For the Pictures

JOHN — < ' GRIZZLY"— GAVIN, middle weight champion of all the world, and the most distinguished knocker-out of his generation, squirmed on a chair in the star dressing room of the Imperial Vaudeville Theater and tried to do two things at once, but with indifferent success, for Nature had designed him on simple and elemental lines. The champion was attempting to give an interview to a representative of the press — giving it as a cow gives milk, by having it wheedled out of her in driblets — and at the same time he was endeavoring to make safe and cautious double-entry into a pair of purple silk tights — quite an undertaking for a man unacquainted with high-browed reporters and unused to fleshings of any sort. Gavin did not wish to offend the interviewer, who was young enough to denounce himself as a "special writer" and seemed sensitive about it; neither did he wish to split the tights, which were new and dangerously thin, and the mighty intellect which had dragged John Gavin from a machine shop to the very pinnacle of fame was vibrating rapidly between two points of distraction. Those who have never been bombarded with personal questions while struggling with a new pair of purple silk tights can never appreciate the delicacy of the situation. "Er — Mr. Gavin,'* said the journalist hope fully, "would you mind telling the readers of the Morning Messenger what you think of the theatrical business f I mean how does the stage appeal to you from the standpoint of a pugilist?" "Rotten!" growled the champion as he care fully eased a bulging calf into its silken sheath. "Rotten!" The interviewer brightened perceptibly. Here, he told himself, was something worth while. "You mean, then, "said he eagerly, * ' that the moral influence of the theater is — is" "Moral influence, hell!" grunted Gavin. "I don't know nothing about moral influence. I ain't no preacher, and I ain't no knocker either." "But," said the perplexed youth, "you just said the stage was rotten." "Any business," remarked the champion, "is rotten when you want to be doing something else. I'm a fighter, I am; and I'd rather step four rounds with Cock-eyed Mahoney than make a fool of myself in front of an audience. But my manager signed a contract and it's up to me to deliver. Me, I think the show business is rotten." "I see. Your criticism is based on purely personal grounds." "Yen. I guess so. Write it up any way yon like. You'll do it anyhow." The young man looked rather bewildered, but caught his breath and tried a new tack.. "Mr. Gavin," said he, "would you mind tell ing me why they call you 'Grizzly'? Is it be cause you fight like a bear?" * ' If I fought like a bear, "said the champion, "I would have been licked long ago. All a grizzly can do is to get you into a clinch and hug you to death. That ain't fighting." The champion rose and surveyed his purple legs, examining their reflection in the mirror and nearly twisting his head off in order to se cure a rear view. "Then why do they call you ' Grizzly'?" "Because I'm so hairy. They hung that name on me out West, and it'll stick, I guess. That's why I have to wear these fool things. And my chest — say, if I had 'Welcome' worked on it I could lay down on my back and pass for a door mat." Again the champion studied his reflection in the glass, running the tips of his fingers over his silken thighs. "They feel kind of smooth and nice, at that," said he, half apologetically, but with a trace of pride. "Cotton is good enough for anybody; but silk — well, silk is class. You got to admit it — silk is class.... Anything else you want to ask me?" "Why, yes. Some of the boys in the office want to know how long it will take you to whip Mr. Summers. This isn't for publication, you understand. I — I think they might make some bets." Grizzly Gavin grinned from ear to ear. "Yeh. They might — if they knew. Listen: If I knew the answer to that question I'd win myself wealthy, snow-balling the right round in the mutuals. It's sure to be a big betting fight, and I'd get rich." ' * You're confident of beating him, of course?" Gavin stopped grinning and his brows wrinkled into an ugly scowl. 1 'Confident? Say, as sure as you're setting there, I'll tear his block off! I'll fix that jaw of his so he can't wag it at no more newspaper men in a hurry! I'll knock him kicking like a shot rabbit — you can bet your last nickel on it!" "They say that Mr. Summers is very scientific." "Yeh," said Gavin with great scorn. "All them fighters that can't stand a good wallop, they have to be clever. They run, and they duck, and they sidestep, and they poke at you with a straight left that wouldn't dent a derby hat, but when it comes to real fighting — huh, they ain't there!" "I gather, then, that you haven't a very high opinion of Mr. Summers." "Don't gather the pot till all the chips is in. Swif ty Summers is no soft proposition, and no push-over. He's licked some tough men. He's fast on his feet, he's clever, and he's tricky as the devil. And when he gets an opening for that right hand there ain't no cream puff in the glove when it comes across. There's a kick in it — a good kick. He's no cinch, but I'll tear into him so hard that he'll never get a chance to set himself and land with his right. I'll run him ragged, and if I can stop him in the first round I'll do it. There's one thing you can pay about me if you want to — I never yet let a man stay a minute longer than I could help. I don't believe in stalling to give the crowd a run for its money. I'm out to win, and win quick. That's why they come to see me fight. I'll be right on top of Summers the minute that bell rings." "May I quote you as saying that!" "Sure, quote me! Why not? Everybody knows that's my style of fighting. I go to 'em and trade slams till they drop. That's how I got my title, and by the way, the championship belt is in the trunk there. It cost a thousand bucks — all solid gold where it ain't silk ribbon, and that diamond ain't no phony stone, either. Want to see it?" "I'd be delighted," murmured the reporter. "I never saw a championship belt before. I — I am not attached to the sporting department. I write special articles" "Yeh, "said Gavin dryly as he bent over the trunk. "I kind of thought you wasn't no sport ing editor when you first come in.... Now, this belt was presented to me by — oh, well, read for yourself what it says. Pretty good from the guys in a man's home town, eh?" The American prize ring has produced hundreds of sports, four or five genuine sportsmen and a genius or two. Swifty Summers, christened Alexander Kittredge Duncan, was neither a sport nor a sportsman, but he came very close to the last classification. The proof is in the fact that though he flourished more than a few years ago his record remains green — if not fragrant — in the memories of those who have followed the ring and ringsters for a decade or so. Summers was the first real captain of the padded-mitt industry; the first pugilist to recognize the dollar-and-cent possibilities of the profession of fisticuffs. We have had many "price fighters" since his day, but not one of them could have taught Summers anything new in the use of the double or triple cross, or the knack of taking an unfair advantage of an op ponent while making it seem perfectly fair to a referee, or the crowning art of scooping in the loosely held dollar of commerce. From time to time a great many men thought they were "managing" Summers' business affairs, but when the loot was divided they discovered that they had been in error. There was never a "manager's cut." Starting with a fair education, Summers read books and newspapers and made a careful study of men. He could talk easily and entertainingly on any topic of general interest, and with such choice of vernacular as to be understood by a bank president or a safeblower. He looked like a gentleman, there were times when he acted like one, and he dressed with the quiet but ele gant taste of a pork packer's grandson. Lady interviewers listened to his soft, well-modulated voice and went away to rave inkily about his intelligent brown eyes, his perfect poise and the charm of his personality. Unquestionably Swifty Summers was a very smooth article. When on dress parade he might have borrowed a graduating class from the president of a female seminary; but stripped down to his warped and twisted soul he was as unscrupulous as a scorpion, and fully as dangerous. There was not a trick in his trade which he did not know and use, and sometimes he in vented new ones, as was the case in his first important ring battle. Said Cock-eyed Mahoney, the Fighting Steve dore, to his chief second: "He's a nice-spoken lad, this Summers, an' I kind o' hate to muss'm up. When we was in that first clinch he whispers to me how his father is in the gallery, and asks me not to show'm up too bad before the old man. I think I'll box easy for a few rounds, then go git'm." ' * Nix! "advised the chief second. "You ain't no boxer, and he is. Tear into him!'* "No-o," said Mahoney; "he ast me like a gentleman, and I'll let'm stay a while — on account of his old man. I'll go easy at first." While Mahoney was going easy he bumpea into a right hook coming hard. When he recovered consciousness he was a sadder, madder man, but not nearly so mad as he was later when he ascertained that Summers was an orphan. Now Grizzly Gavin and Mahoney were friends in spite of three hard battles, and Gavin knew the story about Swifty's old man. He had heard other stories as well, and was resolved not to listen to any proposition from Summers, in the ring or out of it; but it often happens that the man who will not listen to conversation will lend both ears to the soothing rustle of greenbacks. Four days before the battle for the middleweight championship of the world Joe Wells entered Gavin's training quarters with a message from the enemy. Wells was Gavin's manager, caring no more for money than a Circassian beauty does for her hair. "Summers wants to see us to-night/' said Wells. "Leave him tell his troubles to a policeman!" growled Gavin, who was irritable. Most men are irritable after a long siege of training. "He's got some proposition about making a barrel of dough," continued Wells. "He wouldn't tell me what it is, but he says it's a cinch. He wants to talk it over with you and see what you think about it." "Huh! Figuring on some kind of a frame, eh?" "He says not. Says the fight has got to be on the level, and here's the angle I don't get. Here's his message: ' You tell that big stiff of a Gavin that he can clean up fifty thousand dol lars on the side — fifty thousand without betting a cent or posting a nickel — and he'll get it no matter which one of us wins.'" "'No matter which one of us wins!' "repeated Gavin. "I don't get the angle either. Fifty thousand dollars — and no betting to be done. I don't get it." "He says ill won't take five minutes to ex plain the whole business, and then you can take it or leave it. It wouldn't do any harm to listen, John." "Yeh, but suppose we're seen talking to gether. Right away the papers would yell that we were framing the fight. You know, and I know, that we wouldn't frame nothing; but Summers would frame his own brother. It would look bad." "He thought of that. He said that at ten o 'clock sharp he'd drive by here in a closed hack and pick us up down at the railroad crossing." "And the hack driver would spill it, sure!" "Now listen, John. You ought to know that a hack driver never spills nothing. He's wise. It's part of his trade to keep his mouth shut." "I don't care," said the champion. "I can't take chances on any newspaper talk." "No," said Wells, "I guess you're right, John.... Fifty thousand bucks, whether you win or whether you lose.... It sounds like new stuff." ''Look here," said Gavin suddenly, ''if you're so crazy to know about it why not meet the hack and tell Summers to get out. The hack can drive on, and me and you and him will have a chat — down the railroad track where it's quiet." "Keno! "exclaimed the manager. "Might as well find out what he's got, eh f" "Yeh," grunted Gavin. "And if he makes any funny cracks at me I'll just poke him one for luck. You tell him so." At five minutes after ten the champion eased himself out of the back door of his training quarters, traversed an alley, skulked round two corners and arrived at the railroad crossing. The night was quite dark, but Gavin had no trouble in recognizing Summers, who stepped from underneath a tree to greet him. The chal lenger was far too clever to annoy Gavin with a sartorial display; he wore a thick sweater, dark trousers, rubber-soled shoes and a cap. His conversation was also suited to the occasion. "How're you, champ? You look pretty fit." "Never you worry about me," snapped Gavin. "I'm fit enough to knock your head off." Summers laughed. "When you worked in the machine shop," said he, "you quit when the whistle blew. You didn't carry your tools with you all the time. Let's not quarrel till we get paid for it."; Gavin grunted and led the way down the railroad track, followed by Summers and Joe Wells. When he had gone two hundred yards he faced about suddenly. 1 ' Now talk, "said he, "and talk quick. What have you got f" "The softest thing in the world," replied Summers. "I've got a line on a man who can take moving pictures of this fight." "Moving pictures?" asked Gavin stupidly. While it may seem incredible to the youngsters, accustomed to a motion-picture theater on every downtown block, there was a time, and not so very long ago, when the amazing future oi a giant industry was safely locked inside a few strange-looking cameras; and even the men who carried them had but a faint conception of their commercial and artistic possibilities. Most of those men are now millionaires many times over. 1 1 Moving pictures 1 "repeated Gavin again. "That's it. You remember they took moving pictures of the Carson fight?" 1 ' Yeh, "said Gavin, * ' I heard about it." "Well," said Summers, "they've learned a lot since then. This fellow — his name's Isaacs, and his cousin controls a string of theaters all over the country — tells me he's prepared to handle the picture end without our putting up a nickel. He says if the fight is a good one he can guarantee that our bit won't be less than a hundred thousand, cold. That's on a percent age basis, of course. The fight club might have to be cut in on a piece of the dough, but the big chunk splits three ways — just you and me and Isaacs. How does that sound to you?" "Seasonable," chirped Joe Wells. "They made a barrel of dough out of the Carson pictures — I know that." "And these pictures will beat the Carson pictures all hollow," said Summers. "They've made improvements in the camera." "Yeh," said Gavin shrewdly, "it listens fine; but what does this here Isaacs mean when he says * if it's a good fight '!" "Why," smiled Summers, "a good fight from a picture standpoint. Lots of action" "There'll be action enough," growled Gavin. "There's always action when I fight." Summers proceeded, calmly ignoring the interruption: "Action, and it'll have to last long enough so the film '11. be worth charging a dollar to see. Now, for instance, if one of us should be dropped cold in the first round the pictures* wouldn't draw — the show would be too short, understand!" "'You bet I understand," sneered the cham pion. "Come on, Joe. We might have known this crook would spring something like that. I won't frame for nobody, dough or no dough!" "Just a minute! "pleaded Summers. "That 'dough or no dough' stuff sounds great, but it's foolishness. You ain't such a money getter that you can afford to pass up fifty thousand bucks. Mike McCue had the title for three years be fore you licked him. Where's Mike now? Working in a lumber yard in Sacramento! Mike was a spender when he had it; you're blowing yours now. Don't be a fool, Gavin! Have you got fifty thousand salted down anywhere? Have you got twenty-five? Have you got enough to live soft the rest of your life? You bet you haven't — and neither have I! Here's fifty thou sand for you and fifty thousand for me; and the beauty of it is we don't have to do anything wrong to get it. We can box a nice exhibition for a few rounds and then cut loose in earnest, and they'll think we've only been feeling each other out. Fifty thousand bucks, as sure as death and taxes!... Do you want to go back to the machine shop when you're through fight ing?" "No-o," said Gavin, who had been thinking of Mike McCue sweating in the lumber yard at three dollars a day. "No-o, but if I fall for this what '11 keep you from trying to slip one over on me?" Summers turned to Wells with a gesture of disgust. ' * No wonder he needs a smart business mana ger! "complained the challenger. '; What will I get if I win this fight? Five or six thousand dollars at the outside; and for that I'd toss away a fortune! "He whirled and confronted the champion. "Ain't we both interested in the pictures? Use your head, Gavin, use your head!" "Yeh," retorted Gavin, "it's my head that tells me your word ain't good for a nickel!" "So that's it? "cried Summers angrily. "My word ain't good, eh? Well, I'll make it good with the fairest proposition you ever listened to!" He fumbled in a hip pocket, brought out a leather bill fold and opened it. ''You don't trust me, Gavin, but I'm going to trust you. Here's a thousand-dollar note — oh, strike a match and look at it! It ain't Confederate money! A thousand-dollar note — and it's yours if I try to slip anything over on you. Put it in your pocket, and if I don't live up to any agreement we might make you can keep it. And you're to be the judge. I'll leave it to you when the fight is over. Is that fair or not?" John Gavin stood with head lowered, twisting;the bit of paper in his fingers. The silence lengthened until it became almost painful. He was the middleweight champion of the world, but never before had he held a thousand-dollar note in his hands. "Where is this Isaacs?" he asked at last with out looking up. "I — I guess Joe ought to have a talk with him." "He'll be at the Occidental Hotel to-morrow morning," said Summers. "All he wants is a promise that the fight '11 last at least four rounds. It's a straight business proposition with him. He can't go to a lot of expense to take some pictures that won't draw." Gavin tucked the note in his fob pocket. "It's a go," said he slowly, "and I'll hold this piece of dough as a forfeit. We '11 box four rounds for the pictures, but — watch out for yourself in the fifth!" 1 ' The same to you! "grinned Summers. "It's a real old knock-down-and-drag-out after the fourth round — and may the best man win!" He held out his hand and Gavin took it. "That'll be me," said the champion. "Yeh, I'll shake on it I" m A battle for a world's championship is hedged about with a tremendous amount of pomp and circumstance. The dignified preliminaries have changed very little in twenty years. The great and the near-great must be introduced to the impatient multitude, and so must every tin-eared, dent-nosed, light-weighted gladiator wishing to "challench d' winner." A cat may look at a king, and on the day of a championship event the lowly pork-and-beaner may grasp the hand which grasps a title. The gloves must be examined by the referee, by the principals, by the chief seconds and train ers, by the towel-swingers and bottle-holders and all others considering themselves interested. Photographs must be taken showing champion and challenger crouched and scowling at each other, the referee posed in the exact center, try ing hard to look like the great man he feels himself to be. These things, and many others, always happen when a championship is in the balance. John Gavin sat in his corner, grim and silent, wearing his professional face. Preliminaries always annoyed the champion. While he waited for the clearing of the ring his eyes wandered to the pine platform where the motion-picture camera was located. It was the first one he had' ever seen, and Gavin studied it curiously. Out of that insignificant box was to come the money which should erase the machine shop from his future calculations — "fifty thousand sure, may be seventy-five," Isaacs had told Joe Wells. Gavin found himself pitying Mike McCue, whose championship had vanished and left no lucrative film record behind; and with a vague feel ing of uneasiness he remembered that many of his friends were betting on him to win inside of four rounds. He knew that by abandoning his usual thunderbolt style of attack he was betraying a public confidence, but, as Joe Wells had pointed out, the gamblers wouldn't give him a cent of their winnings, and a man had a right to feather his nest deep and soft while feathers were flying. In the opposite corner sat the challenger, noticeably pale and evidently nervous, but nod ding and smiling in response to the shrill greetings of friends and backers. It is only the thick-skulled, unimaginative, old-style type of bruiser, fighting always with his hands and never with his head, who endures the final agony of wait ing without feeling the strain. Tiny beads of sweat dampened Summers' forehead; his hands were in constant motion; his feet shuffled over the canvas. Not once did he glance in the di rection of the motion-picture camera. ' * Look at him! "said Wells to Gavin. ' * Scared stiff, and spitting cotton!" "Don't fool yourself!" granted the cham pion. "I seen him in three fights, and he al ways looks like he's licked before he starts. He's cool enough when he gets going." The great moment arrived at last. The men, strippedfto trunks and shoes, stood in their corners while the announcer bawled his way through the time-honored formula. Gavin, hairy and broad-shouldered as a gorilla, the true type of fighting man, bulked large when compared with his slender, flat-muscled opponent. High on the pine platform a sleek, oily, full-jeweled person began turning a crank, and a second later the gong cut through the tense silence. Gavin shuffled rapidly to the center, head down and right hand poised as if to annihilate his opponent with one mighty swing. Summers met him and immediately began dancing in and out, feinting with light lefts. Gavin rushed, there was a flurry of smothered blows and they clinched. Summers' lips did not move, but his head was on Gavin's shoulder and the champion caught the message, low and reassuring. "Make it look good, champ! Four rounds — for the pictures. You rush me and I'll block." Gavin backed out of the clinch and rushed, his guard held low. As he plunged in, ready to swing, Summers took one lightning step for ward and to the left, and as he did so he whipped his right fist across, backed up by one hundred and fifty pounds of bone, muscle and sinew. Gavin saw the blow coming, and in that astounded fraction of an instant he realized that he had been tricked into leaving his jaw wide open to the same vicious swinging hook that had finished poor, generous Mahoney. He saw it coming, and that was all. Before he could duck his head or raise his shoulder Summers' famous knockout punch crashed home on the point of his chin, and Gavin dropped like a log, face down on the canvas. There followed an interval of blackness and oblivion, and then the prostrate gladiator be came aware of a terrific volume of sound beat ing in on him from four sides of the ring — the wild hysterical yelling of men who see a championship changing hands. A new note struck in, clear and sharp, very close to Gavin's ear: "Eight!" Then Gavin knew where he was and remembered what had happened to him. He struggled to his knees, but the sunlit arena swung in dizzy ing circles before his glazed eyes and there was no strength in him anywhere — nothing but weakness and a sickening sensation of nausea. He knew that he must be on his feet inside of two seconds, but his numbed brain could not transmit its commands to the sprawling limbs. Gavin dropped forward, supporting most of his weight on his hands, and in this position he heard the count reach nine. Had his very life depended on his getting to his feet he could not have tried harder, but the paralyzing effect of that treacherous blow was not to be thrown off by a sheer effort of the will. If Gavin had succeeded in rising he would have been an open target before as merciless a fighter as ever lived, but the champion did not think of this. He only knew that he must be on his feet before the count reached ten.... Now if he could just get that right knee off the canvas. A hand slapped him smartly on the shoulder and three words came to him: "Ten — and out!" The fight was over; and Gavin had sold the championship of the world for a thousand-dol lar note, which was good, and the word of a man whose word he had said was not good. He col lapsed on his face and Summers picked him up and carried him to his corner. The new champion looked down through the ropes at a white, wide-eyed young man who seemed to be trying to say something. It was Joe Wells, stunned by the sudden catastrophe to his own personal fortunes. As Summers placed the defeated fighter on his stool Gavin's eyes opened and he looked up at the man who had tricked him out of his title. "Oh, you dog! You dog!" muttered Gavin. Then Summers did a very clever thing. He put both arms round Gavin's neck and bent close over him. Those who were in a position to see the little tableau thought the winner was whispering words of comfort to the loser; certainly the pitying smile on Summers' face seemed to indicate something of the sort. But this is what he was saying: "If you squeal, you big hairy stiff, this crowd '11 hang you, and your manager too! If you want to get out of this place alive you'll keep your trap shut!" Even in his shaken and befuddled condition John Gavin realized that the advice was sound. In attempting to fool the public he himself had been fooled, and dared not lift unclean hands against his partner in crime. Summers had played it very safe. High on the pine platform, black against the westering sun, the sleek and oily Mr. Isaacs continued to turn the crank of the motion-picture camera; and as he cranked he smiled. Perhaps he smiled because his pockets were full of winning tickets; perhaps he smiled be cause the film magazine of the camera was empty — had been empty all day. Mr. Isaacs was not a photographer; he was a cross between a confidence man and a sure-thing gambler. He had taken chances from time to time, but he had never taken so much as a snapshot in all his life. rv The San Francisco that used to be was the winter Mecca of American sports and sporting men. There is a new San Francisco now, keep ing open house for all the world and making the stranger feel his welcome as he feels it nowhere else, but the race tracks, the wide-open pool rooms, the gambling houses and the great world's championship battles are things of the past. They have vanished as completely as the deep-sea-going hacks, the cable cars that used to trundle up Market Street, and the wooden buildings that once lined that great thorough fare. The good old days may have been bad old days — shockingly bad when judged by the strict, Middle-Western standard of morality — but many a grizzled San Franciscan mentions them with a faint sigh of genuine regret. There was always something doing in old San Francisco, especially in the gay winter season, when the ponies were running and the town swarmed with turf followers. What wonder, then, that Swifty Summers pointed his keen nose in the direction of the Golden Gate? The second year of his championship had been kind to him. He had defended his title three times without even having his hair mussed and had completed a successful theatrical tour. All his pockets were bulging with unspent money, and well he knew what city made the highest bid for men of his kidney. He started for San Francisco, fully intending to jostle the bookmakers into the bread line. It often happens that the man who handles his own crooked game wisely proves himself a fool when he attempts to beat the crooked game owned and backed by the other fellow. Sum mers, a fox in the roped arena, was a goose in the betting ring. In the simple but expressive language of the track, the champion was a sucker for the horses. Intent only on making a killing and confident that his exclusive inside information would cause great financial distress on Bookmakers' Bow, Summers handed over to the block men the larger portion of the money that he had pried out of the effete East. The killing did not materialize and he then plunged wildly to recoup. Five as good-as-guaranteed tips went wrong one after the other, and the champion awoke to the fact that he must return to his own game. Indolent by nature, Summers had promised himself a winter of soft living and easy money. He had no wish to undergo the weary grind of training for a hard fight; he felt that he had earned a rest. Before his bank roll grew thin he had been almost discourteous to the boxing promoters. These had urged the claims of an extremely tough youth named Dugan, a Coast product who had blazed his way to prominence, leaving a trail of battered middleweights in his wake. Summers had insisted that Dugan "get a reputation" — an excuse much used by cham pions when wishing to sidetrack a dangerous climber. One rainy afternoon at the race track Sum mers was learnedly discussing mud runners with Omaha Slim, and keeping a wary eye on the betting ring. While thus engaged he caught a glimpse of a back and shoulders that seemed strangely familiar to him. "Just like I'm tellin' you," Omaha was say ing; "them dinky-legged beetles go good in the slop. You saw Amphion win the last race. Now on a dry track that dawg wouldn't have been one, two, nowheres. His legs would have hurt him, and" "Hold on a minute," interrupted Summers, shifting his position. "Ain't that John Gavin over there, with his back to us I" "Yeh, that's him. He's round here a lot this winter." "What's he doing?" "Not much of anything. He's on the toboggan for fair. I guess he never got over that quick trimming you handed him. Kind of broke his heart, they say. Broke him every other way too. Yeh, he's round here, bettin' with the dollar books, doin' the best he can, same as the rest of us." "He chased me all over the country last year," said Summers, "hollering for a return match. I let him holler." "He won't be chasin' anybody now," said Omaha. "He's got some trouble with his back — rheumatism, maybe. And he wears a big pair of black-rimmed cheaters, so I guess his eyes ain't what they used to be. They go quick when they go, these tough sluggers, don't they?" "You bet. Then he's quit fighting?" "Quit fighting everything but booze. He could have had a match with Dugan last September, but he passed it up. Prob'ly thought Dugan was hard game. Yeh, John was a good ole wagon, but he done broke down." "Tough luck," said Summers; and nearly meant it. Later in the afternoon he managed to contrive a meeting with the former champion. Summers expected hard words, and was even prepared to block a wild swing for his jaw, but Gavin greeted him with a mildness almost pathetic. His spirit seemed quite broken. "Why, hello, Swif ty! They told me you was here. How's things?" "Fine," said Summers, making a swift sur vey of his victim. Gavin needed a shave, a cleaner collar would not have hurt his appearance, and the suit that he wore was downright shabby. "You look it," said Gavin. "Buy you a drink?" Swifty accepted the invitation, and ordered a glass of sherry, but Gavin demanded his own private bottle and poured out a very stifle jolt. "Here's luck!" said he, and gulped it down without blinking. Summers watched him curiously out of the corner of his eye. 1 ' Have another? "asked the champion. "I '11 take a cigar this time." Again Gavin poured a staggering libation and hurried it on its way. "Hitting that stuff awful hard, ain't you?" queried Summers. "The doctor tells me to lay off, but — I can stand it," answered Gavin; and as if anxious to prove his assertion lie slopped out a third drink, filling the glass to the brim. "Things going fine with you, eh? "Well, I wish't I could,say the same. I ain't been doing much this last year — gone stale or something. But there's a battle or two left in me yet." "Sure there is!" agreed Summers. "You know, Swifty," said Gavin, becoming confidential after his third double portion, "that was a rotten dirty trick you played on me, and it left me in a fix where I couldn't say a word. Not a word! I fired Joe Wells, though. Yeh, I got rid of him. He oughta known that fellow Isaacs was the bunk." "The film turned out bad," explained Sum mers quickly. "But Isaacs cashed a lot of tickets in the pool rooms afterward," said Gavin. "Oh, I'm wise enough — now. You — you want to know what made me the sorest?" "Go ahead! "grinned Summers. * ' Get it off your chest.". "You wouldn't fight me again. You wouldn't make a return match. I — I thought I was en titled to one. And that stuff you handed the reporters about not having to bother with a man you'd licked in a punch — that was pretty raw too. That hurt. Yeh, you gimme all the worst of it when I was chasing you for that return match." Gavin was reaching out to pour himself an- other drink, but Summers laid his hand on John's wrist. "Maybe I was saving you for this winter," said he softly. Gavin peered incredulously through his black-rimmed spectacles. "Saving me! Quit your kidding!" "But I might be kidding on the square!" persisted Summers. "You couldn't even kid on the square!" Gavin spoke bitterly. "You won't fight me again, and you know it!" 1 1 How much of a gate would we draw?" "Fifteen thousand anyway, maybe twenty. The town's full of money this year.... But you don't mean it." The champion patted Gavin on the shoulder, and his smile was friendliness itself. "The reason I get away with things," said he, "is because nobody ever knows just what I mean. It's a good system. Can you put yourself in shape — some kind of shape?" "I'd jump out of my coffin to get in shape to lick you!" "Well," said Summers, "don't go to too much trouble on my account, old boy. I'll see you in a few days. And in the meantime cut that stuff out. Booze ain't any good to train on." Summers walked away, but from the edge of the betting ring he glanced back toward the bar. He was in time to see Gavin swallow another large drink. That night Andy Cullen, promoter of boxing contests, accepted an invitation to dine with Summers. "He wants to talk business," thought Cullen as he hung up the receiver. "The bookmakers have got his dough and now he'll be reason able."! The exact nature of the business that Sum mers wished to discuss proved somewhat of a surprise to Cullen. "You want to fight Gavin again! But Gavin's all in — down and out. The fight wouldn't draw flies!" "You're a smart fellow," grinned Summers. "You're ace-high with the newspaper men. You can make it draw." "How!" "By playing it up as a grudge fight. Every body remembers how he hollered two years ago — how he chased me all over the country. To be candid with you, I didn't want to fight him then. Maybe I was a little lucky to stop him with a punch, and I didn't want to take chances on him again. It's different now. You get Gavin to come out with a challenge and a good strong statement burning me up for not giving him a return match. That'll start everybody to talking, and at the right time I'll get sore and call his bluff." "All fine as silk," interrupted the promoter,' "but Dugan is the man they want to see you fight. Gavin is drinking himself to death. He kills about a quart a day out at the track. Now, Dugan" Summers rapped gently on the table with his closed fist and his brown eyes grew hard as moss agates. I 'Nothing — doing — on — Dugan. I told you that before. I don't mind telling you something else: I won't train for a hard fight. I'm the champion, I'm the one they want to see, and I intend to dictate terms. Gavin is the only man I'll meet. A daylight fight, and moving pictures. I'll stall along for seven or eight rounds, then I'll drop him right in front of the camera. That knowledge ought to be worth something to you — in a betting way. Now, do you want the match or not?" "Oh, hell! "grumbled Cullen. * ' If you insist on robbing a graveyard I might as well be the undertaker!" "That's talking sense. Now get hold of Gavin and break the news to him. The split will be eighty-twenty." II That's an awful short loser's end," objected Cullen. "It's plenty long enough for Gavin. Man alive, have you seen him lately! He looks like a bum. Oh, yes, one thing more." "What's that?" demanded Cullen suspiciously. ''Gavin had better do his training up in the mountains, where too many wise people won't see him. I think he '11 try hard to get into shape for a fight — he believes he owes me a licking j but trying and doing are two different things. Ship him to some mountain resort where he '11 be out of the way. We don't want everybody in the world to know that we've picked a dead one." "You're a wonder!" exclaimed the admiring Cullen. "You think of -everything, don't you?" "I figure all the angles," was the modest reply. Mighty indeed is the noble institution known as the press. Two days later John Gavin, assisted from his sarcophagus by Mr. Cullen's clever press agent, let out a ferocious and defiant roar, which echoed and reechoed among the sporting pages. Summers, said Gavin, was afraid to fight him again — had been dodging him for two years. He had won the title with a lucky punch, and had proved that such was the case by refusing to make another match. Summers, said Gavin, was a fluke champion. The fluke champion, when interviewed about the matter, managed to convey the impression that he was not fight-hungry, but stated that should this hunger develop there were others whose claims took precedence of Gavin's. Gavin replied with a double-column blast; and the great unenlightened public began to sit up and rub its eyes, demanding to know what all the noise was about. The effect of this campaign was to stimulate interest in the former champion and create a desire to see the question settled with fists rather than linotype machines. For a solid week Summers and Gavin fought each other all over the keyboards of sporting-department typewriters, at the end of which time the champion descended from his high horse, and articles of war were signed, witnessed and put away in Cullen's safe. Gavin went to the mountains while Sum mers crossed the bay, establishing his training camp at Alameda. For weeks the daily doings of the gladiators were recorded in the public prints. Both men, said the scribes, were mak ing ready for the fight of their lives. On the eve of battle they were reported to be "in the pink of condition" and "fit as fiddles," though what a fiddle looks like when it is fit is one of the things that "no fellah can find out." Summers was a topheavy favorite in the pool rooms at odds of two to one. The racetrack gamblers covered the short-end sympathy bets, and pooh-poohed the idea that Gavin might come back. Pugilism was not their game, but they had seen Gavin paying heavy court to his private bottle, and cheerfully bet twos to win ones. No man, they said, could fight a hard draw with John Barleycorn and knock out Swif ty Summers all in the same season. It was a foregone conclusion that the only way the grizzly could regain his title was to drop the champion for the count. Gavin arrived in San Francisco at eleven o'clock in the morning on the day of the fight. The men were to weigh in at noon at a pool room on Eddy Street, and when the former champion and his handlers arrived the place was packed to the doors and the overflow blocked the sidewalk. There was little curiosity as far as Summers was concerned; most of the sporting men had visited his training camp and were satisfied with his condition. Gavin they had not seen, and they swallowed the newspaper reports with a grain of salt. They wanted to see the challenger, stripped to the skin, on the platform of the weighing machine. The side walk crowd gave Gavin a cheer when he appeared, grim and tanned and sullen, a cap pulled low over his eyes and the collar of his heavy sweater rolled up till it covered his ears. They saw no more of him than the tip of his nose and the straight line of his mouth, and they got nothing out of him, though they patted him on the shoulders and slapped him on the back and showered him with good wishes. I Gavin elbowed his way straight to the en trance, looking neither to the right nor the left. He knew that the shoulder-patters and back-slappers would give Summers the same welcome they had given him, and in his simple honest heart John Gavin hated a hypocrite. Just as he crossed the threshold the clatter of hoofs, the rattle of carriage wheels and loud cheer ing announced the arrival of the champion. A grievous disappointment was in store for the lucky ones in the inner room. They saw John Gavin make the weight — they saw his lean sunburned face with the skin drawn tight over the cheek bones and the angle of the jaw, and they saw his bare legs. They wanted to see his shoulders and chest, his back — and, most of all, the muscles covering his stomach, if any. But John climbed on the platform clad in a soft gray shirt, which covered him completely from neck to knees: and the bar, set at the prescribed notch, did not even quiver. The most disappointed man in the room was Swifty Summers, hurriedly divesting himself of his clothing, pre tending a lack of interest but furtively watching every move that Gavin made. ''He's a pound or so under," thought the champion. "Now is he in condition or has he been taking mud baths to get the belly off him? Hell! He can't be in condition!" Not a word passed between the fighters, and it was remarked afterward that Gavin never even so much as looked at Summers. Summers noticed this, and it added to his slight feeling of uneasiness. Men who are about to fight a grudge fight do not exchange pleasantries while weighing in, but it is seldom that a challenger loses a chance to size up a champion. For the second time in his life Gavin sat in his corner and looked at a motion-picture cam era. To be exact, he looked at a whole battery of cameras, for film will buckle and Cullen was taking no chances. Gavin scowled and nursed the bulge of his right glove in the cup of the left. He was thinking of Mr. Isaacs — Mr. Isaacs and the camera that did not shoot because it was not loaded. Gavin's chief second nudged him. "Hey! Wake up! They want you for the snapshots! Lemme have that bathrobe." Gavin shook his head and marched to the middle of the ring, completely covered from neck to heels. Not since he entered the arena had he shown anything but his ankles, and this prolonged exhibition of modesty was more than a nervous man could bear. "Going to wear that thing all the afternoon?" sneered the champion. "Afraid to take it off, or what?" Gavin did not even turn his head in Sum mers' direction. He seemed to be giving all his attention to the fussy little photographer. He kept his opponent under tension to the very last instant, then tossed his bathrobe behind him and drew a deep breath, his great hairy chest rising almost to his chin. Several thousand citizens drew a deep breath with him, letting it out in low whistles of amazement and admiration, for if ever a fighting man looked fit it was John Gavin that day. Summers knew condition when he saw it, and here was a miracle — a broken-down, tippling has-been suddenly returned to his prime. The lean flanks, the hard ridges guarding the abdomen, the powerful shoulder muscles rippling under the hairy skin — this was the Gavin of two years ago — Gavin, or a counterfeit that would have deceived the elite. Yes, it was the physical shell of John Gavin; but what was inside it? And how had he man aged to turn back the clock? As they fell into fighting1 pose the challenger looked the champion straight in the eye and grinned. "I got you where I want you now, "said John. "Eight where I been trying to get you for two (years. Look me over!" "Look you over!" answered the quick-witted Summers. "I'll knock you over, same as I did before!'* "When you used to be a pool shark, trimming suckers," said Gavin, "did you carry your cue with you all the time? "We're here to get our pictures took, not to fight. You'll get all the fighting you want in a few minutes." "Gentlemen! Gent-lemen!" murmured the referee. When the gong rang it was the old Gavin who came charging out of his corner, bent on fight ing his old fight — a human battering ram hurrying into action at close range. Summers had been given a moment in which to think, and he had decided on a plan of battle based on the assumption that the challenger was nothing more than the hard-looking shell of his former self. How could a man drink a quart of whisky a day and come back — in five weeks? The thing was an impossibility! "He looks good," Summers had said to his seconds, "and it's a cinch he's worked hard, but he can't last. I'll keep away from him for a few rounds, and when lie begins to slow np I'll pick him to pieces at long- range." The plan was a good one, but before the fight was ten seconds old Summers realized that it would be extremely difficult to keep away from Gavin for any length of time. The champion feinted and danced, side-stepped and turned, twisted and dodged, but Gavin was always there in front of him, hammering away with both fists. Summers ducked into a clinch, but was glad to duck out of it again. He prided himself on the strength of his arms, but he might as well have tried to pin the pistons of a locomotive as to smother those short-tearing jolts to his mid-section. Gavin was too strong to be handled in the clinches, and the punishing power in the few long-range body blows that crashed through the champion's guard warned him not to stand and play for an opening through which to shoot his famous right hook. Driven into a corner, Summers tried to clinch again. This time Gavin almost cracked his ribs in a crushing embrace, holding him long enough to ask him two questions: "Thought you was picking on a cripple, hey? iWhat do you think of your cripple now?" Having asked his questions Gavin hurled Summers halfway across the ring and renewed the attack. Round and round they went, Sum mers retreating under cover of a hurried and harmless left jab, Gavin crowding him closely, and finding time to talk to his man between flurries: "You fought me to reform me, hey?... Thought I was hitting the booze pretty hard?... So did everybody else.... Guess that's the reason you didn't bother to train.... Looked pretty soft to you, didn't I?... Well, I'm the hardest soft guy you ever saw!" "What's he talking about?" demanded Sum mers' chief second when the round was over. "I never saw him talk in a fight before." "He's put one over on me somehow," mumbled the champion. "I don't know how, but he's done it." "He ain't put nothin* over on you yet. He can't hit you. You'll lick him, sure." "Yes," said Summers, "I'll lick him, but — I wished I'd trained harder for this bird!" Eminent experts agree that the champion's only chance to retain his title came early in the second round. Gavin slipped and left an open ing for his jaw, and when Summers saw it he forgot all about his agreement that there should be eight rounds of film — forgot everything but the opportunity to extricate himself from a dangerous situation. Quick as a flash Summers set himself and let fly with his main battery, putting into the shot everything that he had or was or hoped to be. It was the sort of right-hand punch that makes and unmakes champions, it was beautifully timed and perfectly executed, it went straight to the chin, and it dropped John Gavin to his knees. The referee began to count, marking time with his right hand and holding Summers at bay with his left. Gavin shook his head, like a swimmer coining to the surface after a dive. Then he looked up at Summers skirmishing in and out, his right hand poised for the finishing blow; and as he looked, Gavin's mouth curved into a scornful grin. He gathered himself to gether as a sprinter gathers himself for a crouching start. "Just wanted to see if you could hurt me, Swifty.... You can't; it ain't in you. Now look out for yourself!" He came to his feet with a rush, diving straight at Summers, who stood his ground and aimed a short uppercut at Gavin's chin. The uppercut missed connections, but Gavin's right fist did not. It crashed home just below the rib line, and it sent the champion reeling backward to the ropes, sick and dizzy. Very few world's champions have lost their titles without making a desperate attempt to hold them. Summers was tricky and unscrupulous; he took the best of it whenever he could and disdained the even break; but underneath all his treachery and meanness was the heart.of a fighting man. The tide of battle had turned against him with a swiftness almost incredible, but with the ropes chafing his back the cham pion made his stand, fighting as he had never fought in his life. Time after time he rocked Gavin's head with rights and lefts, putting into them everything that the damaging body blow had left him, and taking a savage beating in return. Just before the bell rang Gavin landed another pile-driving punch below the rib line and Summers' knees bent under him. He would have slipped to the floor had not Gavin hauled him into a clinch. "You're licked," said John, "but I ain't through with you yet. Die game — for the pictures!" As far as Summers was concerned the fight ended then and there. He went to his corner whipped and knowing that he was whipped. He could never hope to hit Gavin any harder than he had hit him in the second round, and Gavin had stayed down only five seconds. It was in the third round that Gavin added insult to injury. He had just flattened Sum mers' nose with an overhand swing, and was holding the champion on his feet with his face turned to the camera so that the blood would show. "I musta looked pretty bad to you that day at the track," said Gavin. "Glasses, and a lame back and everything. Yeh, I practiced looking bad for a couple of months before you showed up. I knew you wouldn't fight me again unless you thought I was all in. You fell for it.... All right, referee. He's hanging on; I ain't." And later: "The only way to catch a crook is to play him crooked.... There's real fillum in these cameras to-day.... Turn your head a little so they can get a picture of how pretty you look!" With half a minute remaining, Gavin shot a short ugly hook through Summers' wavering guard and knocked out three of his most cherished teeth. The champion flopped limply into a clinch and received his final bit of astounding information: ' * Burnt sugar and water looks a lot like booze, v... Pours like booze, too, but it don't do you no harm.... If it did I'd! be dead now.... Yeh, I guess the bartender that made my private stock '11 win him some dough to-day!" Summers' chief second waved the bottle of smelling salts back and forth under the cham pion's battered nose. "He's murderm' you," said the adviser. "Can't you mix it or nothing?" * ' Burnt sugar! "groaned Summers. "Burnt sugar and water!" "Hey, have a sniff o' this!" ordered the chief second. "Your mind is wanderin'!" Toward the end of the fourth round the crowd began to yell at the referee to stop the fight. Summers was barely able to remain on his feet and Gavin was playing with him, hitting him at will as he wabbled wearily along the ropes. The referee glanced doubtfully at Andy Cullen, huddled up in his ringside box, a life-size portrait of woe too deep for words. Cullen had bet more money than he cared to think about, but he owned a third of the motion pictures, and a clean knockout might enhance their value and put him even with the world again. The pro moter shook his head slightly, and the referee sidled over to where Gavin was alternately thumping Summers in the ribs and holding him on his feet to keep him from falling. 1 ' Gwan, John! "muttered the official. ' * Gwan, finish it! He's out now — out on his feet!" Gavin glanced at the battery of cameras and grinned. "Come on, champ, "he whispered. "This is where you get it good — for the pictures!" He backed Summers clear across the ring, halting him close to the ropes and directly underneath the lenses, jolted him once or twice to straighten him up and then pinned his arms at his sides. "Hey, you guys up there!" bawled Gavin, addressing the photographers. "Got plenty of fillum left, have you? None of them boxes empty?... All right. Git this, all of you; it's going to be good!" He released Summers, stepped quickly away from him and back again, feinting savagely at the sore ribs with his left hand. Summers dropped his guard and bent forward, and as he did so Gavin's right glove swung full and clean against his chin. The champion of the world plunged head first through the ropes, breaking one telegraph instrument and knocking three reporters and one special writer out of their chairs. "There you are! "grinned the new-old chares pion as he looked down on his work and saw that it was good. ' * That ought to make a swell fin ish — for the pictures!"