Easy Picking

OLD BIRD" BENNETT was not a prophet, nor in any way related to one; nevertheless, he was considerably with out honor in his home town. Worse than that, he was out of a job, and there were those who talked of tarring and feathering him and riding him upon a rail. His was not a case of talent passing unrecognized. The small matter of a business arrange ment with another gentleman of the gloved legion leaked out and became common scandal, whereat the outraged public arose and howled like a wolf in the snow. The Old Bird was at once placed upon the black list until such time as the fight fans should forget that he had al lowed "T-bone" Eiley to stay ten rounds and take a bloodless decision over him. When a man bets two to one on his excellent judgment and loses because of prearrangement on the part of his favorite, he is apt to recall the circumstances for some time. "Just my luck! "whined Old Bird, with bitterness. ' * T-bone has to go and get his nose wet and pull a George Washington on me!" Old Bird had often feelingly referred to him self as the unluckiest fighter living, and the last turn of affairs had gone far to convince him of the truth of the statement. With just a tiny bit of luck, he might have been the lightweight champion of the world instead of the king of all pork-and-beaners and the toughest trial horse in the Queensberry stable. Old Bird was a pugilistic fixture. Some years before he had fluttered into town from nowhere, unannounced by any press agent, and carrying his credentials in his right hand. It so happened that Peter Mulcahey, fight promoter and friend of all deserving battlers who were inclined to be reasonable about money matters, was grooming Tommy Derrick, a promising pork-and-bean performer, for the main-event class. Mulcahey, a shrewd judge of a drawing card, believed that one more hollow victory would put Derrick in line for higher honors, but the local pork-and-bean boys, valuing their health, refused to appear in the role of a stepping-stone. At this juncture, Old Bird furled his dusty wings in Peter Mulcahey's outer office, and announced his willingness to "meet any one-hundred-and-thirty- three-pound boy in the world. "The odd thing about it was that he meant it. Peter Mulcahey was relieved. The gods of sport and good business demanded a sacrifice, and here was one, ready to hand, clamoring to be offered up for the nominal sum of twenty-five dollars. Old Bird was elected without a dissenting vote, and the club press agent referred to him hopefully as "a rising lightweight of the Middle West." Old Bird trained as much as two whole days, and, having been advanced a small sum'for liv ing expenses, entered the ring full of mince pie and stern determination. He had never heard of this man Derrick, never seen his picture in the Police Gazette, and consequently did not think much of his prowess. Tommy Derrick entertained similar sentiments regarding Old Bird, a condition of affairs ripe for surprises. The result of that battle was a severe disappointment to Peter Mulcahey, for his local star set with great suddenness, never to rise again. Mr. Nobody from Nowhere waded through Tommy Derrick with a succession of right swings mostly fetched from the hip, and Tommy went direct from the ringside to the hospital, where he remained until his ribs grew together again. Old Bird was immediately matched with another pork-and-beaner with lie result, bar ring the hospital bill. In six months Bennett established himself as the best third-rater in the West, and Peter Mulcahey graduated him into the main-event class, where men are paid in three figures instead of two. Old Bird whipped every second-rater whom he could hit with his right hand, and passed on into the first division, where he met what he called hard luck, and the wisest of the ringside critics called "class." He took a few draws be cause of his aggressiveness, scored one famous knock-out, and lost four decisions on points. The great difference between a first-class fight ing man and a second-rater lies in speed; the top-notchers were too fast for Old Bird. He could not hit them; he was a selling plater against stake horses. Peter Mulcahey stuck to him nobly, and at last secured for him a match with the Old Mas ter, the negro champion, last of that great galaxy of lightweight stars of the nineties. The Old Master no longer had the fire of youth, the vitality which had carried him through one hun dred battles, but he retained his marvelous cleverness, and Old Bird's chance for a world's championship disappeared in a blinding flurry of jabs, jolts, hooks, and uppercuts which left him dazed and battered at the end of twenty rounds. From beginning to end, Old Bird never ceased swinging his pulverizing right at that lean, brown jaw; not once had he been able to hit the mark. The Old Master made him miss by a fraction of an inch, and Bennett blamed his luck when he should have given the negro credit for remarkable judgment of distance. "Yo* pretty strong, white boy," the Old Master mumbled to him in the eighteenth round, "but thass all — yes, thass all. Some day yo'll hit somebody with that right swing an' knock him up in the gallery. * ' That night marked the top of the grade for Old Bird. After that his way led downhill. Before very long, he found himself established as the trial horse for all newcomers — the younger men with championship aspirations. If he whipped them, people said it was to be expected; he got little credit, and less money. If they whipped him, they passed on to better matches. Old Bird Bennett was the official stumblingblock in the lightweight path, and the fate of a stumblingblock is to be kicked by every traveler who passes that way. It was during the period of his decline that Old Bird made his business arrangement with T-bone Riley. T-bone was no embryo cham pion, and the match was made as a "filler." Old Bird should have whipped him in three rounds without a minute's preparation, and, this being the general opinion, Bennett ruled the favorite at two to one. His admirers were grateful for the sudden influx of T-bone money, and snapped it up hungrily. Then Old Bird went into the ring, and boxed like an inebriated fishwife. T-bone stabbed him for ten sickening rounds without a return. The referee saw his duty, and did it like a man, the gallery roared murder, and still all would have been well, had not T-bone celebrated his victory in a manner to muddle the intellect and loosen the tongue. He told all he knew. It was not much, but it was enough. Honest confession is said to be good for the soul, but some people who have given it a trial claim that it is bad for business. The reporters heard about it, of course, and the next day a great moral wave swept over the pugilistic com munity. Old Bird's picture was in all the pa- pers, together with the announcement that Peter Mulcahey had barred him as an undesirable citizen and a faker. Old Bird made it his business to hunt up his loquacious friend Eiley, and when he found him the ten-round decision was speedily reversed, but T-bone's broken jaw did not mend matters — it only made them worse. It was as if Bennett had pleaded guilty to the indictment. Having been accustomed to fight whenever he ran short of funds, Old Bird soon found himself in a nasty predicament. He might have gone to work, of course, but no man who has ever fought a champion of the world for twenty rounds is likely to do that sort of thing unless there is no other method of obtaining three meals a day. After a precarious few weeks, during which time Old Bird learned that the friends of a man's prosperous days seldom follow him into an eclipse, he became a sparring partner, work ing for board and lodging and fifteen dollars a week. He boxed with men whom he might have beaten in a punch, and the knowledge was gall and wormwood to him. While other boys fought, he squatted in the corner, nursing a towel and telling himself that he could lick "the both of 'em" in the same ring. Sometimes he told him self the truth, for Old Bird had never lost his annihilating right-hand swing, and when he hit a man squarely with it the floor came up and bumped him. Old Bird went regularly to call upon Peter Mulcahey, but that moon-faced philanthropist had but one answer for him: "Not yet; the paper boys won't stand for it." "Aw, they've stood for lots worse frames!" said Old Bird, one day. "You know they have!" "I know it, but they don't," said Peter. "There wasn't anybody to get drunk and tell 'em. You was advertised by your loving friends, and now you've got to lay dead until it blows over. See!" "But I can't wait always!" Bennett expostulated. "I'm gettin' to be a old guy, and what fighting I do has got to be done pretty quick." (He was almost twenty-seven, which is a green old age for a pork-and-beaner.) "Couple more years and I'm through." "You might go somewhere else and try your luck, "suggested Peter. "A swell chance!" said Old Bird sarcastically. "I ain't got no dough, I ain't got no manager, I ain't got nothing. If I just had a manager now — wit* money — aw, what you laughin ' at? Worse fighters 'n me has had man agers!" n Then, out of a clear sky, the manager with money put in an appearance. Joe Terry, a local sporting man, returned from a campaign through the Northwest, and lost no time in lo cating Old Bird. "I understand you're in bad around here," said Terry. "Worse than that," said Old Bird dejectedly. "Just because I boxed a feller easy and lost a decision on points, they took my cue out of the game. By the looks of things, I'll have to get me a sandbag and start sticking people up on the dark streets." "I know a better way than that," said Terry. "Perfectly legitimate, too. We can cop all the money in Oregon." "I never knew they had any money in Oregon," said Old Bird. "That's a farmer State, ain't it?" "That's why they've got money," said Terry. "Every one of those apple growers has got an automobile and a bank roll." "Well, go on; go on! Spring it! "urged Old Bird impatiently. "There's a little place up there called Parkerton," said Terry, "and every man in the town is a sport. They've got a kid named Arthur Cullen — a lightweight — and they think he can lick anybody in the world. He's cleaned all the farmer boys in that section, put out a few mill hands, and licked a few tramp fighters that they brought in for him. I saw him fight a fellow from Seattle last week, and those apple tossers were offering three and four to one on Cullen. I took a little of the short end on gen eral principles, but my man fought like a lobster. The point is this: Why can't you go up there under an assumed name and go to work in a livery stable or something" "Me? Work?" There was reproach in Old Bird's tone. "What do I know about horses?" "Well, of course it wouldn't have to be a stable job," said Terry soothingly. "Anything would do so long as it's work. You couldn't go up there as Bennett, the fighter, because the first thing they'd do would be to look up your rec ord, and then they wouldn't give odds. Maybe they wouldn't even let Cullen fight you. If you should drift in there like a bum out of a job and go to work, they wouldn't suspect anything, and you could get into a few rough-and-tumble fights, just to get the town people to talking about you. They'll do the rest because they are always on the lookout for somebody to fight Cullen. You show up bad in your training — box like a hayseed, and get knocked down a few times — and they'll bet their heads off at two and three to one. I'll come along and grab every dollar in sight, you biff this apple picker once on the chin, and we cut the money even. How does that sound to you?" "Fair enough," said Old Bird. "How much money will you bet!" Joe Terry unbuttoned his vest, and brought out a small, black wallet, from which he extract ed four one-thousand-dollar bills. He spread them out on the table and looked at Old Bird. * ' Where did you say this place was at? "asked the fighter. m The big-town sports are apt to sneer at their brethren in the villages, but nowhere does the sporting spirit burn with whiter, fiercer flame than in the small centers of population. The little-town sports buy the annual record books, and study them with great care. Their knowledge lacks the*personal element, but it is astonishingly complete from a statistical standpoint. They are familiar with the performances of the athletic idols of the past and present; they know the name of the horse which holds the quarter-mile record; they can tell offhand how many rounds Sullivan and Kilrain fought for the championship, and they can reel off a dizzying string of big-league batting averages. They are not given to betting blindly, but once convinced that they have a "good thing, "they produce the bank roll and bet until nothing but the woolen string remains. Parkerton was a very sporty little town, as the new waiter in Wade's Restaurant observed. He went about his duties with a supercilious air, but, though his nose was slightly tilted, his eyes and ears were alert, and he learned many things of an interesting nature. His proud spirit re belled against his menial task, but he comforted himself with the reflection that it would not last long. It was hard work to conceal his contempt for these "small-town jays," but he did the best he could, and cast about him for an opening. On the third day of Old Bird's martyrdom, a quiet, clear-eyed youth entered the restaurant, and ordered liver and bacon. The young man wore a small diamond upon his finger, and an other one in his tie, and, after he had gone, Old Bird found a silver quarter upon the table. "You know who that was?" asked the cook, "with the air of one about to impart startling information. "Nah," said Old Bird. "That was Art Cullen," said the cook, pausing to note the effect. "What of it?" asked Old Bird woodenly. "What did he ever do?" "You never heard of Art Cullen, the fighter?" demanded the cook, in amazement. "No; and nobody else ever did," said Old Bird. "Who did he ever lick?" "He's licked everybody he ever fought," said the cook. "Fred McGilligan, Johnny Nash, Young Nelson, Kid Dickey, and a whole raft of lightweights. Guess you've heard of Kid Dickey, ain't you? He's from Portland, and a tough boy. Cullen put him out in three rounds." "Why don't he go and lick some real fight ers?" said Old Bird. "I never had a glove on in my life, and I'll bet he can't lick me, even." "Huh! "sneered the cook. "You wouldn't be a mouthful for that boy! He'd just hit you once, and you wouldn't know nothing for an hour." "Wouldn't 1 1 "said Old Bird, with a grin. "I can scrap a little myself." "That's what they all say," remarked the cook. "They all think they can fight until this boy gets at 'em, and then they change their minds. He's a hum-dinger, I tell you!" "He's a farmer, that's what he is!" said Old Bird. "Well, they're goin' to get a good man to come up from San Francisco to try him out," persisted the cook. * ' Billy Gillis, or Mike Bald win, or some of them good boys." Old Bird, who had knocked out Gillis in one round and Baldwin in five, laughed scornfully. "You can laugh if you want to," said the cook; "but don't get the idea that this boy Cullen ain't a fighter. Jim Dabney — he runs the pool room, you know — says that Cullen can hit harder than any lightweight he ever saw, and he's seen lots of 'em. Jim used to live in Den ver. He ought to know." An indignant knife-handle tattoo summoned the new waiter to the front of the house and ended the conversation, which was just as well, for he had something to think about. If the lo cal sports were planning another match for Cullen, there was no time to lose. Old Bird had not been favorably impressed with Terry's suggestion that he should take part in a street fight for the sake of the advertising. He had all the seasoned fighter's distaste for giving away that which he might sell. Besides, he believed he knew a better way. The next day Cullen, accompanied by three friends, entered the restaurant. Old Bird set his chin at an aggressive angle, and sauntered over to the table, fumbling in his pocket as he went. "What have you got to-day?" asked Cullen of the new waiter. 1 ' This! "said Old Bird, and tossed a twenty- five-cent piece upon the table. "You was in here yesterday and left this by your plate. If you did it by accident, all right; but if you thought you could slip me a measly two-bits on the side, you've got another think coming. See? No apple picker like you can hand me anything!" Cullen looked up in some surprise, and his friends stirred uneasily in their chairs. "Why, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings,*' said Cullen quietly. "I thought" "What do I care what you. thought?" snarled Old Bird. "Just because you've licked a few tramps, you think you're a big feller around here, don't you? You.keep your two-bit pieces, and buy a new hat. You need it. You a fighter! I never had a glove on in my life, but I'll bet I can take you out in the street now and show you up!" Cullen's face grew red, more from embarrass ment than anger. "Pshaw! "said he. "I'm sorry you feel that way about it. I wouldn't have done it. if I had known — honest I wouldn't. You oughtn't to get sore about a little thing like that" "What I said goes!" interrupted Old Bird. "I can lick you, bare knuckle, with the gloves, rough-and-tumble — any old way. I'd just like to show you where you get off!" Cullen looked at his friends, and smiled sheepishly. "I don't fight for fun," he said, at length. * ' I quit that a long time ago." "Backing up, are you?" sneered Old Bird. "I thought so. You don't look like a game guy to me!" "Hold on!" said one of Cullen's friends. "There's a way to settle this. If you think you can fight, Art here will give you a match and you can have it out in the ring and get some money for it. Is that all right, Art?" * ' Sure, "said Cullen. * ' Any time." "You're on!" said Old Bird quickly. "Gimme two weeks to train in, and I'll knock the swell head off this guy. I got to have that long to get used to fighting with gloves on." "That's all right," said Cullen. "Take as long as you want." That night there was but one topic of conversation in Parkerton. The tough waiter at Bob Wade's place had been looking for trouble, and was about to find it. The situation made a strong appeal to Parkerton's sense of humor. "It was rich!" said Clay Eaton, one of the restaurant party. "This tough guy comes up and bawls Art out about a tip. Wanted to go in the middle of the street with him. Then Frank Pierson suggested making a match of it, and the waiter says he '11 have to have two weeks to get used to fighting with gloves on his hands! Can you beat that? Art's pretty mad at this bird, and he's liable to go at him strong. He's never walloped a fellow as hard as he could yet, and what he '11 do to this hasher will be plenty! I wouldn't miss it for an acre of apple trees!" The humor of the situation broadened and deepened when "George Williams" — the new waiter's name — went into active training. His "road work" consisted of a leisurely two-mile stroll, and in the afternoons, clad in a bathing suit and rubber-soled tennis shoes, he plunged about the back room of the town gymnasium, stabbing the air with awkward lefts and swing ing his right ponderously. "Say, what d'you call that stuff?" asked the local sports. ' * Shadow boxing! "panted George Williams. "It makes you clever and fast on your feet." To prove it, he gave an exhibition which would have disgraced a bogged hippopotamus, and the sports* laughed and winked behind their hands. Williams announced that he would be pleased to box with volunteers, and Dan Lacey, a book keeper, put on the gloves with him, and almost knocked him out in the second round. "You hit too hard!" puffed Williams, feel ing his jaw. "A sparring partner ain't sup posed to try and kill a man!" "You ought to have told me sooner," grinned Lacey. * ^ome on; I won't hit you hard again." "I got enough for to-day," said Williams; and that night it was all over town that Dan Lacey Jiad made the tough waiter quit with a tap on the jaw that would not have broken a window-pane. The next day a well-dressed stranger arrived from the south, and announced that he was in the market for unimproved real estate. Abe Augustine, who dealt in lands, showed the visitor several promising bits of property, and al- most sold him ten acres in an adjoining valley. Almost, but not quite. "What do you do here to amuse yourselves1?" asked the stranger, who said his name was Penfield. "Going to have a prize fight next Thursday night at the opera house," said Augustine. "You ought to stay and see it. It won't be much of a fight because it'll be too one-sided. We got a kid here that can knock the socks off any lightweight in the Northwest." "You don't say so! "ejaculated Penfield. * ' I'd like to see him work." "I'll take you over to his place this after noon, "said Abe obligingly. "He sure can step some." Penfield watched Cullen go through his stunts with an experienced eye, reserving his opinion until the finish. "Well," said Abe, "what do you think of him? Ain't he pretty nifty with his hands?" "Too slow to suit me, "said Penfield. "He's wide open all the time, and he has to set himself for every punch. I don't like him." "I'd like to bet you that he wins," said Abe, with an eye to business. "I may take some of that after I've seen the other man," replied Penfield. "Almost any body ought to lick this Cullen." "Bet you two to one he wins!" said Abe suddenly. "Show me the other boy first," said Penfield cautiously. "I guess he's over at the gymnasium," sug gested Abe. "What say we go there now?" "I don't mind," said Penfield. Williams, despite his awkwardness and his other failings, seemed to make quite an impression on the stranger. "Now, that's my notion of a fighter!" said Penfield heartily. "He hasn't had the experience, of course, and he isn't very clever, but he's determined, and I like the way he swings that right hand. He'll stop Cullen if he hits him." "Bet you two to one!" said Abe. "How much?" asked Penfield, reaching for his pocketbook. That night the news sped about town that there was some easy money at the Parkerton House, and there was an immediate scramble to reach it first. Penfield did not seem particularly anxious, but it was possible to talk him into backing the short-ender, and that was all Parkerton wanted to know. It was not, Penfield explained, that he regarded Williams as a good fighter, but that, in his opinion, Cullen was a very bad one. Lo cal pride was injured by this argument, and avenged itself by piling up the dollars on Par kerton's pride. Penfield covered it slowly and at times with some show of reluctance. "You fellows may know more about a fighter than I do, "he would remark, * ' but I think I'm a fair judge, and I can't see this Cullen at all. He didn't show me anything." "Better watch him Thursday night," sug- gested the local sports. "He may show you something then." "I'll do that," said Penfield. "And don't you overlook this boy Williams. He may be green, but his heart is in the right place. He looks like a fighter to me." On Wednesday night Joe Terry issued his orders. "We've got a barrel of money up," said he, "and I want this Cullen knocked out. On a decision, we'd be sure to get the worst of it. And when you. crack him, let it be on the jaw. Give 'em no chance to call a foul." ' * What's he look like? "growled Old Bird. * ' I never saw the sucker except in his street clothes." "He ain't a bad boy at all," said Terry. "Boxes well, but he's awfully slow. You can time him with that right hand of yours and knock him into the middle of next week." "Think anybody's onto us?" asked Old Bird anxiously. ' * Not a soul! "chuckled Terry. * ' They think they're putting one over on me, and every time they look my way they have to laugh. Oh, you can trust these small-town boobs to trim you for the last cent you've got! Why, one of 'em was in this afternoon, wanting to bet two hundred against my watch and pin! They think I'm so foolish that I oughtn't to be trusted with money. That hash-house quarrel of yours was a clever stunt. They're all looking for a grudge fight." "Another thing," grunted Old Bird, "we bet- [3061 EASY PICKING ter be ready to vamp on that midnight train. You never know how these small-town guys will take a trimming. As soon as I cut loose they'll tumble that something has been slipped over on 'em, and they may turn nasty." "I bought the tickets the day I got to town, "said Joe. rv Every sport in Parkerton stood up and yelled when Cullen walked out on the stage and entered the ring. Percy Hoskyns, the leader of the town orchestra, waved his fiddle bow and struck up "Hail to the Chief." When Old Bird appeared, he was greeted with a generous cheer and a great deal of laughter. He had discarded the bathing suit and the tennis shoes, and was correctly garbed in ring attire. He looked out over the flaring gas jets which served as footlights, and grinned. "Do your laughin' early, you rubes!" he muttered. "You won't feel so fresh in a little while." Joe Terry strolled upon the stage and inspected Cullen's bandages and gloves. He explained that as he was backing the other man he could not afford to take chances. A Portland saloon keeper had been imported to act as referee, and Jim Dabney, master of ceremonies, introduced him in a ten-minute speech which dragged in the climate, the bumper apple crop, the increase in real-estate values, and the glorious future of Parkerton. The true Western booster never overlooks an opportunity for advertising. "Duke me, kid!" said Old Bird to Cullen, when the two men appeared for instructions. Cullen was plainly surprised, but he smiled frankly and extended his glove. "No hard feelings," said he. "May the best man win!" "That's the dope!" said Old Bird. When the bell rang, Old Bird danced out of his corner with the alacrity of a man going to work at a favorite trade. He feinted three times with his left, skipping in and out, and then lunged forward behind a straight jab aimed at Cullen's nose. The apple picker jerked his head aside without moving his feet. Old Bird's left lead whistled between shoulder and ear, and he floundered, wide open and helpless, into a terrific smash over the heart. Old Bird clinched, grunting with pain and astonishment. The men who can "slip a punch with the head "are scarce; a one-armed man might almost tick them off on his fingers. Still, it might have been an accident. Old Bird decided that it could not have been design; no apple picker ever learned Kid McCoy's tricks! Again Old Bird circled cautiously and lashed out with a straight left; again Cullen whipped his face out of the way, and this time the trip hammer right buried itself to the wrist in the soft roll of flesh just below the rib line. It was a savage blow, and for an instant Old Bird was very sick. He tried to hang on for a few seconds, but Cullen drove him into the open with half a dozen rasping rights and lefts which sounded like the drum solo in a Sousa march. Old Bird hopped ten feet away, and prepared to box at extreme long range. He wanted time to think, time to readjust his opinion of this rube fighter. He had expected to surprise Cullen; Cullen had surprised him. More than that, Cullen had hit him as hard as he had ever been hit in his life, and Old Bird remembered, with regret, that he had done very little real train ing for this rural picnic. He was in no condition for a long, hard battle. Infighting seemed to be the rube's specialty; Old Bird decided to continue the engagement at full-arm range. He had no stomach — or, rather, too much stomach — for any more of those short smashes below the rib line. A man in first-class condition could not hope to survive many of them; a man un trained and soft about the midriff would find them plain murder in the first degree. Old Bird made up his mind to pin his hope^oh the big trump which had taken so many pugilistic tricks — the one-way ticket to dreamland. He would feint the farmer open to a tremendous right swing, and knock him through the ropes and into the orchestra pit. Old Bird began to spar carefully, endeavoring to draw Cullen into position. The apple picker's eyes twinkled; he noted that Bennett was carry ing his right hand low and well back toward the hip. * ' What you got there! "asked Cullen. ' * Why don't you shoot your sixteen-inch gun once and let's see if it's any good!" "Come on and fight!" growled Old Bird. "Anything to be obliging!" said Cullen, and came in like a sunbeam. Before Old Bird could get his deadly right into action something extremely solid bumped him under the chin, and he felt the soles of his feet leave the floor. The next point of contact was the back of Old Bird's head. He was not knocked out, but for an instant it seemed that the milky way had moved into the Parkerton Op era House. It was the third time in his life that Old Bird had been knocked flat with a single blow and the first time that it had been done with a punch which he did not know was coming. The bell ended the round at the count of eight, and Old Bird rocked back to his corner. "What did he do that with?" mumbled the veteran, as he nosed the green bottle. "A little short left hook," said Terry. "It didn't travel more than ten inches. For the love of Mike, watch out for this guy. He ain't as soft as he looks." "Tell me something I don't know," muttered Old Bird. "I never even saw him start that last one. It was a beaut!" "He's got a bad body punch there, "cautioned Terry. "You ought to stop those." "You didn't see any of 'em get by me, did you?" retorted Old Bird. "Help me out of the chair now; I'm going to stall that I'm hurt, and cop him with my right." The bell rang, and Terry fairly lifted Old Bird to his feet and pushed him into the ring. He did not seem to want to go, and the apple growers shouted with laughter at the spectacle which Old Bird presented as he wabbled toward the center of the ring. His hands were open and swaying at his sides, his head rocked drunk-enly on his shoulders, and his shoes dragged along the floor. It was a trick which he had learned from the Old Master, who in turn had learned it from Bob Fitzsiinmons. Cullen, wait ing for him in the middle of the ring, dropped his guard and looked appealingly at the referee. As he did so, the Old Bird led his big trump and led it from his hip. Out of the corner of his eye Cullen saw it coming and ducked his head. A matter of two inches saved him from annihilation. The big trump would have taken the trick had it not been for the sudden downward movement of Cullen's head; as it was Old Bird's glove caught him squarely on the cheek and sent him head over heels into a corner of the ring. The Parkerton sports came up with a howl of rage. "Foul! Foul!" "What kind of fighting do you call that?" "He hit him when his hands was down!" "Dirty work! Eotten! S-s-s-s! Bo-o-o-h!" The Portland saloon keeper knew his business. He began counting at once, walking to ward Cullen as he did so. At three that young man was sprawling on his back; at four he be- gan to collect his arms and legs; at seven he was waiting, both gloves and one knee on the floor. The referee marked the seconds with his right arm, while with the left he repulsed the impetuous charges of Old Bird, who was dancing about like an angry fox terrier, ready to dash in with the finishing blow the instant Cullen should come to his feet At eight the local warrior turned his head toward his corner and his left eyelid flickered perceptibly. Had Old Bird seen this, perhaps he would not have rushed in so recklessly as his opponent straight ened from the floor; perhaps he might have re-remembered that there is no copyright on a "stall." Old Bird charged with his right hand drawn back like a scythe, head forward and chin jutting well out over his chest; Cullen came from the floor with one bound, and a left hook came with him all the way. It stopped under Old Bird's chin, a skyrocket exploded in his brain,.once more the stars passed in swift review, and then came thick, black darkness, impenetrable and enduring. Light and reason returned simultaneously. Old Bird found himself reclining on a sofa in the star dressing room and a mild-faced old gentleman was putting some bottles back into a black satchel. "Feel better now, son?" asked the doctor kindly. "I feel worse!" mumbled the veteran. "What's the matter with my mouth?" "You've got four broken teeth," said the doc tor; "but it might have been your neck, so you can't complain." "But I had him licked!" protested Old Bird. "He was down, wasn't he? And I went in to clean him, and" "And he hit you with one that he fetched from China!" snapped Joe Terry. "You're a wise guy, you are! He wasn't hurt at all; you copped him away up on the cheek bone, and he worked the stall right back. Only he got away with his, and you didn't. If this guy is a sucker, I don't know where you get your wise ones!" There was a commotion at the door, and the victor entered, followed by Jim Dabney, the Portland referee, and as many of the local sports as could find standing room. They seemed very cheerful. "How are you, Bennett?" asked Cullen, offer ing his hand. Old Bird stared at the farmer fighter with open mouth, and Joe Terry drew in his breath with a whistling sound. "Huh?" gurgled the defeated warrior. "What's that?" "Oh, we smoked you out," grinned Dabney. "I had my suspicions you was a fighter the minute you hit town. When you started train ing I wasn't so sure, but when your friend here began to bet, I thought there was a nigger in the woodpile somewhere. This afternoon a few of us boys began comparin' notes and countin' up bets, and then we knew that there was some- thing doing. I got the files of the Police Gazette for five years up in my place, and we pawed through 'em until we found out what we was up against. Turned out all right, though, and I guess the odds were about right, eh, boys? What do you think of our little rube fighter? Pretty good, ain't he?" 11 If he'll sign a contract with me," said Terry, "I'll make him the next lightweight champion; that's how good I think he is." "You're a little bit late, friend," said Jim Dabney. "We may be hayseeds up here in Parkerton, but we know a fighter when we see him. I've got this boy tied up for ten years, and as soon as the apple crop is in I'm going to take him down to San Francisco and get a chance to bet some money on the short end for a change." "Apples!" sniffed Terry scornfully. "I wouldn't monkey with all the apples in the world if I had a fighter like that on my staff!" Old Bird said no more until he was hoisting himself into an upper berth on the southbound train. * ' Hey, Joe! "he whispered. Terry grunted in reply. "A feller told me once," said Old Bird, "that all the wise guys in the cities came in from the small towns. He sure said an armful then, didn't he?"