Out of His Class

THE young man upon whom Nature has bestowed barely enough forehead to keep his hair out of his eyes should shun high brow society and all forms of art. The game is hopelessly beyond him, the cards are "stacked, "and he loses even when he wins. In proof of this statement, we respectfully refer the reader to the following passages from the life of the eminent Mr. Joseph 0 'Malley. O'Malley was not always eminent, but owed his rise in life to a jaw of chilled steel, a heart that knew fear only by reputation, two mallet-like fists, and the ability — as well as the inclination — to hit with them at any time and from any position. Many have claimed credit for dis covering this wonderful fighting machine, but it was the sporting editor of the "Daily Avalanche" who set Joseph's youthful feet on the road to fame and fortune. The sporting editor did not realize it at the time, and therefore deserves none of the credit he has been claim ing; he merely thought he was playing an extremely rough practical joke on an unsuspecting tramp fighter. Seeing that he still poses in print as 0 'Malley's Columbus, it might be just as well to tell the real truth about that discovery. The hour was late, his copy was all in, and the sporting editor of the "Avalanche" was about to quit and call it a day when the narrow chute leading to his seven by nine sanctum was blocked by two figures. The first was that of a bright-eyed but grubby little man in a stained and shapeless suit of loud checks. The pattern was thickly dotted with tiny holes burned in the cloth, and these established the status of the visitor at once — a "blind-baggage tourist/' a traveller contributing nothing to the upkeep of the right of way. His flat-brimmed brown derby hat was smooth and shiny and reflected the light like a polished shell. A dingy red necktie, a rhinestone pin and a thirty-five-cent cameo ring completed the picture. Hovering in the wake of this shabby pilot was a bullet-headed boy with a tremendous shock of straw-colored hair, one cauliflower ear of amazing proportions, and a decided cast in his left eye. His clothing was, if anything, more dis reputable than that of his companion — a cap, a sweater, and a seven-dollar suit, and all had seen hard wear under varying weather conditions. "Sportin' editor?" briskly asked the grubby one, stepping forward. "Yes," answered the newspaper man, eying his callers with a chilling lack of interest. "Pleased to meet you!" exclaimed he of the loud checks, wringing the sporting editor's limp hand. "My name's Arthur — Lew Arthur — an ' I'm managin' this boy here. Shake hands, Joe!" The bullet-headed youth bashfully offered a dirty paw and retreated to a position at his manager's flank. 1 'We're lookin' for a crack at somo of these lightweights, Joe and me," cheerfully continued the spokesman. "We don't bar nobody. First come, first served; 'at's us. To look at him, you wouldn't think he's the fightin'est little fool 'at ever pulled on a glove, but he is, pal, he is! Yes, sir, mingle is his middle name" "What's the rest of his name?" The sport ing editor's tone and manner were not encouraging, but the grubby young man ignored them. "O'Malley — Joe O'Malley, an' say, you ain't got no idea what a devasticatin' bear cat he is when he hears 'at bell ring! He fights just be cause he loves it, pal; it's meat an' drink to him, yes, an' tapioca puddin' too. Chuck him in the ring wit' anybody — the tougher they come the better he likes 'em — leave him there six, ten, twenty rounds, an' I give you my paralyzed word of honor, pal, it's just the same's sendin* a hungry guy to a banquet! He eats it, Joe does, an' he ain't never found nobody yet that could make him back up. First time I seen him step, I pegs him for a comin' champioi} o' the world. 'At's why I hooked up wit' him as manager" "Yes, yes," said the sporting editor, glancing at the devasticating bear cat, who met his eyes with a sheepish grin and then looked suddenly away in two directions at once, "but he hasn't any record" "No record!" ejaculated Mr. Arthur, with well-feigned amazement. "Didn't we rock Kid Swiftly to sleep in Gol 'field? Didn't we knock Young Dutchy dead wit ' one punch? Didn't we git a draw wit Groniger in his own town1? No record! Why, pal, where you been all this time?" "Eight here, but I never heard of O'Malley "before you blew in and began three-sheeting him all over the place. I never heard of the boys that you say he's licked. I suppose you want to get him a match — is that the idea?" "Pal," said the little manager earnestly, "you're a mind reader — you ain't no sportin' editor. I not only want to git him a match, but I got to git him a match or we don't eat. Ain't that so, Joe?" The fighter grinned sheepishly and nodded. The sporting editor also grinned, for an idea had come his way — a practical joke in the mak ing, with 0 'Malley on the receiving end. "How would you like to take a crack at Dynamite Danny O'Brien?" he asked. "Anybody at all, pal!" cried the manager. "As the Colonel says, dee-lighted! Hey, Joe?" "Uh, huh," assented O'Malley. "Danny's a tough boy," said the sporting editor. "Tough boys is right where we live! "boasted Arthur. "He's been stopping all these pork-an '-bean-ers in a round or two." "Git him for us, pal, 'at's all we ask!" "He hits like a mule kicking." "So do we. You don't know this boy, pal. He kin trade slams wit' any of 'em." 1 ' Nobody has ever made 0 'Brien back up." "I like to have 'em fetch it right to me," said O'Malley suddenly, and as suddenly subsided. "See? "cried his manager. ' * What did I tell you, hey? He jus' loves it, Joe does! He don't git no fun out o' fightin"less they fights him hard." 1 1 Then he '11 have a perfectly lovely time next Friday night," said the sporting editor with a trace of grimness. "And you'll fix it with the club?" "I'll telephone the promoter in the morning. He's got an office in the Commonwealth Build ing — fifth floor. Better take your boy round there at noon. No, never mind thanking me." The sporting editor watched the grubby little manager herd his fighter down the passage and into the elevator. "Another hobo with a meal ticket," thought he. "Another tramp trying to break into the game. Oh, well, there's only one thing about a meal ticket: it's no good till it's punched. And this one will get some punching!" Now, Danny 0 'Brien was a local product who had fought himself out of material by reason of [178]. OUT OF HIS CLASS the roughness with which he handled his opponents. Not quite good enough for the first flight, he had devastated the second and third, and a match with him had come to be regarded as a round-trip ticket to dreamland. There was no competition for the doubtful privilege of meet ing him under the shaded arc lights. He had no science, no knowledge of boxing, and felt that he needed none. He used his left hand only to create openings for his deadly right, which had earned for him the name of Dynamite Danny. He was more than pleased to meet the unknown O'Malley in a six-round encounter, and came to the fray confident of its conclusion — so confident that he had not annoyed himself with the slight detail of training. Why train when all his fights ended inside the three-round mark? What happened to Dynamite Danny is a mat ter of history and also of accurate record. The latter may be found in the vest-pocket annuals, but not under the name of O'Brien. See O'Malley. When the bell sounded Dynamite Danny went briskly to work, as was his wont, and just as briskly there sprang to meet him a trim, flat-muscled little thunderbolt under an immense thatch of straw colored hair. "Huh! "thought Danny, who was accustomed to cautious opponents. ''This guy don't know who I am — he ain't afraid, nor nothing!" O'Brien introduced himself by means of a right hook aimed at the jaw. The blond un known ducked, suffering a glancing blow upon his cauliflower ear, countered with a stiff, dig ging jolt under the heart — and the battle was on. And such a battle! The irresistible force had encountered the immovable obstacle, each possessing elements of the other. Dynamite Danny set his teeth and whaled away with his deadly right; Joe O'Malley set his teeth and met it — and a little bit more. The straw-colored hair rocked and tossed under the brutal assault; O'Brien's mid section quivered under a responding tattoo. No ground was given and no quarter asked; it was five rounds of savage fighting crowded into one, and when the bell struck the boys apart and sent them to their corners the spectators leaped to their feet and yelled themselves hoarse. The grubby little manager, deftly plying a sponge, caught the sporting editor's eye — and winked. It was in the third round that Dynamite Danny began to weaken. He had found a man whom he could not hurt with his right hand — a man who had been hurting him with both hands and who seemed willing — yes, even anxious — • to hurt him some more. The instant that the sting went out of Danny's blows, O'Malley swarmed all over him, beating down his waver ing defense with a shower of jolting hooks and swings. 0 'Brien began to retreat. "Oh, you bear cat!" shrilled the little man ager. "You devasticatin' bear cat! Eock him to sleep! ' At's the stuff I" The round ended with O'Brien on the run, striving to cover himself from a blinding storm of punishment. The house was in a terrific uproar, but 0 'Malley went calmly to his corner, not acknowledging his ovation by so much as a grin. "Watch his eye, you fool, and block some of them punches! "Thus 0 'Brien's chief adviser. "But the sucker — don't hit where — he's look ing!" grunted Dynamite. The battle ended early in the fourth round — ended with the local terror doubled up on the canvas and struggling to rise, but taking great care not to struggle successfully. Dynamite Danny knew when he had had enough, and in addition he was ill in the region of his stomach. "Great little fighter, that towhead!" said the reporters. * ' Who dug him up?" "I did," modestly replied the sporting editor of the "Avalanche." "I liked his looks, and asked the club to give him a tryout. Shouldn't wonder if he amounted to something some day. Let me have one peek at 'em, and I can tell, as a general thing." The sporting editor of the "Avalanche" has told this story so often that he now believes it himself. n Cranking the film rapidly, we next see Joseph O'Malley adorned with purple, fine linen, and precious stones. But for the magnificent cauli flower ear we might have some difficulty in recognizing him as the same person, and if we watch him long enough we shall surprise a look of blank amazement in that wandering left eye, for there are times when O'Malley has trouble in recognizing himself and is dazed by his sud den elevation to affluence. We see also the little manager, grubby no longer but otherwise unchanged, full of conversation and supporting a diamond stud more noticeable for its size than the limpid, water-white purity of its color. Our two friends have come up in the world, and Joe 0 'Malley is a Celebrity now. His man ager has to remind him of the fact several times a day. Having disposed of all competition, Joe stands alone as challenger for the lightweight championship, and while Carsey, the champion, doubles and twists and endeavors to evade the issue, O'Malley is about to enjoy a brief vacation from the arena. "Ten weeks in vaudeville at seven-fifty a week — oh, I'm a poor manager, eh! Yeh, rot ten. I don't know a thing about gittin' the dough w'ile the gittin's good!" Lew Arthur set fire to a perfecto, hung his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, and beamed upon his meal ticket. Joe grunted. It was not a grunt of happiness. "Aw, there you go again!" exclaimed Lew. "Why not fight some of these guys?" whined 0 'Malley. « « There's Kelley an ' Young Whalen an'" "Dubs! "interrupted the manager. * ' Bums! You couldn't git nothin' for meetin"em, an* you'd only make yourself cheap. They's just one match we want now, an' that's wit' Carsey for the championship. He don't want to meet us, but the public '11 make him. All we gotta do is keep on challengin' an' yellin' murder — Carsey '11 have to fight us some day. While we're waitin', here's this vaudeville engagement, an' pretty soft, I call it. Lemme talk, will you? I'm the manager, ain't I? Well! The show business ain't half as bad as you think. You don't have to do nothin' when you git out there on the stage. We git the dough for lettin' the yaps see you, 'at's all. An' you'll have a nelegant time — lots of chickens wit' the troupe." "Huh! ' > sneered 0 'Malley. "Chickens!" "Now, don't be turnin' up that busted beezer of yours so proud an' haughty. You ain't no prize beauty, but they ain't collyflower ears enough in the world to pertect a guy that drags down seven-fifty a week — less his manager's cut. Some doll '11 make a play for you, sure, an' don't you fall too hard, Joe." "Ah-h,quitkiddin'!" "You think it's a kid? All right, little Bright Eyes, stick around and see!" There were two "girl acts" with the show, and some of the members of the Transatlantic Beauty Chorus were frankly interested in the seven-hundred-and-fifty-a-week recruit to vaudeville — but not for long. The Devasticating Bear Cat appeared twice a day, as per contract, struggled through his fifteen minutes of bag punching, shadow boxing, and sparring, made his nervous, jerky bows in response to the applause, and hurried, perspiring freely, to his dressing room. He made no friends and scraped no acquaintances. The Montressors and De Veres and Le Glairs decided that he wouldn't do, not with any amount of fixing. "A scared little small-town hick, that's all he is! I smiled at him this afternoon, like I'd smile at anybody on the same bill, and what do you think? The poor fish blushed all over!" ' * Solid ivory, but they say he can fight." "Well, he ought to be able to do something! His act is a joke!" "And the billing says he gets fifteen hundred a week for it. Of course, that's press-agent bunk" "No matter what it is, it's too much." "Mme. Lorenze put up an awful squawk about having to follow him on the bill." "Well, can you blame her? Imagine trying to put a vampire act across with a lot of low brows walking out on you! I guess you'd holler too. The lowbrows only come to see him, and when he's done that's the end of the show. What do they care for the emotional stuff? Last night poor old Lorenze died standing up. It was terrible!" "She says she'll cancel her contract if they don't change her." The distinguished foreign artiste and Original Vampire — if one believes the press agent and forgets Delilah, Salome, and Cleopatra — [1841 OUT OF HIS CLASS complained so bitterly that the house manager called at O'Malley's dressing room. His very entrance was apologetic. "Say, Joe, would you do me a favor!" "Maybe," was the laconic response. "Would it be asking too much of you to change places with Lorenze? A lot of people come to see you and leave after your act is over — they crab her sketch. She's all worked up about it, Joe, and — well, you know how women are." "Sure," said the fighter. "And you'll change with her?" "Why not? Makes no difference to me." Two minutes later a middle-aged female whirlwind swept into O'Malley's dressing room and all but fell on his neck. It was so grand of him, so generous, so noble, so — so "Cheese, lady, cheese!" stammered the Devasticating Bear Cat. "Where do you get that stuff? I ain't done nothin' to rave about; honest, I ain't!" No, nothing to rave about, but it often hap pens that the smallest acts entail the largest consequences. It was because he surrendered his place on the bill that O'Malley's unwavering right eye fell upon Miss Vyvyan Delorme, born Sadie Jones. Miss Delorme "supported" Mme. Lorenze — at least so she wrote her family in Kansas City. She went on with a tray at the beginning of the act, murmured ' * Oui, madame, "twice, and gently faded from view. But that was not all — heavens, no! While the Original Vampire was vamping the chinless hero out of house and home, Miss Delorme waited in the wings — waited until she saw the poison vial slip from madame's fingers. This was the sign that the star was dead and therefore had no more use for the center of the stage. It was also Vyvyan's cue to rush on, pick up the vial — and scream. That scream brought the curtain down, and also brought Miss Delorme's salary up from twenty-five to forty dollars a week. There was Art in that grief-stricken outcry — Art, and a shrill, penetrating note which caused many a tired business man to wake with a snort and a gurgle. And, as we have said, there was fifteen dollars per week in it; without the scream Miss Delorme would have been cheating them at twenty-five. Vyvyan was a plump little blonde creature of the kittenish type, but she did not purr when stroked. She scratched. Those who saw only her blue-eyed baby stare and overlooked her somewhat bulging forehead would have been deceived in her, for this little bit of human fluff was ambitious and not quite a fool. She yearned to be a great emotional actress — a stage vampire for preference — but she appreciated the obstacles in her path. To begin with, she realized that she was not of the ideal and accepted vampire type — tall and willowy, with somber eyes and midnight hair. The midnight hair might easily be man aged, but how about the somber eyes and the slender figure! Then there were the clinging gowns, without which no vampire ever goes forth to vamp. Clinging gowns, Vyvyan knew, would make her look more than ever like a pat of fresh dairy butter. The outlook was a discouraging one, but Vyvyan was artist enough to keep on hoping for the best, and while she hoped she made a few tentative experiments in vampiring on her own amateur hook, using stage hands as subjects. The keynote of the vampire's character, as Vyvyan saw it, was power to attract the opposite sex. Her first subject, a large, handsome brute with an overhanging cornice of a jaw, had responded to treatment so warmly and with such evident enthusiasm that Vyvyan had been forced to flee from him. This was proof that she possessed the power of attraction, but as Vyvyan had no desire to be kissed against her will she decided to alter her system somewhat. Instead of merely fascinating them, why not in fluence men for good? Miss Delorme's attempts at benevolent vampiring failed because of the singular bonehead-edness of the stage hands who were her subjects. Stage hands, Vyvyan discovered, were not possessed of souls. Vyvyan had never met any prize fighters. She pictured them as savage, beetle-browed giants on the Bill Sikes order, with hamlike hands and coarse voices. She was, therefore, surprised to find that the challenger for a world's championship was a slim youth whose expression in repose was one of apologetic timidity. Joe looked so meek and frightened and utterly out of place on a vaudeville bill that he seemed the ideal subject for benevolent vampiring and soul awakening. Vyvyan studied this quaint creature through several performances and decided that he would not be likely to misinterpret her efforts in his behalf. More than that, he seemed lonely and in need of a friend. Twice daily 0 'Malley waited in the wings for the finish of the vampire's act, and though Vyvyan stood so close to him that he might have touched her, no words passed between them — none might ever have passed had not Miss Delorme lost patience and stepped on the fighter's toes — a clumsy method of introduction but better than nothing. It gave her a chance to apologize very sweetly. "'S all right, "mumbled 0 'Malley, coloring under the blue-eyed and childlike scrutiny. "'S all right — didn't hurt me none." "Oh, but I can't imagine what made me so — • so clumsy!" There was no reply. Evidently Joe could not imagine either. During the long silence which followed, Mme. Lorenze, on the stage, writhed and contemplated the poison. 1 'Don't you think she's wonderful?" whispered Vyvyan, her lips almost brushing the cauliflower ear. "Teh. A nut, too." More silence. "My cue is coming in a minute," said Vyvyan, desperately trying to create conversation. "Well, so long. Knock 'em dead wit* that yell." Is it any wonder that upon this occasion the fif teen-dollar-a-week scream held a keen note of vexation? The next day the little manager announced that he was going West on business "for the firm." "I'll chase this rabbit Jim Carsey, an* challenge him in every town where he hangs up his dicer. If all the papers git to yowlin' at him, he'll have to notice us — have to fight or retire. Well, good-by, you matinee idol, an' don't let none of these dames kidnap you!" "A swell chance!" grunted O'Malley. "A-a-a swell chance. Why, they's only one real girl wit' the whole troupe, an' she don't work in no chorus, I'll tell you that." in Speeding the film once more, we catch glimpses of the little manager flitting from town to town, snapping at the heels of the champion, annoying him with challenges, bombarding him with certified checks, threatening, blustering, bluffing. There are also glimpses of a remarkable progress in the benevolent vampiring line; close-ups of an inquisitive, kittenish blonde exploring the depths of a young man's being, sweeping out the dusty corners of his soul, selfishly testing her power over him in a dozen different ways. Slowing the film to normal, we discover our lightweight Samson purchasing lobster for his Delilah at the hour of 11 p. m. He is conversing with her in low, earnest tones, as follows: "Honest, kid, it ain't such a bad game as all that. You don't know nothin' about it; that's why you knock so hard." ' * I know it is brutal and degrading — and it is not worthy of you, Joe." "Not worthy? Why, say, listen here" "Itis brutal!" said Miss Delorme. "Oh, well," said Joe, with a sigh, "maybe it is — for them that loses." "And not worthy of you," insisted Vyvyan, pressing her advantage. "Maybe it ain't," admitted Joe slowly. "I never thought about it that way." "Don't you realize that beating another man — with your fists — has its effect on you?" "Why, sure, girlie." Joe fingered his cauli flower ear and smiled like a cross-eyed angel. "Sure it's got an effect. A guy can't block 'email." "Oh, you don't understand! I mean the moral effect!" Joe shook his head hopelessly. "I don't git you at all. My morals are pretty good. They got to be. I never had a drink in my whole life. I don't smoke" "You're talking about habits," corrected Miss Delorme, "not morals." "Well, habits, then," said Joe; "an* listen, girlie, you're gettin' to be a habit wit' me, an* one I don't never want to break. I'd like to think it was a habit that'd stay wit' me for keeps. How about it?" "Surely you're not referring to that again?" "Again an' yet. Why not? Ain't a feller got a right to ask for what he wants? You've done a lot of talkin' about the fightin' game — it's bad an' brutal an' all that, but suppose I got my dough some other way? Kunnin' a saloon, for instance? I got a dandy chance to git in wit' a sport in San Francisco — a fifty-fifty split just for the name over the door. What if I should retire from the ring? Would that make any difference?" Miss Delorme took time out for reflection. This was soul-awakening with a vengeance: this was swaying a strong man; this was benevolent vampiring, raised to the nth power. Being only a weak woman, she sparred for time. "Do you really mean that, Joe? Eeally and truly?" "You bet I mean it. Is it me or is it the game that you don't like?" There was an earnest light in the fighter's eye; the unmistakable ring of sincerity in his voice. "Why — why, I suppose it's the — the game," whispered Vyvyan. "Keno!" cried Joe, and would have said much more had not a messenger boy appeared at his elbow. 4 'Telly gram for d' nex' champ!" said he, grinning. "Dey tells me at d' joke box I kin find youse here. Sign, please." 0 'Malley signed, tossed a quarter to the boy, and opened the yellow envelope. He stared so long at the message that Miss Delorme coughed resentfully. She could not know that her com panion had suddenly come in sight of the prom ised land, and in his lingering glance was a hail and a farewell. His lips moved as he spelled out the words. At last he placed the telegram on the table and fixed his right eye steadily on Miss Delorme. "Say that again, will you?" "Say what again? * ' "What you said just now — that it's only the( game that's wrong, but I'm all right — wit' you." "Of course it's wrong." "Don't sidestep. The game is wrong if you say so — I'm givin' you that much the best of it, but — am I all right?" "I suppose so." He reached for her hand across the table, hon est affection shining in his right eye, incoherent phrases trembling on his lips — and those who would laugh should remember that this fluffy little creature was the first good woman who had ever paid the slightest attention to Joa 0 'Malley. "Gee, kid, that's great! That's" "Oh, Joe! I've been looking everywhere for you!" It was Conley, the press agent of the theater, wild-eyed and breathless. "All the papers have been ringing up, trying to get in touch with you on this Carsey thing. I've asked the reporters to meet us at my office. Come on quick!" "T'ell wit' the reporters," said Joe calmly. "T'ell wit' the papers. T'ell wit' you. Can't you see I'm busy?" "Busy!" gasped the press agent. "With a story like this in sight?" He looked appeal-ingly at Miss Delorme, who came immediately to his rescue, seeing also the chance to extricate herself from an uncomfortable situation. "You mustn't keep the reporters waiting, Joe, "said she. The fighter blinked a few times before a comprehending light dawned upon him. "Well, I must be a bonehead!" he exclaimed. "I pretty near forgot you was in the show business too!" "A big story, Joe!" urged Conley. "Get a move on you!" O'Malley rose and beamed fondly and foolishly upon the lady of his love. "I'll give 'em a story! I'll give 'em a whale of a story! You stick here, an' I'll be right back. Don't go 'way." He disappeared in the wake of the press agent, head up and shoulders squared, his atti- tude that of a young man about to make history. Miss Delorme looked after him, wondering un easily. Had she said anything which a very stupid youth might misunderstand? And if she had, what was the length and breadth of that misunderstanding? Men are such idiots! After a time she picked up the telegram and read it. Got Carsey "hooked twenty rou..ds November guess I'm a poor manager back to-morrow. LEW. Miss Delorme decided not to wait. It was a very thoughtful and troubled little vampire who walked to her hotel alone that night. "Oh, he couldn't have meant that!" she as sured herself. "He only asked me if he was all right, and I said that I supposed so. How could he twist that into a promise?" But when she recalled the earnest light in Joseph's right eye she trembled. The boy might be fool enough for anything! In the meantime 0 'Malley was facing a quick-firing battery of sporting writers in Conley's office. "Well, Joe," said the spokesman, "you've got Carsey hooked up at last. This ought to make you the next champion of the world." "No, I guess not," answered 0 'Malley, steadily enough. "What?" "You ain't afraid of this bird, are you?" "What you giving us, Joe?" "Oh, he thinks he's a kidder!" O'Malley listened to all the comments. He blushed painfully, but did not waver. "Listen, you guys," said he at length. "I ain't scared of Carsey. Anybody that says I am is crazy. I know I kin lick this four-flushin' champion. He knows it. Everybody knows it, but — there won't be no fight. I'm goin' to git married an' retire from the ring." rv Joe was quite right about one thing — it was a whale of a story. It jarred the sporting world profoundly, and well it might — a challenger and logical successor to a championship retiring in the very shadow of the goal. The thing was unbelievable, preposterous, without rime, reason, or precedent. The hero breakfasted alone in his room at the hotel, and as he toyed with a porterhouse steak he glanced over the morning papers and blushed to find his romance flung abroad across seven columns. "Well," said he to himself, "they sure give her a mess o' publicity. I bet she never got a write-up like this before in her life. Wonder why she didn't wait for me last night? Have to ring up pretty soon and find out" The door slammed open and Lew Arthur bounced into the room, barking incoherently. Most of his language was of the sort which sug gests itself to that sort of man in times of stress. "Hello, Lew," said Joe, pausing with a bite of steak halfway to his mouth. "What's the idear of all the fireworks?" 1 i Idear! "shouted the little manager, hurling his suit case across the room. "Oh, I s'pose you don't know! Of course not! What's the idear of you runnin' out on this fight after I git Carsey hooked?" "I ain't runnin ' out, "protested Joe. "I got a right to retire, ain't I?" Lew exploded again. "Don't talk like that, "warned 0 'Malley. "I may have done somethin' to myself, but I ain't done nothin' to you." "You ain't? Listen, you cock-eyed, lop-eared quitter, you! You ain't done nothin' to me, hey? Who was it took you when you was a bum an' made a man of you? Who was it went hungry in Pueblo so't you could eat an' keep your stren'th? Who split his last dollar wit' you, many's the time? Who put you where you are now? Who went out an' chased Carsey till he signed up? Me, you white-headed, white-livered coward, me! An' now, wit' a championship in plain sight — a fortune just waitin' to be grabbed off — who throws me down for a skirt he ain't known but a few weeks? That's gratitude, that is!" "But, Lew, she said" "Yeh, there it goes! She said! How about me? Don't I count in this anywhere?" "Not in any of my marryin' arrangements, you don't." "But, Joe, won't you listen to reason?" Joe listened to a rap on the door instead. "Who's there?" 1 ' Belcher of the ' Evening Star. ' I Ve got important news for you, 0 'Malley." Belcher was a brisk, dapper young man with an air of assurance. * ' Good morning, 0 'Malley. Now, this young woman, this Miss Delorme — by the way, there's no mistake about the name, is there?" "It's Vyvyan Delorme. Well t" "You say that she is going to marry you?" 1 1 Sure. That's old stuff. You got in here to tell me some important news; make good." "I'll do that little thing," smiled Belcher. "I have just come from Miss Delorme. She tells me that there has been a mistake of some kind." ' * Mistake? "repeated 0 'Malley. "Mistake?" "Rather an unfortunate one for her," continued Belcher. "She says that she never even thought of marrying you — says she wouldn't marry you if you were the last man in the world: says you ought to be sued for coupling her name with yours in any way — and is that news enough for you?" It was. The invincible 0 'Malley leaned for ward over the breakfast table, gasping as if from a heavy blow. "Hey? What's that?" "Well," explained Belcher, "she was hysterical and pretty much shot to pieces when I saw her, but it seems that she blames you for put ting the wrong construction on some simple thing she said to you last night. She insists there was never any talk of marriage. Is that 1 'Yes,'* said O'Malley slowly; "yes, that's true. There wasn't any talk about it, but — I thought she knew what I meant." "That's where you slipped up," said the re porter. "She called you some pretty hard names, but perhaps it's just as well not to pass 'em along." "Go ahead, pal. "It was the little manager speaking. "Go ahead. Give him the other barrel. It's comin' to him." "Well, then, she called you a cross-eyed little beast -" "That's a lie!" cried Joe. "A dirty He!" Belcher pointed to the telephone. "Call her up!" said he curtly. "After you've had a talk with her, you might want to ^apologize to me." Joe glared at the newspaper man, but found no comfort in that, so he turned to his manager. "Eing her up, kid," said he, "an* git it straight." 0 'Malley got it straight, and from the shoulder. Half a minute was enough for him. As the receiver slipped from his fingers he turned toward the newspaper man and tried to smile. "You had it right. I was wrong, an' — an' I'm sorry for what I said. Is that enough?" "Plenty," answered the reporter, "and if you don't mind my saying so, I'm sorry too. I had no idea it would hit you so hard." [198JI OUT OF HIS CLASS "Hard! "groaned 0 'Malley. * ' It's a knock out!" Belcher was soon on his way to catch an edition, and as the door closed behind him thd toughest little man in the lightweight division took the full count with his face among the breakfast dishes. Lew Arthur, on the couch, watched him shrewdly and chewed a dead cigar. ''You fell too hard, Joe," said he at last. "Too damn hard, an' that's why it hurts so much. Everybody gits it one time or another. There was a girl in Butte once — but never mind that. I know how you feel. You fell too hard." The broken gladiator looked up suddenly. "She told me just now she never cared a snap for me, one way or the other. Then why was she foolin' wit' me? She started it — I didn't. What did she do it for, Lew?" The little manager tossed away his cigar and leaped to his feet. 4 « That's it! What for? Now you're gittin ' some sense. You're beginnin' to use your bean, Joe. This dame — it was her put the notion of retirin' into your head, wasn't it?" 0 'Malley nodded. "She let you think that if you retired she'd marry you, hey? An' you, like a boob, fell for it?" 0 'Malley nodded again. "Then, as soon as you made good on the retirin' thing, this dame threw you down so hard that you bounced ten feet in the air — that's right, ain't it? Why, you poor stiff, don't you see it yet?" "No," said O'Malley, with a hopeless shake of his head. * ' No, not yet." "An' they say ivory is scarce!" The little manager leaned across the table and lowered his voice to an impressive whisper; his stern gaze caught and held O'Malley's vacant and mournful stare. "Listen, Joe! You didn't think I was goin' to let 'em slip one over on us, did you? I should say not! I been watchin' out for just such a play. Your little friend, Miss Delorme — I've got a line on her. I've had her looked up, an' who do you think she is, Joe?" 0 'Malley shook his head stupidly, and Arthur snorted with disgust. "You're a bright boy, you are! I guess I got to come right out an' tell you! This dame was planted wit' the troupe to git you out of the way. She was planted — why, a blind man could see it, Joe! She's Carsey's cousin, that's who she is — Carsey's cousin! Now do you be gin to git the angle?" And after a time, through the mists of wrath and humiliation, Joe 0 'Malley began to get the angle. Speeding the film for the last time, we arrive at the fifteenth round of the battle for the light-freight championship of the world. We see the L200] OUT OF HIS CLASS level rays of the setting sun as they strike across the open-air arena; we see the waiting thousands, tense in their seats, leaning forward in their eagerness to miss nothing; we can al most hear the click and rattle of the telegraph instruments at the ring side and the muttered comment of the experts. We see the two fighters struggling in a corner of the ring. Carsey's back is against the ropes. He is drooping and weary, intent only on protecting his ribs from further assault, and as he blocks and covers he watches for a chance to slip out into the open where there is room to run. 0 'Malley pens the champion in the angle of the ropes, battering him back and forth with savage lefts and rights. Carsey, the dancing master of the lightweight division, the old fox, the ring general, the champion of the world, has made one match too many. 0 'Malley shifts and drives a crushing left hander under the champion's guard, and Car sey's hands fall at his sides; a spasm of pain twists his features; he bends forward, helpless. The challenger leans towards him and grins through a smear of blood; his lips move; he is whispering something to Carsey. The next instant a dark-brown glove flashes upward from 0 'Malley's hip, and in exactly ten seconds by the timekeeper's watch there is a new light weight champion of the world. Carsey did not recover consciousness for twenty-five minutes. When his eyes opened he was in his dressing room. His chief second was passing a green bottle underneath his nostrils. Carsey pushed it away. "I'm all right now/' he said thickly. 1 1 Welcome to our city! "said the chief second, forcing a smile. ' * That was an awful uppercut he handed you. It would have knocked out a heavyweight. Tough luck, old boy, tough luck!" Carsey mumbled unintelligibly and twisted his head from side to side, groaning. "Oh, your neck ain't broke," babbled the chief second as he plied the sponge. "It only feels like it was. One thing I'd like to know, Jim. What was it he said to you just before he knocked you out?" Carsey frowned and his eyes closed. "He did say something, that's right. Let's see. I was in the corner, tryin' to get out. He nailed me with the shift. I knew I was done for then." "You kind of fell into him, wide open, and he said something to you," prompted the other. "Oh, yes! 'Here's one for your cousin.' That's what he said." 1 i Your cousin! What did he mean by that?" The former lightweight champion of the world shook his head wearily. "You can search me!" said he. "I never had a cousin in my life!"