. They had put him in touch with a reformed profes- sional gentleman who, through sheer love of the cards, had allowed himself to be persuaded to deal a few private sessions at faro bank in defiance of a state law against games of chance, which law was in no way violated. They had led him to a roulette wheel, which was so extensively wired for electrical control that the authorities were later unable to split it up for kindling wood. They had played bridge and poker with him when a wink or a cough from the dealer presaged a miracle. It was, they agreed, a shame to take the money, but a greater shame not to take it. One evening, while Billy Allison was dining with the blonde — third from the left end of the line — four men surrounded a small table in the back room at Terry's Tavern — four rascals who could not possibly look so bad as they really were and made it a point not to try. Black Jack Logan — otherwise Alexander B. Kirkman, Sing Sing 12378 — might have passed for a member of any one of the honorable professions; and very often did so. George — Kid — Smalley, innocent and youthful in appearance, hid a world of wicked experience behind a smooth and boyish countenance. Edward — Fatty — Emerson, whose specialty was impersonating retired brewers and small-town bank ers, had all the earmarks of a solid citizen. And Peter — Three-Card — Davis knew how to smile and smile and be a villain still. 1 1 Now that we're all here, "said Fatty Emer son, "what is it to be this time?" "A phony prize fight," said Black Jack Logan. Emerson shook his head. "Too old," said he. "That's almost as bad as a fake foot race. Everybody in the world is on to it." Logan laughed. "Fatty," said he, "I'm surprised at you! You've been on the turf long enough to know that the old games are the best games. It's only when you try something new that the sucker gets leery. You can still sell gold bricks on the New Jersey marshes; and last week Shelly McGuire was pinched for spieling the nuts inside the loop in Chicago. He would have got rich if the bulls had let him alone. People are afraid of the new games, but they fall for the old ones." "Who's the sucker?" asked Emerson. "Young fellow round town," said Logan. "Father left him money, "said Smalley. "A barrel of it," supplemented Davis. "Boob?" asked Emerson. "The worst in the world, "said Smalley. "Doesn't know a thing," said Davis. "How do we pull it?" asked Emerson. "The same old way," said Logan. "You're the only one of the bunch he hasn't met at one time or another. You'll have to be the small-ftown sport, with a rube champion in tow. We've got your man picked out already. By the way, Kid, did you dig up the other fighter?" "Not yet," answered Smalley; "but I've got a line on the very man we want." "That's the tough part of the frame-up,*' said Emerson. "The worse the rube fighter is, the better. It's the one who's going to lose that must have class." "Ever hear of Young Sullivan?" asked Smalley. "Seen him fight lots of times," grunted Fatty. "With proper handling he'd be right up in the first flight. He'll never be a cham pion, but it'll take one to stop him." "He's the bird," said Smalley. "You don't mean to tell me you can ring him in on a thing like this?" "In a minute!" said Smalley. "Sullivan pulled off a fake here six months ago — lost a decision to Denver Danny Shea to get a return match and make a clean-up. The papers got on to it and the promoters had to bar him. He's so flat right now that he'd listen to any proposition, murder included, for a fifty-dollar note. Leave it to me." "How much will this boob bet?" asked Emer son. "If he's got a limit we haven't struck it yet," said Logan. "I'm figuring to take him for the big bunch this time." "It listens well," said Emerson critically. "Now about the details" A week later Billy Allison, killing time at one of his clubs, was summoned to the telephone. "This you, Billy?" said a voice. "Logan speaking. Going to the fight to-night?" "I hadn't thought of it, "said Billy. ' « Yes; I guess I'll be there. I usually take in all the scraps." "Good!" said Logan. "Meet me at the Swinton at six. We'll have dinner and go out to the pavilion together.... No, Billy; you're my guest this time. I insist.... Oh, forget itl I've got box seats — complimentaries." "Pretty easy for you!" said Billy. "They make me pay for mine. I'll be there on the dot." The second preliminary event was in progress when Logan and Allison arrived at the ringside-. A fat gentleman, rather overdressed and plentifully decorated with off-color diamonds, was the sole occupant of the box. He made room for the newcomers and Billy thanked him. 1 1 'Sail right, "said he. ' < Keep the change." There was silence until the end of the round, when.the fat man grunted disgustedly: "They've got an awful gall asking ten dol lars for a show like this! In my town they'd throw a pair of tramps like these fellows out of the ring." "Maybe the main event will be better," sug gested Billy. "Duff Eyan and Kid Wilson?" snorted the fat man. "A couple of applewomen could beat 'em! Why, say, there's a boy cleaning out my saloon that can lick 'em both in the same ring!" "He's wasting time cleaning out saloons then," said Logan, nudging Billy. "Byan and Wilson are two of the best welters in the country." "Huh!" said the fat man scornfully. "I'd like to bet my kid can lick either one of 'em with a punch, and he's only a lightweight at that!" "You're overlooking a fortune then," said Logan. "Lightweights who can whip welters are mighty scarce in this country at present." The fat man became boastful. "Welters!" he scoffed. "Say, he can lick middleweights! He's done it lots of times, right in my place. This boy has never had a professional fight in his life — never seen the inside of a ring. As for training, he wouldn't know the meaning of the word unless you showed it to him in a dictionary; but I'll bet he could step in just as he is and lick all these fellows. Yes, sir; give him a close shave and a shampoo and he'd be ready!" "I don't see how he can do it," said Billy skeptically. "Well, my money says he can! Here's my card — Al J. Wenger, Wines and Liquors, Wholesale and Eetail. Drop in if you're pass ing through my town. You '11 be treated right." "I'm sure of it," said Billy. "I'd bring the kid down here," continued the fat man, "if I thought I could get any kind of a match for him. I've talked with some of the sports and the promoters, and they all say he wouldn't be a drawing card without a reputa- tion. They wanted him to fight some of these pork-and-beaners first; but if I can't get a good man for him I'll pass it up." Kid Wilson planted his justly celebrated right cross on the point of Duff Byan's jaw in the ninth round and the evening's entertain ment was over. Logan chuckled as he climbed into Billy Allison's runabout. "Queer bird, that saloon keeper," said he. * ' The joke of it is that this fellow he was talking about may be a real fighter at that — a comer. I'd like to discover a lightweight who could lick welters and middles! Do you know how much I could make with him in a year f" "Couldn't say," answered Billy. "Quite a sum, I suppose." "Not less than seventy-five thousand dol lars," said Logan calmly. "Whew! So much as that?" "That's the lowest estimate. I've half a notion to write this roughneck saloon keeper and tell him to bring his man down here. We can look him over in private — have him spar with a few good boys; and if he's any good I can get him a match with a man where he '11 be a short-ender in the betting." "Fine! "said Billy enthusiastically. "Here's the card. Get in touch with this fellow and let me know how it comes out." * ' You bet I will! I want your opinion of him, Billy. Mind you don't say a word about it to any of your friends. It's like a quiet tip on a race horse — tell your bosom pal and you've told the whole town! You've no idea how information of this sort circulates, and this is one melon we want to keep to ourselves." "If it's ripe, "said Billy. "Of course," said Logan. "A green melon is the only one you can afford to be generous with." As Legan was preparing for bed that night the telephone rang. "Yes, this is Jack.... Nice work, Fatty.... Oh, hook, line and sinker! Didn't we tell you he was easy?" m "Well, Billy, what do you think of Wenger's lightweight champion?" Logan and Allison were standing on the sidewalk outside the door of a private gymnasium frequented by boxers and their satellites. They had just witnessed the try-out of Mr. Wenger's battling janitor. "Think of him!" ejaculated Billy. "Why, he's a dub — a joke! He doesn't know the first thing about boxing — or fighting, either, for that matter. I believe I could stop him in two rounds myself, cigarette heart and all!" "I believe you could, Billy," said Logan. "Where Wenger ever got the idea that this fellow is a fighter is more than I know. If he ever whipped any middleweights he did it with a bung starter when they were looking the other way. Well, the stuff is off. I wouldn't ask anybody to give him a match on the strength of the showing he made to-day." The street door opened and Mr. Al J. Wenger appeared, fat, cheerful and buoyant as ever. "Well?" said he with a rising inflection, his manner challenging an adverse verdict. "I'm sorry, Wenger," said Logan. "That boy isn't a fighter. He doesn't know his right hand from his left." Wenger snorted loudly. "What can you tell about him, just seeing him once?" said he. "He ain't a cream-puff boxer, if that's what you mean. He don't know anything about sparrin' for points, and they told him he wasn't to hurt this boy. Then he hadn't ever had any gloves on before, and they bothered him" Wenger paused, and Logan shook his head and turned away. The fat man whirled suddenly on Allison. "What do you think about him?" he demanded. Billy tossed his cigarette into the gutter and smiled at Wenger. "I could be arrested for telling you what I think of him," said he pleasantly. "Any pork-and-beaner in the country could make him jump out of the ring." Mr. Wenger's round face suddenly became purple. "A lot you know about fighters!" he cried. "You take one look at my boy and tell me he ain't any good, eh? He '11 jump out of the ring, will he?" Wenger plunged his hand into a pocket and drew out a thick roll of bills, which he waved excitedly under Billy's nose. "I'll bet you any part of what's here you can't find a lightweight that'll lick him in a real fight! Any part of it, if you know so much! Now then, put up or shut up!" "Grab him! "prompted Logan softly. "It's like finding the money.'! "I don't want to rob you," Billy began. Wenger hooted scornfully. "Don't let that bother you! You ain't a-goin' to rob anybody, Clarence! Here's my bank roll, and there's plenty more where this comes from that says my boy can lick any light weight in the country. We don't bar anybody. "We ain't afraid of anybody. There ain't any thing yellow about us but our money. If you've got any sporting blood now's the time to show it. Put up or shut up!" "It's a cinch!" whispered Logan. "Don't let him get away with it!" "I don't intend he shall," said Billy coolly. "As I understand the proposition, I have the right to nominate any lightweight I please!" "Anybody at all!" exclaimed Wenger, ostentatiously thumbing his roll of currency. "Public fight?" questioned Billy. "I don't care," blustered Wenger. "My boy '11 fight in a barn, down a well or inside a Saratoga trunk! Any old place where there's room enough for the other fellow to fall will suit him fine." ''Better pull it off in private," suggested Logan. "It wouldn't do to have the news papers get hold of it!" "Eight you are! "agreed Billy. ' * The papers have had enough fun with me already." "A private fight goes," assented Wenger. "Very well," said Billy briskly. "Mr. Wenger, if you will count that money you are waving round so carelessly I will post a certified check to cover it. Inside of two days I will notify you of my selection." "Fair enough!" said Mr. Wenger heartily. "Fair enough! I guess you're a true sport after all." "I feel more like a burglar," said Billy. Mr. Wenger laughed loudly. * ' You don't think very much of my boy, "said he; "but you may change your mind about him later. Well" — and Wenger offered his hand with a great show of cordiality — "an even break; and may the best man win!" "May the best man win!" repeated Billy. An hour later Logan and Allison sat at lunch in a downtown grill. Billy's usually cheerful countenance wore an expression of annoyance. "Cheer up!" chuckled Logan. "You don't look to me like a man who has just picked up ten thousand dollars." "Confound it, that's just the point!" fumed Billy. "Who would have thought the chump would bet so much? I wouldn't mind taking a few hundred away from him just to teach him a lesson, but ten thousand! Whew!" "Cold feet?" asked Logan, eying Billy over the rim of his glass. "You know better than that. I never have cold feet on a betting proposition, "boasted the lamb. "I beg your pardon," said Logan. "It's only that I hate to bet that much money on a cinch," explained Billy. "I wouldn't let that bother me," said Logan. "You '11 pardon me, Billy, but I'm an older man than you are and I've seen more of the world. If they have invented any method of keeping a fool and his money together I haven't heard of it. This man Wenger might as well lose his ten thousand to you as to some one else; for lose it he will. He's one of the kind that's born every minute.... By the way, have yon thought of any good lightweight you can get? You'll want a topnotcher, you know. There's no sense in taking chances." "I was thinking you might suggest some one," said Billy. Logan gave a very fair imitation of a man in deep thought. "I'd hate to advise you, Billy," said he at length. "Then, again, I don't know what fight ers are in town. How would it do if we called up Smalley — you remember that little chap we met at the race track? Smalley has a line on all the pugs and his advice would be invaluable. Speaking of him, why wouldn't it be a good idea to have Smalley make the arrangements for you? If you should go to a fighter and hire him to take part in a private scrap the first thing he'd do would be to run to the sporting editors with it. They're all crazy after publicity — every one of 'em. You want to keep this fight under cover, don't you?" "You bet!" said Billy fervently. "When can we get hold of Smalleyf" "I ain't what you might call a partickler guy, Smalley. The reg'lar run of the cards is good enough for me; but this is the first time I ever has to sneak up an alley and put on me trunks in a horse's bedroom. It ain't any of my business, of course; but what's the idea of pulling off this hippodrome in a barn?" The light of a single lantern flickered on the walls of a box stall and picked the speaker out of the darkness, throwing his battered features into strong relief. Young Sullivan could never have been considered handsome; one hundred battles had not improved his appearance. There was a deep dent where the bridge of his nose should have been; one eye was slightly askew, giving to half of his face an oriental aspect; and his left ear was of the cauliflower variety, though more closely resembling a sun-dried abalone. Minor marks of conflict lay thick between brow and chin; for he who by brute force hammers his way to prominence is hammered in turn, and Young Sullivan had dodged very few right counters while pounding out a career. By reason of this contempt for punishment he was known as one of the stumbling-blocks in the lightweight division — a dogged youngster who would take a dozen heavy blows without flinching for the sake of handing one; and Sullivan's single punch usually evened the score. "Why all this soft-pedal stuff? "persisted the fighter. "You ain't afraid of a pinch, are you?" "Of course not," answered Kid Smalley, who, after the fashion of all chief seconds and handlers, was stripped to his shirt sleeves. "Certainly not. We just want to be sure it's private — that's all." "I don't blame you," grinned Young Sullivan. "You wouldn't want any witnesses if you was rolling a drunk or cracking a safe, and this is going to be worse. Private, eh? Well, you can't make it any too private for me. It wouldn't do me repitation any good if the gang heard that an unknown knocked me out in a punch. Who's the sucker?" "You want to know too much," said Smalley curtly. "You'll get your dough as soon as it's over — one hundred bones for taking a slap on the jaw. That's good enough for you, ain't it?" "Good enough if you say so. I ain't prying into your business. I just wanted to know — that's all." "Curiosity has killed better men than you," said Smalley. ''You go through with the pro gram; that's all you've got to do. Remember now — no boxing and no stalling. Pull it off just the way you rehearsed it. The other fellow is so bad that if the fight should go a couple of rounds even a blind man could see it was a frame. We Ve got to do it quick. Get in there; swing wild a few times, poke your jaw into one, and flop. Don't get up at the count of ten either. Don't get up at all. We '11 carry you to the corner and work on you for a while, and then" Sullivan interrupted eagerly: "I'll open me eyes and say: 'Who threw that brick?'" "You're a great little actor," sneered Kid Smalley; "but this is no comedy part. The less you say the better." "Oughtn't I to have a alibi?" asked the fighter anxiously. "Can't I say something about holding this bird too cheap and never training a lick for him?" "That would be fine!" was the sarcastic re joinder. "Lovely! Here, I've told the sucker that you're in the pink of condition and ready to put up the fight of your life — and you'd make me out a liar for the sake of an alibi! Listen to me and get this through your thick head — if you can: You're not paid for making any explanations — savvy? You're paid for taking a poke on the jaw and doing a Eip Van Winkle. After this fellow lands his right swing you're cast for the part of Sleeping Beauty. Do you get me?" [Ill] TAKING THE COUNT The ring has its traditions and they die hard. One of them provides that for every defeat there must be a plausible excuse. Lack of training, a broken hand, a crooked referee, a chance. blow — those are the staple explanations of the loser. Young Sullivan sighed and drew a soiled sweater over his bare shoulders. "You're the doctor." He spoke heavily and with bitterness. "But, all the same, somebody ought to alibi for me — getting put away by a stiff like this!" "Leave it to me," said Smalley soothingly. "Your spotless reputation shan't suffer. I promise you that. Making an alibi that will stick is the best thing I do. Now then, professor, if you're ready we will proceed to the slaughter." "Yeh; let's get it over!" growled Young Sullivan. Smalley picked up a bucket and a large towel and led the way out of the box stall. As they stumbled down a dark passageway the fighter fired the last hopeless shot in defence of his professional reputation. "Couldn't I say I was doped?" he asked. "No! "hissed Smalley. "You can't say any thing!" He found a doorknob in the dark and a flood of light burst on them. The ring had been pitched in the center of a large, bare room, which at the first glance seemed to be empty;,but as Smalley entered there was a sudden bustle in a far corner and Mr. Al J. Wenger appeared, escorting his champion. The latter, a low-browed, shock-headed youth, looked neither to the right nor to the left, but shuffled awkwardly in the wake of his fat sponsor. Mr. Wenger had dressed his managerial part with great care. A pink silk undershirt adorned the upper part of his person; a bath towel was draped about his neck; his lavender-striped trousers were rolled above his shoetops, and from a hip pocket peeped the glass stopper of a bottle of smelling salts. At the same time four men, who had been conversing in low tones, left another corner and moved toward the ringside, where they took seats. Young Sullivan paused long enough to favor his antagonist with a ferocious scowl, which was returned with interest; then he crawled through the tapes. His glance next fell on the four men seated outside the ring; and he remained stand ing, staring at them until Smalley pushed him into his chair. Immediately Mr. Wenger busied himself with the time-honored preliminaries of battle. He shook the new gloves out of their pasteboard box, examining each one with great care. He fingered the soft bandages on Young Sullivan's hands and pronounced them satisfactory. He sliced an orange and offered a bit of it to his gladiator, who refused it with scorn; and he tied a small American flag in his corner of the ring. These maneuvers would have amused Young Sullivan had he seen them, but he was still star ing at the four spectators. Kid Smalley, engaged in "breaking" the new gloves to take the stiffness out of them, received a sharp poke in the ribs. "Say," whispered Young Sullivan, "which one is the sucker?" "The fellow on this end, "answered Smalley. The fighter showed his teeth. "Nix!" said he. "You can't hand that to me. How long do you think I've been round this town, not to know a con man like Logan when I see him f If he's mixed up with a frame it ain't on the sucker end, Smalley. I know Three-Card Davis too; so you might as well tell me, because I'll find it out anyway." Kid Smalley, realizing the truth of this re mark, surrendered at discretion. "It's the shrimp with the glasses," said he. "The fellow with the stop watch is a pal of his. We let him act as stakeholder and timekeeper so as to make it look good." "Oh, that's it!" said the fighter. "Well, I just wanted to know." "Now that you know," growled Smalley, "you'd better forget it. Some things ain't healthy to talk about." Young Sullivan grunted — a noncommittal sort of grunt, which might have expressed as sent, doubt or defiance. After that he sat star ing straight in front of him. When the time came he extended his hands for the gloving process, but what aid he rendered in the operation was purely mechanical. Having finished with his man Mr. Wenger stepped briskly across the ring to the spectators. "Still think youVe got a cinch, do you?" said he to Billy, who nodded in reply. Wenger drew out another roll of currency. "Here's the stuff that talks!" said he. Billy shook his head. "The bet is big enough as it stands," said he. * ' Not another nickel!" He held to this in spite of Wenger's bluster and sarcasm and Logan's whispered advice. "You're a hot sport!" said Wenger. "You say you've got a cinch, but you're afraid to bet on it!" "Not afraid," corrected Billy; "merely un willing. My man is ready, Wenger. Don't de lay the game." "Cold feet!" growled Smalley to Young Sullivan as Wenger retreated to his corner, still waving his roll of bills. "Huh! "remarked Young Sullivan. Three-Card Davis rose, removed his hat and coat, and ducked under the ropes, with a finger crooked at each corner — the mark of the referee the world over. The fighters advanced to the center of the ring for their instructions — Wenger's champion open-mouthed and curious; Young Sullivan apathetic and preoccupied, meditatively squint ing at vacancy over the referee's shoulder. "No claim of foul will be allowed unless the man is disabled,'* finished Davis. "Go to your corners!" "All set?" called Freddy Van Pelt, amateur timekeeper and stakeholder...." Time!" At the word Mr. Wenger's champion stepped cautiously out of his corner. He had been as sured and reassured that no harm could come to him; but in spite of this comforting thought there was something disconcerting in the sinister expression on the professional's face — something alarming in his steady, flat-footed ad vance, chin low on his breast in battle crouch, left hand well extended, and the annihilating right fist held far back, like a thunderbolt in leash. "Don't stop to shake hands!" yelled Mr. Wenger. "This ain't no pink tea! Pile right into him, boy! Fight him off his feet!" The unknown hesitated for an instant; then, spurred on by a roar from his corner, hurled himself blindly at his antagonist. In the same instant Young Sullivan took two quick steps — one forward, the other slightly to the left — and with the second step came a thudding impact of bone and leather against an unprotected jaw. Mr. Wenger's champion reeled and then toppled slowly backward, striking the floor with a crash. "There, you crook!" snarled Young Sullivan, menacing the referee with a doubled fist. "Call that a foul— if you dare!" Three-Card Davis did not call it anything. His nimble brain was racing to adjust itself to altered conditions, but as yet speech was beyond him. He could only gape at the limp figure stretched at full length on the floor. In the astounded silence there rose the some what too cheerful voice of the official time keeper, counting off the seconds as prescribed by the late Marquis of Queensberry. "Eight— nine He's out! You win, Billy; and here's the money! Hooray!" 1 'I say, Wenger," called the winner as he stuffed the working capital of the Logan-Emer son combination into his pocket, "I owe you an apology. He didn't jump out of the ring — there wasn't time.... Great Scott, Freddy! Wenger's out too!" Henri, head waiter at Tortoni's, was far too polite to arch his eyebrows at sight of a sweater and a cauliflower ear; so he bowed low to Billy Allison and led the way swiftly to a private room. On the other hand Young Sullivan had never before met a head waiter face to face; so the surprised interest was mutual. Billy gave the order as briefly as possible, and when they were alone he came quickly to the business at hand, speaking a language the fighter could understand. "Kid," said he, "there was a que-er kick to that little show of ours the other night — a few things I haven't been able to figure out. The way some of my friends acted after that knock out rather surprised me. You'd have thought they suspected me of putting one over on Wenger." Young Sullivan gaped incredulously. "Ain't you wise to it yet?" he demanded. "Wise to what?" "Gee, but you are easy!" exclaimed the fighter. "Why, I thought you'd tumble to it the minute it came off. Didn't you know that you was up against a frame I" "A frame!" ejaculated Billy. "Why, man alive, I won! How could it have been a frame?" Young Sullivan laughed. "Sure, you won," said he; "but the way they had it fixed up I was to take a poke on the jaw and go out. Then you'd have lost, and" "They!" repeated Billy. "Whom do you mean by 'they'?" "That whole crooked outfit — Logan and Smalley and Davis. The fat guy and the other fighter was in it too." "Not Logan!" cried Billy. "Why, it can't be! I Ve known him for years" "And it's cost you money," supplemented the fighter. "Don't tell me it can't be when I know it is! They're crooks, I tell you — all of 'em; and Logan's the main finger of the bunch — the boss. The others are cappers and steerers. Why, listen: Smalley, he comes to me and says they've got a sucker ribbed up to bet on a fake fight. I was to get a hundred for going out" "Wait a minute," interrupted Billy. "They told me it would be better if Smalley made all the arrangements." ''That would keep us from getting together," said Young Sullivan. "They didn't take any chances on you waking up and crossing 'em. You let 'em run the whole proposition, didn't you? Pretty easy for 'em — pretty easy, boy!'* Billy's tottering egotism did not need the final touch of mingled pity and contemptuous familiarity in the fighter's tone. The wreck of his self-esteem was complete. For years he had deemed himself wise, in the slangy tender loin sense of the word — wise in the things not worth knowing and the ways not worth travel ing. Yes, Billy Allison had thought himself wise;* but it had remained for a low-browed, thick-skulled fighter to show him the extent of that wisdom, and to make him see himself as he appeared to others — "a sucker ribbed up to bet on a fake fight!" Billy Allison a sucker! Another man, confronted with a revelation so humiliating, might have buried his head in his hands and groaned; but there was nothing of the theatrical about Billy. He merely removed his glasses and polished them with his handkerchief, blinking near-sightedly the while. "Well, wouldn't that frost you?" he mur mured. "Wouldn't that frost you?" "You got to learn some time," said Young Sullivan consolingly. "You won't be such a soft mark for the next bunko game." Billy continued to blink and polish his glasses. Another angle of the matter was forc- [1191 TAKING THE COUNT ing itself on his consideration — another thing to be explained. "I gave Smalley five hundred dollars the night before the fight, "said Billy slowly. "He was to give it to you if you won. He held that out, of course?" "Sure, he did!" was the disgusted reply. "The only deal I had was one hundred if I lost." "Oh!" said Billy. "Then you didn't get" Young Sullivan laughed harshly. "I didn't get a thing out of it but the exercise," said he — "not a copper cent!" Billy put on his glasses and regarded the fighter steadily. Young Sullivan avoided hie gaze. "Did you need the hundred?" asked Billy. "Sure, I needed it!" said Young Sullivan. * ' You don't think I'd have framed to go out to a dub unless I was broke?" "Why did you change your mind?" demand ed Billy. "What made you double-cross that outfit? There must have been a reason." "There was," said the fighter. "You don't remember me, I guess." 1 ' Oh, yes, I do! "protested Billy. "I've seen you fight lots of times." Young Sullivan threw out his hand in an im patient gesture. "Before that. No; you don't remember me, but maybe you ain't forgot that kid with the broken leg — three years ago in Mercy Hospital? Well, I'm his brother — I'm Mannie Eosenblatt." Mr. Hawley had often said that nothing Billy Allison might do could surprise him, but he disproved the truth of this statement by appearing at his club twenty minutes ahead of his luncheon schedule with news of a startling nature. This is the latter portion of the monologue with which he regaled the cronies of the late Henry Allison: "'And,' says he, 'if you don't mind, I think I'd like to take an active interest in the business from now on. I'm through fooling,' he says — 'and I'm through for keeps! What time shall I show up in the morning?'"