No Business

MR. PATRICK TIERNEY, alone in his art gallery on the sunrise side of San Francisco Bay, swabbed ap a few drops of beer left upon the bar by the last customer and hummed a snatch of a sentimental ballad. Sentiment would have seemed out of place in Mr. Tierney's establishment, for the walls were plastered thick with photographs and halftones of gentlemen with cauliflower ears and ingrowing noses. All the personages thus represented were more or less known to the sort of fame that blossoms large upon the pink pages of great religious dailies, and Mr. Tierney himself was a walking encyclopedia of information regarding these battered gladiators — a sort of a Who Whipped Who in Point Richmond. He could trace a champion at any weight to his obscure beginnings and brighten his history with anecdote and personal reminiscence. He had an uncanny faculty for picking winners and comers, and to leave it to Tierney was to get the last word on anything connected with the ring or its followers. It was Tierney who pulled Young Kilroy off the brake-beams and started him onward and upward; it was Tierney who took one look at the loudly heralded unbeaten Australian cham pion and mortgaged his property to bet against him, thereby cashing in handsomely at odds of two for one; it was Tierney who three days be fore the McOloskey-0 'Shay fiasco advised his friends not to back either man, and chuckled astutely when all bets were called off at the ring side. Because of these things, and many more, people listened when Tierney talked. They said he "knew something," and if there were times when he kept this knowledge to himself, turn ing it to financial account, they credited him with wisdom. Fattening a bank balance is no sin in any community. The swinging door opened and two men entered. The first was small and compact, with the alert air of a fox terrier, and he wore a checkered suit of violent pattern. The second was tall and solemn and quietly dressed. Both hailed Tierney in familiar fashion. "Well, how's the ole burgjjar?" said the small man. "Long time I no see you!" • "Patrick, "said the other, "I greet you!" "'Lo, Cricket! 'Lo, Deacon!" grinned Tierney, extending a freckled paw across the bar. "What's new on the other side of the Bay?" "Not a thing!" answered the newcomer ad dressed as Cricket. "Didn't see you at the fight last Tuesday night, Tierney." "A fat chance!" said the proprietor, setting out the bottles. "A fine, fat chance! Catch me layin' off to watch Hogan take a nap. Hogan! And him with a nose that shouts out loud that his name is Isidore Mandelbaum! He quit, didn't he?" ' * He did that little thing, "replied the Deacon gravely. "His friends say a right hook on the jaw sent him bye-bye, but I know better. He got up as soon as the referee stopped counting." "Wasn't hurt a bit," supplemented the Cricket. "He's a puzzle to me," continued the Dea con. "Week before last he went all round Young McGraw like a cooper round a barrel. On the form he showed that night he could have whipped a world's champion. Last Tuesday night he quit to a dub. I can't figure him at all." "I can!" Tierney slapped his hand on the bar. "He ain't worth two whoops in — Peta-luma!" "He's fast," murmured the Cricket. "And clever as they make 'em." This from the Deacon. "And he can hit with both hands — hit hard too." Tierney took up the thread. "He's got everything a fighter ought to have — everything but the heart and the stomach. He '11 never fight for the pure love of fightin', understand me? Put an Irish heart in him, make him train a little bit now and then, an' you'd have a cham pion — no less." "He handed that big squarehead from the revenue cutter an awful trimming," said the Cricket. "An' why? Because he knew the sailor was too slow to hit him with a buggy whip! Put a man in front of him that he knows he can lick, an' Isidore is a demon. Give him a tough boy that he ain't sure about — one that'll rough it with him an' step on his feet in the clinches an' shove him round the ring — an' pretty soon you'll see him pickin' out a soft spot to fall on. Oh, I know him like a book! The kick of a mule in either hand, but the heart of a cottontail rab bit! Not worth that! "And Tierney snapped his fingers contemptuously. "If you could only find a way to make him fight, eh r ' This was the Deacon's contribution. The Cricket snarled. "You can't make that fellow do anything! The only part of the fight ing game that he likes is the split-up in the box-office. When he works on a percentage of the house you can see him counting the gallery be tween rounds and figuring how much is coming to him. And he never misses it very far either." "Nevertheless and notwithstanding, "argued the Deacon, "he can fight if he wants to." "That's the point!" cried Tierney. "He ain't wantin' to." "'A bird that can sing and won't sing ought to be made to sing, "' quoted the Deacon. "He ought to be shot! "growled the Cricket. "Our little friend here," explained the Dea- con, "but a couple of centuries on Isidore last Tuesday night. The memory lingers." 4 ' You know it does! "burst out the Cricket. "I'd like to be down to weight again and take it out of his hide! ' * Patrick Tierney made a clucking noise with his tongue and slid the cloth over the bar a few times before he spoke. Then: "You can't lick him yourself," said he, "but you might get him licked good and plenty." ' * How f "demanded the Cricket eagerly. Tierney glanced toward the door and lowered his voice. "I've got a lad here, sort of under cover. I was figurin' on springin' him pretty soon. He's the roughest two-handed mauler you ever saw. Name's Callahan, an' he'd rather fight than eat. He'd give Isidore an awful cleanin V "Yes, if he'd stay and take it!" Tierney emitted a dry chuckle. "Leave that to me," said he. "Tell Isidore you've got a sucker for him an' he won't train a minute. Make the cut seventy-five-twenty-five, an' Isidore '11 stick round quite a while — for the long end." "But how good is this Callahan?" asked the Cricket. * ' Good enough to make you open your lamps, my son. Come over to-morrow afternoon an' I'll have him put on the gloves with some of the gang. If you don't say he's the roughest walloper in seven counties, the joint is yours, cash register an' all!" "Fair enough! "said the Cricket. "It listens well," said the Deacon, nodding gravely. "Patrick, another small libation upon the altar of friendship and we're on our way!" Tierney stared at the swinging door until it ceased to vibrate behind his guests. "A bird that can sing and won't sing ought to be made to sing," he mused. "An* that's true. This bird knows all the notes, but is there a way to make him like music, I wonder I" n Isidore Mandelbaum did not fight because he loved fighting. A stiff jab upon his prominent nose had no charms for him; a well-timed hook to the point of the chin roused in him no wild enthusiasm for the conflict. Isidore was a gladiator for revenue only. The jingle of the shekels in the box-office made a strong appeal to his nature; the soft rustle of currency was soothing to his soul. Propose an engagement to the aver age boxer of Isidore's caliber, and the first question would never vary: "Who with?" Pro pose one to Mandelbaum, and he would ask: "How much?" Isidore, acting as his own manager for economical reasons, preferred to battle for a flat sum — so much in the hand, win, lose or draw, before he entered the ring. If he felt he could win without trouble or danger, well and good. If the evening's entertainment was not to his liking Isidore would stumble into an easy swing, stop the glove with his jaw and remain upon the floor until the referee signaled "Cease firing." For this inglorious trait he was called a quitter, and his intimates often remonstrated with him for what they were pleased to term his lack of gameness. "Gameness is good — when it gets you some thing," Isidore would argue. ''For a big long end I can be as game as anybody, but on a win, lose or draw proposition it ain't worth while. Why should I get my face knocked off me when all I get is just so much?" "But every time you quit it goes as a knock out on your record!" "The only record I keep," Isidore would re ply calmly, "is a bank book. Those knockouts are in there, too, but they don't show." "You'll never get to be a champion if you let all these dubs lick you." Isidore had a counter for that lead. "A champion has to cut his money in two with some bum of a manager. In the end he ain't got anything. Small profits and quick re turns is better." So, dead alike to ambition and shame, Isidore Mandelbaum went his devious way, fighting like a world's champion one week and like an inebriated apple-woman the next. It was all the same to Isidore. He was, as he often said, a business man in a business that was no business. This is why he was deeply interested in a proposition submitted by Cricket Cassidy, a former lightweight of great renown, but now doing the best lie could, who met Isidore by carefully arranged accident one evening. ''Well, and how's Kid Hogan and all the other Hogans?" asked the Cricket. Isidore regarded the Cricket with a shrewd, beady eye, but read nothing more than cheery good nature in Cassidy's countenance. "All right, I guess, "said Isidore. "How's business?" "Business is bad," admitted Isidore. "Rot ten bad. You saw that fight last week? Here I am winning all by myself and making a chop ping block out of this Swede — and then I come to in my corner with the smelling salts under my nose." "Tough luck!" said the Cricket. "He's a dangerous guy, that Swanson. Always got a kick left in him." "Like a government mule!" agreed Isidore fervently. "And, would you believe it, they say I quit!" Cricket was not one of Isidore's intimates, and to the public at large Kid Hogan did not tell all his business, holding that to be bad business. Cassidy, who had seen the battle under discussion, and had watched Isidore bob up at the count of ten and walk steadily to his corner without so much as a tremor of the knees, clucked sympathetically. "You don't say!" "But I do say! And for that," wailed Isi dore — "for that they have canceled two dates on me. I suppose I should stay in there and be knocked dead! Business is bad, sure." 1 i I think I know where you can pick up some soft money." Isidore was on his guard at once. "I don't split with anybody!" said he quick ly. "It ain't business, and why should I when I make my own matches and do my own managing? No split!" The Cricket laughed. "Forget it! I'm not looking for anything. I thought I could put something in your way, that's all, but if" "Well," said Isidore cautiously, "I can al ways listen." "All right, listen to this: Over at Point Rich mond they've got a roughneck named Callahan. The railroad men think he's a wonder because he's won a couple of bar-room brawls. I heard about him and went to see Tierney. You know Tierney?" "Everybody knows Tierney," said Isidore impatiently. "Go on." "Well, Tierney says Callahan is a false alarm, and that the first fairly good boy he meets will lick him in a round. Tierney says he's muscle-bound and can't get out of his own way. Tierney thinks that Young Morrissey could put Callahan away in jigtime." "Young Morrissey!" sneered Isidore. "Didn't I lick him three times?" "Of course, but don't you see what a cinch that makes it for you?" argued the Cricket. "Tierney says he would rather have you, on account of your punch. Now you write Tierney and make this match — he's got a piece of the fight club over there — and you demand a percentage basis. Make it seventy-five and twenty-five, or eighty-twenty. It'll be just the same as finding it, and" "Say, wait a minute!" Isidore was a business man, with all a business man's suspicions. "Where do you come in on this and what do you get out of it?" "Bonehead!" cried the Cricket. "The bet ting, of course. What else? The railroad men and the town sports will bet their shirts on Callahan. Me and Tierney will clean up all the loose dough in town!" "And Tierney will bet on me?" demanded Isidore. "Sure he will! He says Callahan won't lay a glove on you — too slow and telegraphs every thing. Tierney says it will be the softest money that ever went hunting a home. You might even bet some yourself." "I never bet," said Isidore firmly. "Well, think it over. Tierney is already try ing to get in touch with Young Morrissey. Of course he won't be such a safe betting proposition as you, but" "I '11 write him to-night! "said Isidore. "You — you're sure you don't want anything, eh?" "Not a thing but the betting privilege!" laughed the Cricket. "Say, you don't think anybody in the world is on the level, do you!" "In this business — no," answered Isidore Mandelbaum, simply and truthfully. "They got to show me." "That's right, kid," agreed the Cricket. "Take no chances." "Just Pat Tierney, Point Eichmond — that'll get him, will it 1 "asked Isidore. 1 ( Care of the Golden Gate Saloon. Yes." "Much obliged," said Isidore. "I'd do as much for you." "I'll bet you would!" said the Cricket heart-ily. in Once more Patrick Tierney was alone with his art gallery and engaged in the thoughtful occupation of polishing the bar with a damp rag. To him came the Deacon, as solemn as usual, but with a faint flicker in his eye. "Patrick," said he, "I hope I see you well." "You do if your eyesight ain't failin'," answered the proprietor, hospitably reaching for a bottle. 1 i If you insist, "murmured the Deacon, help ing himself sparingly. He lifted his glass. "Here's success to crime!" said he. "Success! "echoed Tierney. "And how's it going?" "Great! Immense!" The Deacon coughed noisily as he set down the glass. "Patrick, a gift horse is a sacred animal and I always did like cooking whisky, but what do you make that stuff of? Fusel oil or just plain vitriol? Wowl I feel like a new man — purified by fire, as it were!" "A-ah, where do you get that?" grumbled Tierney. "That's the reg'lar bar whisky." "I have not the slightest doubt of it. Synthetic hooch, made of something almost as good. Guaranteed to remove corns, warts, wens or bunions, as well as the lining of the human stomach! And that's not all that ails it either!" "Every man to his own taste," said Tierney sullenly. "They like it over here. What's the news?" "Briefly, and in words of one syllable," said the Deacon, "the tip got round town that Isi dore was framed up for a benefit with an inferior person named Callahan. The impression prevailed that Isidore could not lose — wouldn't be allowed to lose. In short, a lead pipe. You know how it is. Pick three men, swear 'em to secrecy, pledge their sacred words of honor that it goes no farther, and all San Francisco is wise by night. The same end might be served by hiring the front page of a morning paper, but our method was cheaper. We picked the right men to tell, Patrick." "Sure. And then!" ' * Then the Mandelbaum money began to make its appearance in the pool rooms. It came in bunches, bundles, bales. Never have I seen it respond more nobly. How these surethingers do climb aboard when they think they've got a cinch, eh! All in the world that they want is one hundred per cent the best of it. Give 'em that much of an edge and they'll bet you until the cows come home. We could have placed a lot more." "Could you now?" said Tierney. "Well, well!" "How's Callahan?" "Trained to the minute. In the pink o* con dition, as the sportin' reporters say, though pink is no color for a fightin' man." "And confident of victory, eh? You know they always say that too." * ' Confident is no name for it, Deacon, no name for it. He was tellin' me last night what he's goin' to buy with the long end." The Deacon nodded approvingly. "That's the spirit! Our friend Isidore will be pained, not to say shocked and grieved. He hasn't trained a lick for Callahan." "Tell me now," said Tierney, "did he ever train in his whole life? If so, they kept word of it from me." "His notion of vigorous training would be to run around the block once after a hearty meal, "said the Deacon. "Tell your boy to rough it with him from the start, haul him all over the ring, lay on him in the clinches — anything to get him tired. Then when he begins to puff — bang! bang! in the pantry, and Isidore will fold up like a wet towel." "I'll do that," said Tierney. Calm and untroubled by any hint of impend ing disaster Isidore Mandelbaum came to the slaughter. He brought with him — no, for they paid their own way — two more or less faithful retainers, Mush McManus and Gopher Galle-gher, born respectively Marcus Cohn and Meyer Goldstone. With characteristic caution Isidore timed his arrival with the opening of the doors of the pavilion, for he had agreed to a percent age basis and was interested in the paid admissions. He took his stand at the main entrance, where he assisted the ticket-taker to handle the reserves, and also kept him from passing in his friends for nothing. Marcus and Meyer per formed a like office at the gallery door. When the time came for him to dress for the ring Isidore called Meyer Goldstone to the main entrance and left him there on guard. "Aw, w'at's t' matter witcha?" snarled the ticket-taker. "T ' house is full, ain't it?" ' * Sure! "said Isidore cheerfully. * ' But there might be some standing room left. Keep your lamps on this bird, Meyer." So saying, Isidore picked up his suitcase and departed for the dressing room. Most boxers require more valeting than a prince of royal blood, but attendants cost mon ey, and Isidore would pay no man to lace his shoes and help him on with his trunks. He dressed without assistance and sat down on the rubbing table to wait the call. The last preliminary bout was under way, and Isidore knew he would not have long to wait. As he sat there, crossing and uncrossing his bare legs, unseeing eyes fixed on the wall in front of him, was he, perhaps, thinking of his unknown opponent, wondering what he was like, speculating on the power of his punch? Ah, no. "The house," thought Isidore, "will run twelve hundred. Sixty per cent to the manage ment — the robbers! Forty for us to split. Four times two is eight, four times one is four. Four hundred and eighty dollars, and seventy-five per cent of that again makes — yep! three hun dred and sixty." And his smile was the smile of a young man without a worry in the world. Suddenly the door opened with a crash and a large man stood framed in the aperture — a large, wide man with freckles, a sandy mus tache and a gray sombrero yanked down over steely blue eyes. Isidore looked up, startled, and his first impression was an unpleasant one; he knew instinctively that he was not going to care for this person. The man hesitated an instant, then he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. "A couple or three words with you, young feller! "said he gruffly. "You got a nerve, busting in like this," Isi dore began, but the words died away. The big man's coat was unbuttoned, and as he bent for ward it swung away from his body far enough to show a silver star upon his vest. The star bore the words "Deputy Sheriff." "I — what can I do for you?" asked Isidore politely. "I ain't done nothing, I assure you. I'm a stranger here, and" "It's what you're going to do to-night that counts." "To-night 1 "stammered Isidore. The man's words were ominous,; his manner positively threatening. "Don't stall. You got me the first time. You fought Bill Ladd over here last April, didn't you?" "Well?" Isidore's mouth was dry. "And you quit like a dawg, didn't you?" "Mister," said Isidore earnestly, "that's all a mistake. They told you wrong. I never quit in my" The large man laughed coarsely. "Tell that to the marines!" said he. "But, mister" "Shut up till I get done! You could have won that fight in a walk, but you laid down after you had Bill Ladd licked — laid down for one measly little poke on the jaw. Them that bet on you didn't get a run for their money. The sheriff of this county was one of 'em, sonny, and he hasn't forgot it. He framed up a little surprise party for you. You're going to fight on the square to-night, understand? No stall ing and no quitting. If you don't win you'd better be knocked out so cold that it'll take a doctor an hour to bring you to — and the doc tor '11 be at the ringside too. Lose this fight, and you'll go to jail for three months. Quit, and you'll be with us for six months. Sabe?" "But — but you can't "The words came in a series of dry croaks. "Oh, yes, I can! Obtaining money under false pretenses. Conspiracy to defraud the public." The man rolled these formidable phrases under his tongue with too evident relish, and there was a certain grim assurance in his manner that strangled argument. "Don't you tell me what can't be done. You know what happened to Kid Banks, don't you? Six months on the rock pile, making little ones out of big ones. His lawyers cost him a thousand, and then couldn't do anything for him. He thought he could pull off a fake fight in this county. The sheriff is a bad hombre. When he goes after a crook he gets him good." The large man felt in his pocket and drew out two shining steel circlets, which jingled as he handled them. "You better win to-night, sonny, or "The sharp click of the handcuffs completed the threat. Isidore moistened his lips with his tongue. "And— if I win, what?" The big man grinned. "All off. Bygones will be bygones. Nothing doing. But if you lose" "Mister," said Isidore in a husky whisper, 1 1 1 give you my paralyzed word of honor I never had the intentions of losing this fight!" Marcus and Meyer entered the dressing room together. "Callahan is in the ring already," said Marcus. "Where's the bucket and things?" The large man turned at the door and looked at Mandelbaum. "I'll be at the ringside," said he with sig- nificance. "Close to your corner." Then he went away. "Who was that big stiff?" asked Meyer. "Has he got a bet on this fight, or something?" * ' No, "said Isidore briefly and unhappily. "I have." "How much?" demanded Marcus, suddenly; interested. "Six months!" said Isidore. Isidore sat in his corner and stared at his op ponent. For the first time a new element had entered his calculations. Callahan looked hard as pig iron. He also had the appearance of physical fitness, and none of the nervousness to be expected in a novice making his initial appearance against a seasoned gladiator. He chatted and laughed with his seconds as they laced his gloves, and not once did he so much as glance at the opposite corner. These things were not lost on Isidore. "This guy," said he with conviction, "has been there before. He ain't worried or any thing. Maybe I should have trained for him." * ' Ho! "said Marcus. "You can lick all these near-fighters without no more than a clean shave!" It is the duty of a second to hearten his principal. Isidore glanced along the ropes, and there sure enough was the large man, chat ting with a companion who wore a neat Vandyke beard and spectacles. "The doctor!" thought Isidore. Then bitterly: "They ain't leaving me a single out!" The principals were presented to the audience, and Callahan received a tremendous ovation, to which he responded by bobbing his bul let head as he swaggered back to his corner. Isi dore was hooted unmercifully, his usual reception when fighting away from home. Several aspiring youths shambled into the ring and were introduced by the Master of Ceremonies as desiring to "meet the winner," after which they shook hands formally with Callahan and Mandelbaum. An impatient uproar beat down from the gallery: "Git to business!" "Bring on the raw meat!" "Hey, Callahan! You know!" The Master of Ceremonies waved his pudgy arms over his head. "Order, please! "he bellowed. ' * Must have order!" A bull-necked man shed coat, vest, collar and tie, rolled up his sleeves and clambered heavily through the ropes. It was Butch 0 'Connor, the referee. He strode to the middle of the ring and beckoned the fighters to him. Callahan approached, grinning cheerfully. Isidore's face wore a serious expression. He had forgotten the three hundred and sixty dollars. "Cheer up!" bantered Callahan. "The worst is yet to come!" "That's for you to find out!" snapped Isi dore venomously. "The proper spirit!" commented Butch. "Listen now!" He droned through the familiar instructions, gave the customary warnings, and the fighters nodded and returned to their corners. Isidore, resting one glove lightly on the topmost rope, heard the Master of Ceremonies bawling the announcement — heard, but took no heed. Isidore was looking at the big sandy man. The sandy man was showing something to his bearded friend — something which he held cupped in both hands. Through his fingers Isidore caught the glint of bright metal. Both were laughing. "Let 'er go!" howled the Master of Ceremonies. "Bong! "said the bell. Callahan shot out of his corner as if released by a giant spring. He rushed at Isidore, aimed a savage right uppercut for the chin, missed by a matter of inches and floundered into a clinch, managing to step on Isidore's feet as he did so. The sheer force of his attack swept Isidore backward toward his own corner. "Aw, don't fall all over the ring that way!" he complained, wriggling free and escaping into open territory. "Make a nice clean fight of it!" "I'll clean you!" snarled Callahan, and rushed again. Isidore side-stepped neatly, and peppered him with stinging left jabs, but for all visible effect he might have been prodding a brick wall. Callahan bore in close, bent on roughing it, and again Isidore jabbed and side- stepped. Immediately a shrill voice was up lifted at the ringside: ' * Stay with him, Callahan! Wear him out!" Isidore turned his head slightly and his astonished gaze fell upon Cricket Cassidy's face, purple with enthusiasm and vocal exertion. And the Cricket had said that Callahan was easy, asking nothing for himself but the betting privilege! Would he bet on one man and cheer for another? Never. Of a sudden Isidore Mandelbaum felt very sick indeed, and Callahan was trying to make him sicker, in the same place. A glove thudded below Isidore's floating ribs into the unarmored region known as the pit of the stomach. "Thatta boy! "howled the Cricket. "Down stairs!" There was no time to meditate upon this bit of treachery or what it might portend. Isidore set himself solidly upon his large flat feet and began to fight. Other questions, and they swirled in his brain, must wait; Callahan would not. So the round ended in a fierce give-and-take in the middle of the ring. Isidore, because of his cleverness at evading punishment, had a shade the better of it, and the crowd whooped joyously at the bell. "Hey! Don't lose your head an' try to out-slug this guy!" cautioned Meyer Goldstone. "Bough stuff — that's his dish! Box him, Izzy, box him!" "I been framed," grunted Isidore. "They jobbed me!" "Who jobbed you?" asked Marcus Cohn, busy with a towel. "Everybody!" said Isidore. "Well, don't lose your head," warned Meyer. "Box him. Don't slug." But Callahan would not box. He insisted on fighting with both hands at all times. The pretty art of feinting for openings interested him not. When Isidore sought to clinch he was jarred loose by a terrific tattoo upon his mid-section. This was hardly beneficial. A young man in perfect condition may weather such an attack for a time, but Isidore, alas! was not in perfect condition. His habits were exemplary, but they did not include the long runs on the road which make for endurance or the physical exercises that strengthen the abdominal muscles. Plainly there were only two ways to stop the epigastrial bombardment: the first was to run; the second, to fight Callahan away from close quarters. Isidore remembered the large sandy man and chose the latter. The last minute of the second round was a thrilling session for the spectators, but this time the honors were with Ireland. Isidore managed to plant two right hooks on Callahan's left eye, almost closing it, but just before the bell rang Callahan retaliated with a whizzing uppercut that sent Isidore reeling, and his legs played him queer tricks as he walked to his corner. His brain was whirling, but he saw one thing clearly: the sandy man was scowling at him and fingering something in his coat pocket. 1 'Didn't see that one!" gasped Isidore, while Marcus and Meyer plied towel and ice water desperately. "Tough, ain't he?" In the other corner Callahan regarded his handlers with a lopsided smile. "Who d' hell told me this boy couldn't hit?" he mumbled thickly. "A coupla inches lower down, an' fa-a-re-thee-well. He near tore me roof off!" It was in the third round that Isidore ducked into an uppercut, blocking it with his nose. To his other troubles was added acute pain. After that it became a fight, sans art, sans science, sans everything but the spirit that must have moved the cave men to combat. Callahan and Mandelbaum, two men as unlike as unlike can be, met in the middle of the ring and reverted to first principles, but instead of clubs and stone hatchets they used their fists, while the spectators howled as their shaggy ancestors must have howled at the sight of human blood. At such a time one sees how easily the veneer of civilization peels off the soul of man. Callahan forgot everything but the dark, sneering face in front of him. Isidore, dazed and shaken, but of superior intelligence, remembered but one thing — the sandy man with the handcuffs. At long intervals each was in his corner, gasp ing, incoherent, deaf alike to entreaty and ad vice. It was a real fight of the sort seldom seen between professionals these days, and for the time the crowd forgot to be partisan. If the boys in the gallery did not love Isidore they at least respected him for what they called his gameness. After each round they looked at each other and said: 11 Well, watta you t'ink of dat, hey?" There came a time when darkness enveloped Isidore and swallowed him up. One instant he had been standing toe to toe with Callahan, fighting like a fury; the next he was falling, fall ing, falling through a bottomless black void. After an eternity of oblivion the gloom lifted slightly, and Isidore found himself huddled up on his hands and knees, underneath the ropes, staring at a red pool on the white canvas. As from a great distance he heard a singsong voice calling "Six I" Nauseated and dizzy, Isidore lifted his eyes from the pool, and there below him, at less than arm's length, was a large man with a sandy mustache and steely blue eyes that glared up at him from under the brim of a gray sombrero. He seemed angry about something; vaguely Isi dore wondered why. The man's lips moved; Isidore tried to catch the message, but could not. The distant voice chanted "Seven!" In his benumbed brain an idea began to shape itself: Isidore knew only that the large sandy man was the key to a tremendous situation in which his future was involved. But what was it? Isidore shook his head, hoping that it would clear; the sandy man misunderstood the motion. He thrust his closed fist out over the ring floor, and as the fingers opened Isidore caught a glimpse of silver. Money? No, a silver star. The bright flash of the metal struck a beam into his muddled brain; memory returned to him. Six months in the county jail! A thou sand dollars, and the lawyers couldn't do any thing! "Eight!" "You know what you'll get if you quit!" The sandy man was making a megaphone out of his hands. A dull roar filled the air. It was the gallery celebrating in advance of Callahan's victory. Callahanf Yes, he must be somewhere in the vicinity. Isidore Mandelbaum, who had never known the true meaning of gameness, heaved a sigh that was also a groan and, turning himself about, prepared to rise. He balanced himself on both hands, waiting, and as he waited the last shred of mist cleared from his brain. "Nine!" Half a second now. Isidore remembered something he had heard about Bob Fitzsimmons in his fight with Corbett — no, not Corbett. It was Hall, at New Orleans. Isidore came up slowly, just as the referee's finger poised on the final down stroke that would have marked the end of the fight. His open hands dangled at his sides. He reeled this way and that, his right arm swaying at his hip. His eyes were fixed in a glassy stare; his lower lip drooped ludicrously. He was such a pitiable spectacle that Callahan dropped his gloves to laugh. Seven minutes later Callahan became aware of a strong smell of ammonia and opened his eyes. All about him were stern faces and accusing eyes. "Wha — wha's happened?" he muttered. "What happened!" cried the man who held the bottle of smelling salts. "You thought he was out, but he was only stallin' to get your guard down! He knocked you dead in the eighth round — that's what happened!" Patrick Tierney sat in the back room of the Golden Gate Saloon, alone. The San Francisco contingent had departed, jubilant, save for a small man in a checkered suit and a tall man whose usually somber countenance wore an added gloom. Point Richmond had retired for the night. A creaking footfall broke the silence; it was that of a large sandy man trying to walk on his toes. "Well, Pat," said he, "I've got to hand it to you! It worked like a charm. Who would have thought he was as game as that, eh?" * ' He had to be, "said Tierney succinctly. He drew out a thick roll of bills and counted off a certain sum. "You cleaned up, did you?" asked the large man. Tierney nodded. 1 1 Here and across the Bay, "said he. "Most of it over there though. "He handed some bills to the sandy man, who counted them carefully, for he knew Tierney. Then he tucked them in one vest pocket, while from the other he drew a small silver star and from his coat a pair of handcuffs. "Guess I won't have any more use for these, "said he. "No, "said Tierney, recovering his property. After a time he laughed silently, rocking back and forth in his chair. "The bird didn't like music any too well," he chuckled, * ' but between us we found a way to make him sing the notes!"