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 boy, all champions must go down to defeat sooner or—"

"Mr. Brewster—please—we've gone all into that, and my train—" The Kid breaks off, frownin'.

"Oh, damn the train!" bursts out the Sen. "See here, Kane, step out now—retire from the ring as you are, an undefeated champion, cancel this Enright bout and—and I'll make you and Dolores a wedding present of $300,000, the exact amount you—"

Somethin' in the Kid's face must of stopped him because he broke off short. The Kid's eyebrows has come together in a hard, straight line, but in a instant he's grinnin'.

"Senator," he says, "I know you wouldn't deliberately insult me for anything in the world. Eh—I can see you're a trifle wrought up and—oh, get thee behind me, Satan!" he winds up, gives the Sen's hand a warm shake, grabs his suit case and rushes for the door. "Come on!" he calls to me (I'm in a trance). "Good-by, Senator, and good luck—back in a month!"

Passin' up a total of $325,000 in less than a hour without turnin' a hair! Deliberately passin' it up and takin' a chance of gettin' his head beat off—for nothin '  if he loses his bet, instead.

Woof—tie these college guys!

Accordin' to our contracts, both us and Enright has got to wind up trainin' near the scene of the battle. Me and Kid Roberts come down from the Maine woods and took our stand at Long Branch, N. J., where we'd trained for many's the brawl. The next day the sport writers and camera guys swoops down on us in droves, fresh from Enright's camp. They

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 stuck around and watched the Kid work out with Dynamite Jackson and a couple other handlers, shook their heads, breezed back to New York, and predicted a new heavyweight champion when Kid Roberts and Jack Enright went to the post. The Kid was slow, fat, and wind-broke. Enright, in wonderful condition, was murderin' his sparrin' partners, etc., and so forth.

I don't know nothin' about how Enright was. I never visit no rival camps before a fight, but I do know that Kid Roberts was far from the young man which win the world's heavyweight championship in three rounds, just one year before! For the first time since I'd been his pilot I couldn't do nothin' with him. He went to bed and got up when he felt like it, eat what he wanted, clowned his gym workouts, and did his road work in a automobile. To all of my threats and pleadin's he answered that he wasn't goin' through no weary trainin' grind for a scrap which wouldn't last over a couple of rounds.

About a week before the quarrel I suddenly got word from no less than Dolores Brewster that she's got to see me at once on a matter of life and death connected with the fight. Also, I am not to let the Kid know about her message.

The most beautiful representative of the adjoinin' sex that I, you, or anybody else ever seen is much excited. The first thing she wants to know is whether or not the Kid is still goin' to bet his end of the purse that he'll flatten Enright in six rounds. "When does he get this money?" she wants to know.

"I collect it," I says, "three days before we step into the ring.

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 "Splendid," says Dolores, lookin' greatly relieved about somethin'. Then she puts everything she's got on a smile, curls a wicked eyelash at me, pulls her chair closer, and whispers: "Will you do something for me if it—if it means the happiness of Kane and myself?"

"Lady," I says, a bit dizzy, "I will start by pushin' over the Woolworth Buildin', if that will be of any help!"

"You can do more than that, if you will," she says, thrillin'ly and throws the smile into high. "Listen!"

I listened. I listened for half a hour, argued for twenty minutes of the other half, and spent the last ten minutes of that hour half promisin' to do the slight favor she asked, knowin' full well that the best I could hope to get out of it was the worst of it.

Dolores had doped out that if Kid Roberts failed to stop Enright within six rounds he would lose his hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar bet and be broke. If he went broke, he would be forced to keep on fightin' for another bank roll instead of quittin' the ring and settlin' down with her as advertised. Therefore she wanted me to bring her our end of the purse instead of bettin' it for the Kid when I collected it. If the Kid stopped Enright in a round or two and then looked to me for his winnin's, Dolores would take all the responsibility and blame, figurin' that the Kid loved her enough for her to get away with murder—which he undoubtedly did. If, on the other hand, the Kid failed to knock Enright dead in the stipulated time, why, he'd still have his $150,000, which would certainly be a pleasant surprise.

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 I says I would think it over, and that's what I did, with the results that a couple of days afterward I called upon the charmin' Dolores with a mysterious-lookin' and bulgin' little black satchel in my hand, like the kind usually wore by bank messengers. I laid it on the table in front of her without a word and, hearin' footsteps approachin' the room, Dolores shoves the bag into a little wall safe, swiftly spins the combination, and writes me a receipt for $150,000. That windin' up the business of the meetin', I took the air.

At the risk of losin' my lady readers, I have got to say that they was nothin' in that satchel I give Dolores but newspapers. I had figured the thing about like this—if I failed to bet the $150,000 and the Kid did stop Enright in six rounds, he would look to me to hand him back his winnin's at three to one or better. Then would come the heavy crash! And whilst he'd prob'ly forgive Dolores, he would never under no circumstances forgive me. On the other hand, if I bet it and he lost, we'd still be friends because I'd only be carryin' out his orders. On top of all this, they was always the chance that Kid Roberts would stop Enright in a round and by not bettin' his dough for him I'd be gippin' out of a fortune the whitest guy which ever lived.

To absolutely refuse to give Dolores the jack might bring her to the camp to upset the Kid on the eve of the fight, so I played safe and took the hundred and fifty thousand fish down to Wall Street—the best place to handle a bet of that size on anything.

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 I stopped in old man Halliday's office to leave the dough with him whilst I scouted around for the sportin' men.

"Well," he says, suddenly, "perhaps I may be of service. There appears to be a great deal of interest in the fight down here—I've heard talk of large wagers in several offices. Maybe I could place the money with less difficulty than yourself and—"

"Say—that would be great!" I butts in. "If you'll take the thing off my hands, I'll be tickled silly. Besides, it'll look better—you layin' the jack instead of me. If I go around bettin' any such money as this that the fight won't go six rounds, the wisenheimers is liable to think the thing's framed."

He nods and, puttin' the sugar into his safe, wrote me a receipt for it. I sure had plenty of receipts that day for $150,000!

When I got back to the camp, the Kid is stretched out on a sofa readin' a newspaper. The first thing he says is did I get his money down. I says I have gave it to a Wall Street bettin' commissioner to place the way he told me, and he says that's fine. Then he calls me over and shows me the paper.

"As I expected," he says grimly, "the bottom has fallen out of Mexicali Oil—remember, that's the stock my father has all his capital in?—so he's whipped again! Poor dad," he goes on pityin'ly, "he's too old now to match his wits against those wolves. The steeltrap brain is rusted! I wish I had made him sell out and bet his money with mine." He jumps up. "Well," he laughs, "we'll have plenty of money after this fight! But I'm sorry for dad. This thing must have been an

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 awful shock to his pride." He nods to the paper. "Poor old pater—they never come back!"

Well, fin'ly the night comes when we shoulder our ways down a aisle of close-packed, yellin', fight-mad fans and climb through the ropes opposite Monsieur Jack Enright (which the sport writers has now christened "Killer" Enright). We continued right on over to his corner and examined his bandages, and Enright kept his eyes on the floor, scowlin' and very serious.

"Cheer up, it's all fun!" I says to him, after his goat. The sport writers laughed, and the telegraph instruments ticked that down into history.

"We come here to fight—not talk!" snarls Enright's manager.

"You'll get what you come for, guy!" I says. "And I have also told the sport writers all about that rabbit—punch of yours, Enright, so watch your step for the few minutes you'll be in here!"

And then we left him.

They was little time wasted in fussin' around. The champ got a fair hand when he was introduced—when it come Enright's turn they rocked the buildin' with cheers. The men posed for a couple of flashlights, and then—the bell.

The first round wasn't a minute old before the thickest dumb-bell in the abattoir knew that Kid Roberts had gone back eighty-seven miles and that Enright had the chance of his lifetime if he kept his head. The crowd was with the "Killer" almost to a man; they wanted to see a new champion made. They booed

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 and razzed every miss of the Kid's and cheered themselves hoarse at Enright's every lead. They shrieked and howled for Enright to muss the Kid up, murder him, knock him dead, goal the big stiff!

Now, all of this was new to the highly sensitive and proud-spirited Kid Roberts. It got under his skin, murdered his usual cool judgment and perfect timin'. He was carryin' at least twelve pounds excess baggage around his waist line, he was slow, and his anxiety to finish Enright swiftly and cop the heavy bet, added to the hostile attitude of the mob, made him careless and wild. The results of all this was that Enright took the first three rounds by a wide margin, usin' a wicked right hook to the face and poundin' the body with both hands at close quarters with deadly effect.

The Kid rushed out to end matters in the fourth round and unluckily run into a right smash to the head that drove him against the ropes, goofy. The mob went crazy, yellin' for Enright to finish him and, still dazed, the Kid begin tradin' wallops with one of the hardest hitters that ever stepped into a ring. It was easy to see that Enright carried the heaviest guns; and after he drove two murderous smashes to the heart, I yelled for the Kid to clinch and hang on till the bell. But Kid Roberts was champion, and with the idiotical pride that's licked many's the champ before him, he shook his head and stood toe to toe with Enright, givin' swing for swing and hook for hook. Again I bellered for the Kid to box Enright, which knew nothin', and not to slug with him, and this time he took my advice as his head grew clearer. He began stabbin' Enright's

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 face with his long, snappy left and crossin' his right to the head. Enright had enough of this inside a minute, and was hangin' on at the bell, lookin' wildly to his corner for advice. Nevertheless, the crowd cheered him to the echo when he floundered to his corner and booed the Kid as heartily when he sunk down wearily on his stool.

Four rounds and Enright still on his feet and a hundred and fifty thousand berries gone if he stays two more!

Round Five was tame compared to the others. Actin' on my advice, Kid Roberts saved his strength for the final effort in the sixth round and made no attempt to carry the battle to Enright. Payin' no attention to the frantic howls of the mob to open up and take a chance, the champ danced lightly around the clumsy Enright, pepperin' him with left jabs and occasionally sinkin' a torrid right to the wind, clinchin' when the goin' got rough. They was wrapped in a fond embrace on the ropes at the bell.

The sixth round was one that will be recalled by anybody which was there when they have forgot their first names! The sound of the gong hadn't quite died out when the Kid was on Enright like a famished tiger. He ripped a left and right to the face, drawin' the blood in a stream and, as Enright vainly tried to dive into a clinch, the champ switched his attack to the body and soon had Enright's side a large blotch of crimson. Enright begin swingin' wildly, when a left hook caught him square on the button and he fell in a heap. He was so badly dazed he never waited for no count but come springin' up mechanically, both arms

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 curled protectin'ly around his jaw. It would of been a easy matter for the Kid to step aside and measure him, but he lost his head and wasted a dozen haymakers on Enright's neck and shoulders.

The crowd was now all composed of lunatics, and I died a million deaths as the seconds slipped by with Enright still on his feet and the entire bank roll dependin' on a knockout in this round.

Enright, seemin'ly gettin' stronger on punishment, followed the advice from his corner and stepped into the Kid, workin' both hands fast. Again the Kid dropped him, with a glancin' right this time, and again Enright bounced up, after a count of four. Tough? They didn't make 'em any tougher than this baby! Both landed hard rights to the head and then the Kid was short with a left to the jaw. Enright put a wicked right to the body and brought a fresh roar from the crowd when he doubled the Kid up with a left smash to the same place. I had a watch in my hand and I yelled to the Kid that they's less than a minute to go and to knock Enright dead or we're broke. He shook himself desperately and slammed Enright all over the ring, but this guy curls up, bends almost to the floor, leaves nothin' uncovered and takes it. His idea now was to weather the storm and stick out the round—nothin' more. Crazy with the thoughts of what he was losin', the Kid deliberately stepped away, droppin' his hands to lead Enright on. Enright's head peeped over his bent arm and like a flash the Kid shot a terrific right to the jaw, droppin' him like a poled ox. And the very instant that big tramp hit the floor for a sure knockout, the bell rung, endin' the sixth round

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 and endin' Kid Roberts's hundred and fifty thousand bucks! The gong had saved Enright—he'd stayed the six rounds.

Well, it was a funeral in our corner as the Kid slowly slumped down on his stool and bent his battered head in his hands. They was nothin' for me to say—nothin' to do but pat the Kid on his quiverin' back and whisper to him like you do to a baby or your girl, as the handlers frantically worked over him. After all his struggles to pile up a roll, he ain't got a nickel. Havin' bet and lost his end of the purse, he's fightin' Enright for nothin '  from now on. His old man has evidently been cleaned out by the bust and Dolores Brewster is now out of reach till he can climb back again.

"Listen, Kid!" I pants in his ear. "Stall it out with this guy till the fifteenth anyways, and maybe I can bull McManus into thinkin' we deliberately let Enright stay for the pictures—see? Maybe I can make him give us that twenty-five grand bonus he offered, and we'll have that anyways! Hang on to him till you're stronger and—"

The Kid looks up for the first time, like a guy just comin' out of ether. His glassy eyes swings around on the mob which is still poundin' their seats and howlin' for Enright to knock him dead.

"I'm not thinking how long I can stay," he says in a husky snarl, "I'm thinking how quick I can win! I was a fool and, like all fools, I've paid the price—lost everything—may lose my championship too. Stay fifteen rounds? I can't go two more rounds! I've punched myself out on this fellow—no condition—should have trained—knew it all—" His head swings up, and he

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 glares over at Enright's corner with his one good eye. "Mister Enright," he mutters, "you represent Fate! I've knocked you down a couple of times and you're still there—grinning at me. Well, here goes for my last try against you—there will only be one of us when the bell rings for the end of this—"

The gong cut him off.

Sensin' the end, the mob is standin' on their seats when the men come together. Enright missed a left swing, but connected with a right that bent the Kid's already tremblin' knees and laid his cheek open a good four inches—the ensuin' gore makin' it look much worse. This would of wound it up for a guy with less heart than the Kid, but it acted on the champ like a tonic. He was hurt, busted, and, for the first time durin' the muss—mad. Before, he'd only been anxious to end it quick to win his bet, now he wanted Enright's heart! He knew he only had one flurry, one flash left in his tired, achin' body, and he sailed in to kill or get killed. He rushed Enright to the ropes and, pinnin' him there, drove a smashin' left to the wind with a "plunk" that was heard in the last row.

A minute before the mob had been callin' the Kid a bum, now they are with him to a man because he's out in front. Such is life in the prize ring and—anything else! On the break, Enright swung a wild haymaker that landed high on the Kid's head, but that was the Killer's last effort. As he rushed in, both hands swingin' wildly, the Kid stepped to one side and hooked his right flush to the jaw, tumblin' Enright to the canvas. Enright's handlers yelled for him to stay down, but he shook his head and staggered to his feet. The

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 fast weakenin' Kid measured him with a left and then crashed him to the mat with another right hook. Enright never moved a muscle whilst he was counted out, the Kid standin' over him lookin' at the hysterical crowd, which is now tellin' each other at the top of their voices that he's the greatest champion that ever lived.

We are still world's heavyweight champion—but we ain't got a nickel!

Dolores and Senator Brewster is at the hotel when we get back, and when I seen her with the satchel I had give her in her hand I turned pale. The Kid shakes the Senator's hand, kisses Dolores, apologizes for his battered appearance, like that was of any importance, and then he begins to tell her he ain't got a dime in the world.

"Yes, you have, Kane dear," butts in Dolores, her eyes shinin', "I saved it for you—your hundred and fifty thousand is right here!" And she puts the satchel on a table.

Woof! Can you imagine my sensations right then? I am wonderin' which window I'll leap out of when Dolores opens that bag and sees nothin' but newspapers. The Kid looks kind of bewildered as Dolores begins strugglin' with the catch on the satchel.

"Just a minute, Miss Brewster," I says in a kind of muffled voice, steppin' forward. "Don't open that bag—it—eh—they ain't a nickel in it!"

And then, whilst the Kid looked from Dolores to me, his suddenly hardened features gradually softenin' and her usually soft eyes gradually hardenin', I told

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 'em how I had fooled Dolores and bet the Kid's money like he told me. How I'd met his old man in his oifice by chance and gave him the entire roll to bet that the Kid would stop Enright in six rounds. I wave old man Halliday's receipt for the jack at the busted Kid.

Nobody said nothin' for a minute—the toughest sixty seconds I ever spent in my life! Then Dolores spoke, her eyes scorchin' me. "Oh!" she kind of flung at me. "And I trusted you!"

Never in her life will that girl believe I'm not crooked!

"No!" says the Kid suddenly, throwin' an arm around me. "You must not misjudge him, Dolores, you must not be angry. I'd stake my life on this man's honesty—frequently have—and he did right! He followed my instructions to the letter—"

A knock on the door interrupted him, and old man Halliday walks in, grabs the Kid and they hug each other. "Still champion!" says the old man, his chest out a extry foot.

"Still champion, dad!" smiles the Kid. "But we're back about four years. I'm penniless, as you probably know. Of course, you placed the money?"

"Yes," says the old man, "I placed it—I placed it in Mexicali Oil and, as for being penniless—" He laughs, kinda hysterically. "You're rather hard to please, Kane. I should say, roughly, that at this minute you're worth half a million!"

"Holy mackerel!" I yells and fell into a chair. This stuff is tough on the heart! The rest seemec speechless.

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 "But—but—" stammers the white-faced Kid, "the bottom fell out of Mexicali Oil—I saw it in the newspapers—"

"Some days ago, of course," beams the old man. "I—ah—we attended to that, and that's when I bought—with your heaven-sent hundred and fifty thousand! The money was brought to me to wager for you and, taking your advice, I stuck to my own game. The long-promised gusher was brought in this morning and when I ceased operations this afternoon I held certified checks to the tune of some four hundred and eighty thousand dollars and—well, have you seen this?"

He hauls a extry from his pocket, and on the front page in large type it says:

In a adjoining column is:

"Well," says the Kid, kinda dazed, "all this is too much for me—I'm—I'm bewildered!" He grabs his father's hands and his eyes is very damp. "Dad," he says, "I—you make me feel—eh—futile! The old master, eh?" He straightens up and looks from one to the other of us. "You must excuse me," he apologizes, "I'm a bit used up. I've just come through

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 the hardest battle of my career, and I took a lot of punishment—but—I'm still champion!"

The old man nods and picks up the paper, gazin' at the glarin' headlines.

"Now that," he says, with the grin of a kid, "that is exactly the way I feel!"

The bell.

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idea that he was invincible took Napoleon from the island of Corsica to the throne of the world. The same belief took him from the throne of the world to the island of St. Helena.

As soon as the average guy gets to be champion of anything, whether it's pitchin' quoits or runnin' empires, his regard for himself reaches a point that's hard for the rest of us to understand. When he was battle-axin' his way up, the attempts of the other bird to beat him made him sore and in settin' out to take this one baby he incidentally shoved himself ahead of the entire field. But once he arrives at the top and some other guy announces he's out to shove him off, your champ don't get mad, he just laughs—laughs so hard he loses his balance and you don't have to shove him, he tumbles off!

Let us take the case of Kid Roberts, for the example.

After the Kid smashed Jack Enright down and out in seven rounds, Jimmie McManus was busier than a three-headed elephant in a peanut factory, scourin' the country for the second victim. Meanwhile, this Enright ducked up to Buffalo to gather what looked like some terrible soft jack. He made a overnight match

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 with Knockout Pierce, a guy which nobody but Pierce's father and mother had ever heard of up to then, and which looked like a push over.

This brawl cost Monsieur Jacques Enright exactly $40,000, which was what McManus was goin' to tip him for his second quarrel with Kid Roberts. Knockout Pierce ended the fight a minute and a half before the bell in the first round with a terrific right hook to the jaw. Enright was out so long that when he come to the first thing he asked was whether or not the draft law had passed Congress.

Well, of course, that was the curtain for Enright and the fortunate young Mr. Knockout Pierce become the boy wonder of fistiana. Always a cold-eyed gambler, Jimmy McManus hesitated, however, about signin' him to meet Kid Roberts. The punch that knocked Enright dead might of been a fluke and James didn't want to hire nobody which the Kid would stop with his first feint. Immediately the typewriters opened up on us from all over the ex-Land of the Spree. We was accused of pickin' boloneys and bein' scared stiff of Pierce which had flattened the tough Enright in less than a round, whereas the champion had required seven frames for the same job. Nine out every ten of them sport writers knew in their hearts that it was the beatin' Enright had got from the Kid which softened him up and made him a mark for Pierce. How the so ever, McManus quit to the newspapers and signed Knockout Pierce to meet Kid Roberts in a twenty-round mêlée for the heavyweight championship of the wide, wide world.

A lot of weeks was throwed away like they always is before a championship fight, in selectin' the time,

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 the place, and the referee for this quarrel. This wasn't our fault. Kid Roberts had about the same interest in who, where, and when he was goin' to box as I have in the price of putty at Budapest. Like all champions, he figured himself invincible. Understand, the boy didn't brag about it; Kid Roberts and conceit was as far apart as 6 and 6,000. He looked on himself as bein' unbeatable as calmly as he regarded the risin' sun—but also, with the same belief that it was a fact. From the time I bought his contract from Dummy Carney for a hundred fish when he was a nervous, green, preliminary boloney till the day he quit the ring, the Kid ducked nobody, drawed no color lines, or argued over weights, distance, or referees. He left everything to my judgment, and the tougher they come the better.

So, bein' around New York, and havin' no more interest in Knockout Pierce than he ever did in any of his comin' opponents, this delay in cinchin' the fight tickled the Kid silly.

For one thing, it give him some time to devote to Dolores Brewster—which would of caused Cleopatra to jump in the handiest lake—and for another thing, it give him a chance to do some campaignin' for her father, which at that time was runnin' for reëlection to the U. S. Senate. Dolores headed a committee of Janes, whilst the Kid had organized a bunch of his ex-playmates from sweet old Yale and went hithers and you about the State makin' speeches for Senator Brewster. By a strange coincidence, as we remark on the campus, the Senator was a former New Haven cut-up himself.

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 Now I had no objections to Kid Roberts helpin' Senator Brewster to breeze home in front, because besides bein' a forty-six carat fight fan, as tamiliar a figure as the referee at all the big bouts, the Sen of course, was the Kid's comin' father-in-law and a allaround regular guy. But I did holler murder about the Kid neglectin' his trainin', stayin' up to all hours of the night campaignin' for the Senator, fillin' himself up with this fancy and fattenin' chow at these dinner parties Dolores was always givin', and chasin' back and forth to Long Island superintendin' the buildin' of the palace him and her was goin' to live happy ever after in. The long, tough years of the strict and monotonous trainin' grind, the early-to-bed and early-to-rise thing, duckin' the jazz and practically livin' like a monk, had all come to a end now accordin' to the Kid's way of thinkin'. He was enjoyin' himself with this political campaignin', seein' Dolores every day, and loungin' around in a dress suit after 6 p. m. where they was soft lights and music and good-lookin', blue-blooded Janes, instead of the reekin' din of a smoke filled fight club and the smell of blood and arnica. He didn't want to be bothered, and when Knockout Pierce come to New York to box Gunner Macy, Kid Roberts refused to go with me for the purpose of gettin' a line on Pierce's wares.

Well, I went—and I seen enough to keep me awake many's the night in the next few months! Knockout Pierce, a cold-eyed, snarlin', six-foot, 220-pound fightin' machine of bone and muscle, let Gunner Macy stay two rounds so's to give his first metropolitan audience somethin' to talk about. He presented the be-

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 wildered Macy with a sparrin' lesson, let the Gunner crack him to show the sharps he could take it, and flitted about the ring like a startled ghost till twice the Gunner fell on his ear from throwin' wallops at Pierce that missed by fractions of a inch. Why, this baby was clever enough to of boxed ten rounds under a needle shower and never get hit by a drop of water, and oh, how he could sock! A curvin' round-armed right swing twenty seconds after the start of the third round sent Gunner Macy to dreamland and the customers went home swearin' they'd see the Kid Roberts-Knockout Pierce quarrel if it was staged on Mars.

Well, at that, it would of been well worth the trip!

A week or so after this a big show is put on at a theatre in the land of Newark, N. J., for the benefit of Thirsty Timbuctoo, Starvin' Siberia, Hungry Hungary, or Sufferin' Sebastopol. I forget now which one of our League of Poor Relations was goin' to get this jack. Anyways the Kid dropped everything, as he always did to help any charity, and appeared on the bill in a exhibition with a sparrin' partner.

I was sittin' in his dressin' room waitin' for him to come off, when the guy which keeps the yokels away from the stage door comes in and hands me a card. It says like this:

A woman sport writer is a bit new, I thinks. Still and all, I have never been no ladies' man—in fact I

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 have ducked the adjoinin' sex all my life, thereby missin' a lot of fun and a equal amount of trouble. Whilst I am hesitatin', the doorkeeper butts in with the information that since he has been holdin' down his present portfolio he has seen more breath-takin' young women than Flo Ziegfeld ever did, but the girl which was waitin' to see Kid Roberts would of made Columbus forget what he sailed from Spain for. After hearin' this sensational piece of news, I figured it was no more than polite to see what the young lady wished.

I barely got time to smooth my hair when into the dressin' room steps what all the poets thinks Eve looked like, except, of course, she was dressed different. They is no more use of me attemptin' to describe Joan Stillwell than they is of me tryin' to cross the Pacific on a motorcycle. I may give you a faint idea of her when I say that, hard-boiled as I am, she looked as good to my startled eyes as Venus, $5,000 a week, a California sunset, all the peaches and cream in the world, the Prince of Wales's future, Rockefeller's bank roll, and Mary Pickford! A set of classy scenery in no ways concealed a—eh—figure which would of drove Helen from Troy to suicide, and I suppose when Joan reads this she'll laugh herself sick.

Anyways, boys and girls, by the time she had raised a pair of blue eyes which give me more kick than I ever got over a bar before the plague, I am as short of breath as I am of degrees from Oxford.

"Oh—pardon me, is Mister Roberts here?" she asks, gettin' a bit red under my dumfounded stare.

"He is for all I know," I says, with a goofy grin. "Look around—I'm dizzy!"

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 She gazes at me closely for a second, and then she smiles. She knew she had goaled me all right—she'd probably watched 'em swoon away like that since her fifteenth birthday. Still out on my feet, I got her a chair and asked her what she wished, prepared to see that she got it if it was Niagara Falls.

"Why, I wanted to interview the champion for the 'Evening Yell, she tells me. "I intend doing some articles on him from a woman's viewpoint for the sporting page. I—I won't keep him long—just so I can get a few interesting facts about his rise to the top of his profession and that sort of thing, you know. You are his manager, aren't you?"

I am still in a trance, but manage to say yes.

"Perhaps you can tell me a few things while I'm waiting for him, then," she says, tryin' not to giggle, I suppose. "For instance, is it really true that he is a Yale man?"

Well, I was gettin' kind of used to this dazzlin' beauty then, and I cut loose with well-oiled and free-swingin' tongue on my favorite subject, to the viz., Kid Roberts. Whilst Joan of Newark listened with glistenin' eyes, I told her all the stuff you know about, and she seemed to be eatin' it up, only interruptin' now and then to ask a question about a date or the like and mark it down in her notebook. She seemed to think it marvelous that the Kid was due to marry into the family of a U. S. Senator and that his father had made such a wonderful comeback, and she asked me a lot about that. Well, I aimed to satisfy the girl, and I was as full of details as a income-tax blank.

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 Whilst she's still cross-examinin' me, in comes no less than Kid Roberts himself. I was watchin' close, and I seen the deep breath he took before he gazed at me and then back to her with a sudden smile. Joan has stood up the minute he come in, and them sapphire eyes of hers showed that the Kid had registered heavy with our fair young visitor. Kid Roberts was a natural lady assassin, if they ever was one. Lookin' from one to the other of 'em give me the blues—not that I had my fears about the Kid forgettin' Dolores. It just happened to bring to my mind what a fat chance I had of ever grabbin' off for myself anyone like either Dolores or Joan, and right then and there I knew that nothin' less than a duplicate of 'em would do.

In talkin' about his future plans, the Kid tells Joan how tickled he'll be wken he has fought Knockout Pierce and retired, as whilst he liked boxin', he hated the prize ring and its "sordid, bestial atmosphere!" as he called it.

"Oh, I'm so glad to hear you say that, Mister Halliday!" says Joan, callin' him by his real name like he asked her. "I wish my little brother could hear those sentiments coming from you, the world's champion boxer. You know"—she smiles cutely—"you're a god to him; his room is literally covered with your pictures from the sporting magazines!"

"He is a boxing enthusiast?" asks the Kid politely.

"He's a little imp!" laughs Joan. "But the best-hearted, cleanest, and manliest little fellow in the world," she adds proudly, lookin' from me to the Kid like she would love to see somebody try and deny it. "Jimmy has designs on the lightweight championship,"

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 missus, I don't like dees mularter niggers, no how; dey always want to set dey sef up for something big." The cook was black, and was not without that prejudice which is to be found among the negroes, as well as among the whites of the Southern States. The sun had the desired effect, for in less than a fortnight Mary's fair complexion had disappeared, and she was but little whiter than any other mulatto children running about the yard. But the close resemblance between the father and child annoyed the mistress more than the mere whiteness of the child's complexion. Horatio made proposition after proposition to have the girl sent away, for every time he beheld her countenance it reminded him of the happy days he had spent with Clotel. But his wife had commenced, and determined to carry out her unfeeling and fiendish designs. This child was not only white, but she was the granddaughter of Thomas Jefferson, the man who, when speaking against slavery in the legislature of Virginia, said,

"The whole commerce between master and slave is a perpetual exercise of the most boisterous passions; the most unremitting despotism on the one part, and degrading submission on the other. With what execration should the statesman he loaded who, permitting one half the citizens thus to trample on the rights of the other, transforms those into despots and these into enemies, destroys the morals of the one port, and the amor patri of the other! For if the slave can have a country in this world, it must be any other in preference to that in which he is born to live and labour for another; in which he must lock up the faculties of his nature, contribute as far as depends on his individual endeavours to the evanishment of the human race, or entail his own miserable condition on the endless generations proceeding from him. And can the liberties of a nation be thought secure when we have removed their only firm basis, a conviction in the minds of the people that these liberties are the gift of God? that they are not to be violated

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 she explains. "He's a shipping clerk by day and "Oneand 'One [sic]-Round Stillwell,' or some such horrible person, by night at those awful clubs. Jimmy loves me, and ordinarily I can do anything with him—there's just the two of us, you know—but he is determined to be a prize fighter. Oh, I wish I could ask you—to—to—see him, Mister Halliday, and speak to him as you did to me," she winds up earnestly. "He's such a young boy and—"

"We'll both talk with him, Miss Stillwell," butts in the Kid, as she hesitates. "And I think I know of a perfectly harmless way of showing your brother what a little chump he is to throw away his best years in the prize ring. I'll be glad to help." He turns to me. "Find out where the boy is fighting, old man," he says, "and bring him over to see me. If arguments fail, I think he would be glad of a chance to make himself useful around the gym. We can even intimate to him that he's part of my—er—camp, and I think," he winds up, turnin' back to Joan, "I think that about a week of the hard and thankless work will cure him quicker than anything any of us might tell him. Want to try it?"

"I think you are perfectly splendid—thanks awfully!" says Joan, throwin' her smile into high. "You can find him at nights around the Aldine Athletic Club here. Most any of the men can point him out to you—in fact, he already has quite a swarm of admirers. And now I won't bother you any longer; good-bye and thanks, both of you, for everything!"

Gee, but that room looked empty after she'd went!

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 "Kid," I says to Roberts, still sniffin' the perfume she left in the air, "for a damsel like that I would cut off both arms with my face wreathed in smiles!"

"You'd find yourself at a disadvantage, then, if you won her," he grins, gettin' into his citizen's clothes. "She certainly appears to be a charming girl, and I wish you luck!"

"Wish me luck?" I sighs—ain't love tough, hey? "Why, I got the same identical chance of makin' Miss Stillwell as I have of bein' elected the next king of England by acclamation!"

"Look here," says the Kid, stoppin' in the midst of combin' his hair and comin' over to lay his hands on my shoulders. "Don't ever let me hear you talk in that strain again! I've known you now for almost four years—we've been together, fair weather and foul. My success has rested more than once upon your honesty, judgment, and courage. You assume a hard-boiled cynicism, but you're a darn big fraud, old fellow, and the finer things of life have as strong an appeal to you as they do to the 'drawing-room set' that you pretend to ridicule. You're a he-man, with the heart of, no doubt, your mother, and if you had a single fundamental weakness of character you never could have hidden it from me, during what we've been through since I got into this infernal game! I know you better than you do yourself—far better—and if you were my brother I'm sure I'd boast of the relationship. So don't patronize yourself old boy; you're as good as the next one and better than most. If Joan Stillwell is to be the one, she is a very fortunate young woman!"

Even though I knew they was none of the above true,

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 I found more difficulty with my Adam's apple for the space of a second than I have had in years. Likewise, I seemed to have got somethin' in my eyes.

"Kid," I says, fin'ly, "I—I—you big stiff!"

And grabbin' one of his shoes from the floor, I heaved it at him for the purposes of changin' the subject and—eh—gettin' control. . ..

Well, a couple of days after, me and the Kid is sittin' in the rooms at the hotel, when the desk phones up to find out will we see some reporters. As counterfeiters, yeggs, murderers, and the like is about the only human bein's in this wide, wide world which is tellin' the truth when they claim they don't like publicity, I says to send the boys right up. When I opened the door to let 'em in a few minutes later, I couldn't blame the Kid for givin' vent to a gasp of surprise. It looked more like we was going to be raided instead of interviewed! They was about fifteen young men filed into the room, and although I knew all the sport writers of the New York papers, these babies was strangers to me. A tall thin one coughs and says to me:

"Eh—I'm with the 'Post'—eh—did you give an interview to the Newark 'Evening Yell' the other day?"

"Sure!" I grins. "I told the story of the Kid's life to a young lady by the name of Miss Stillwell, which wanted the same for the sportin' page."

"For the sporting page, eh?" says the reporter, lookin' around at the other guys, some of which laughs out loud. "Clever girl!" he goes on, facin' me again. "She's losing time in Newark—that's a cinch!"

The Kid frowns, and I took a step toward this guy.

"Mister Roberts—eh—pardon me, Mister Halliday

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 —" says the reporter, "how long has Senator Brewster been a business partner of your father's, and is it true that the senator—eh—bought your father's seat on the Stock Exchange?"

Wow!

"What the devil are you talking about?" busts out the Kid, his face gettin' red. "You had better put your questions in less offensive language, young man, or—I say, what's the idea of all this, anyhow?"

The reporter grins and takes a folded newspaper from his pocket and hands it to the Kid. "Of course," he says smoothly, "you know that the Newark 'Evening Yell' is a party organ in this neck of the woods, and, naturally, your—eh—this rather amazing disclosure regarding Senator Brewster that you made to a member of its staff was a wonderful political weapon for them."

But the Kid, glancin' nervously over the newspaper, has suddenly let out a muttered, gaspin' cuss, and spread the paper out so's I could see it. Right smack on page 1 is a headline as big as Chicago:

Well I just flopped in a chair and watched the room go round and round. So Joan had doubled-crossed us!

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 She'd pumped me dry—took everything I told her and twisted it around till it meant a darn sight more than was actually true. And here this other reporter had just tricked me into admittin' this was all facts! Can you picture what that article was goin' to do to the old senator, practically on the eve of election? I knew then how Samson felt when Delilah give him that haircut!

"I have nothing to say regarding this article," the Kid is tellin' the reporters, edgin' them over to the door, "except that it is a vicious mass of distorted facts and lying insinuations! I have no doubt that both my father and Senator Brewster will have a statement to make later. Good morning, gentlemen!"

"Fair enough!" says the thin guy, steppin' to the door.

"Is it true that you're engaged to Miss Brewster?" pipes up another one.

"None of your damned business!" barks the Kid, now on edge.

Nobody was slow gettin' through the door.

At that minute the phone rings, and the Kid, bein' nearest, answered. It was no less than Senator Brewster himself, and from the Kid's face and his chokin' interruptions, I could see the boy was takin' punishment! At last he hangs up and turns to me, frownin' and bitin' his lip. I am all set for the bawlin' out of my life.

"Well, go ahead and tie into me, Kid," I says gloomily. "I'm the dumb-bell which spilled the limas, and—"

"No," says the Kid, his face clearin'. "It wasn't your fault at all. You didn't fathom the girl's shrewdness, and I wouldn't have either. We've both

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 already talked too much to a very clever reporter! Cloaking her real purpose under the request for an interview for the sporting page, our friend Joan Stillwell scored a notable victory for the senator's enemies. According to her rather peculiar lights, I suppose she did a good job!" He pats my shoulder. "Cheer up," he adds; "it can't be helped now. For your sake as well as the senator's, I'm sorry she bilked us—you were rather hard hit, weren't you?"

"I fell—sure!" I admits. "But that's all over now. I guess that stuff about her kid brother bein' a scrapper was the bunk too—hey?"

"Probably," says the Kid with a hard, short laugh. "Though that was a touch that approached art! We'll never see her again, at any rate. I'll wager she's laughing herself sick right now at the way she took us in!"

But we did see her again, and she wasn't laughin' either.

We was gettin' ready to go down and put on the feed bag, when once again the phone makes good and again the Kid answers it. This time he says: "Come right up!" in a funny voice, hangs up, and turns to me with a smile. "Stand a slight shock?" he says.

"Now what the—eh—what's the matter?" I hollers, jumpin' up. "Who was that?"

"Miss Joan Stillwell," answers the Kid.

Then there's a knock at the door, and I flung it wide open with a snarl. Joan was there all right and, sore as I was—I was more hurt than mad, anyways—I noticed she was as bewilderin' as ever! She's been

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 doin' a piece of weepin' also, as I seen when she raised her veil and stepped kind of hesitatin'ly inside. Kid Roberts pulls over a chair for her with a stiff bow—mad or otherwise, the boy was always a gent.

"Well," I smeers, standin' beside her chair, "what are you figurin' on puttin' over now, hey?"

With that she buries her billion-dollar face in her hands and busts right out cryin'!

This was all different, and me and the Kid looks at each other in the greatest of surprise. The first thing I know I am pattin' a silk-clad shoulder and whisperin' sweet nothin's at where I guessed her ear was, and on the other side Kid Roberts is doin' ditto. A couple of fine, strong men, hey?

"I suppose you—you loathe me!" says Joan to me with quiverin' lips.

"Do I look it?" I says kind of sadly. The Kid smiles sarcastically, and this seems to get her goat.

"Won't both of you at least listen to an explanation?" she asks. "You don't have to believe it, you know."

"No," says the Kid, still smilin' politely but coldly, "we don't have to believe it. Eh—proceed, Miss Stillwell; I'm sure you will be interesting."

Her face floods with red at that, but she was game! Me—I'm completely gone again! I even managed to slip her a encouragin' look, and got a glance in exchange for it—that repaid me with usurious interest.

"I want you to know that I was innocent of any malicious intent when I got that interview from you," she says, the words just tumblin' out. "I was not trying to be cunning or clever or—or—anything! I wrote that interview as a straight sporting story, putting

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 no value on the—the—political weapons you accidentally placed in my hands, beyond the fact that they lent color and romance to my yarn. But the sporting editor, with his horrid trained nose for news, sniffed out my story's news value and gave it to the city editor. With the aid of a rewrite man and the staff political writers, he did the rest! They showed me the proofs of my rehashed copy, and I stormed and pleaded to have it kept out of the paper, without avail. Why, that man actually patted me on the back and promised me a bonus for what he said was a shrewd piece of work on my part. I am not shrewd! I didn't mean to be—I—I hate that word—I—well, I immediately resigned, that's all! And now—"

The Kid reaches for his hat. "And now," he repeats after her, "will you come with me and tell all that to Senator Brewster, Miss Stillwell? It will help every one of us immensely if you will, and I, for one, believe your story without question."

"Why, I'll be only too glad to explain to the Senator," says Joan. "Of course I'll go."

"Just a minute, Miss Stillwell. Was that stuff about your brother bein' a box fighter—eh—was that level too?" I butts in.

"He's going to box at the Aldine Athletic Club to-night," she says. "But I suppose now you won't bother to—"

"You suppose wrong," I says. "I'll go over and see him, as advertised. And don't you let Senator Brewster bawl you out either. We're all apt to make missakes, as Eve remarked."

Well, that night, as they say in the movies, I eased

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 into a ringside seat at the Aldine A. C. in Newark at exactly 9.30, and at exactly 9.33 Joan's brother, "Young Stillwell," climbed through the ropes to earn the fifty bucks he was guaranteed for a six-round preliminary with another boloney. At exactly 9.50 I had what I firmly believed to be the next lightweight champion signed to a contract puttin' him under my management for a term of three years, subject to sister Joan's approval. There is nothin' I like so much as speed!

The "lightweight" in the opposite corner from Young Stillwell must of tipped the beam at 150 if he weighed a gram, whilst Joan's kid brother looked well under 135. He was far from handsome, accordin' to collar advertisement standards, but he sure looked beautiful to me! This baby had a pair of shoulders on him like a heavyweight, the short, thick neck, square jaw, high cheek bones, thin lips, and beetlin', rugged brow of the natural-born fighter which craves no other weapons but his hands. His legs was the muscular limbs of the distance runner and as he flexed himself against the ropes whilst awaitin' the bell, his powerful arms showed a wonderful reach. That the mob was with him was displayed when he first jumped into the ring and shed his bath robe. The first time he looked at the guy he was goin' to fight was when they shook hands in mid ring and went to work.

It was a wow of a brawl whilst it lasted, but a minute ain't very long. Never in your life have you seen such a change as come over Young Stillwell with the sound of the bell. The grin left his thin lips like magic, and he licked 'em hungrily with the snarl of a short-tempered panther. The heavy brows drawed together,

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 almost meetin' in a curvin', shaggy line as he shot off that stool like he'd been released with a spring. The other guy was tough and willin', but that wasn't enough. Stillwell hit him with everything but the club's license and the, floorin' his man three times before the referee declared a armistice. His handlers dragged him to his corner, still lookin' back at what he left on the floor and still snarlin'. Joan's bloodcurdlin' brother wasn't satisfied with just a win—he wanted to finish his man. That baby was a fightin' fool!

Well, Young Stillwell liked to passed away when the club matchmaker banged on his dressin'-room door and told him that the manager of the world's heavyweight champion wished a word with him. This man-eatin' tiger was so timid that he couldn't speak.

I was already plannin' how I'd ease him along, teach him to hit from the shoulder, and knock 'em stiff with one wallop, instead of beatin' 'em down slowly with a hundred pulled from the ankle.

He nearly went cuckoo with joy when I told him he would get a chance to help condition Kid Roberts for his comin' championship battle with Knockout Pierce, as part of his own trainin', and I could of signed him to a agreement right then and there givin' me 90 per cent of his earnin's. But I give Young Stillwell a fair contract—in fact, what many's the pilot would call a sucker contract, with me the sucker.

Within the week Jimmy McManus, the fight promoter, called me and Knockout Pierce's manager into a conference, with the results that the date for the big quarrel was fin'ly set for two months later. Knock-

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 out Pierce wanted to make it the same day, but ten years from then would of hit me better!

I rounded up Kid Roberts and told him to cancel all games he had scheduled with Dolores and Senator Brewster, because he was goin' to hit for the Maine woods immediately to ready up for Knockout Pierce. Before I was through he shut me off and begin to rave about the palace he had built on Long Island for him and Dolores. The last brick had just been laid a few days before, and nothin' would do but I must come right down with him and look it over. He was like a baby with a new toy, and bubbled away about the "blue room" and the "red room" and the gardens and this and that. He was less interested in the date of his fight with Knockout Pierce than a shark is interested in the price of ice skates. Before I realize it I am huddled beside him in his racin' car, burnin' the roads to Long Island.

Well, there is no use of me describin' the Kid's domicile, because that would make a serial itself. They seemed to be upward of a million rooms in it—rooms full of rugs which you sunk in up to your knees, and furniture which would of brought a pleased grin from Midas. They was a large, private swimmin' pool lookin' like pictures of the old Roman baths, a fully equipped gymnasium with a regulation ring and the etc., a ballroom that—exercise your own imagination, boys and girls, on the rest of the layout, and the wilder you guess the nearer you'll come!

Fin'ly we come to two big rooms joined together and Openin' into a bathroom as big as the average flat.

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 There was a elegant view of the Sound from the windows, and it looked to me like there was every modern convenience in it with the exception of a airplane and maybe a private theater.

"A dude of a cave, Kid," I says admirin'ly. "Why—"

"I'm glad you like it," he butts in, throwin' his arm around my shoulders, "because—it's yours!"

Sweet Mamma! Can you imagine that?

Well, I don't know when I got the kick out of life like I did when Kid Roberts made that simple remark. In spite of the difference in our pedigrees and that it was only a accident which ever throwed us together at all, he was with me right to the end! He wanted me to come and live in his house with him, just like one of the family, and he must of knowed as I did that Dolores, which would be havin' the place filled with her society friends, would holler murder at the idea of a roughneck like me bein' a permanent ornament about the house. Yet for me the Kid was willin' to risk a jam with her. But I wasn't willin' to let him. I didn't want nothin' to come up which would start the faintest argument on my account, so after I thanked the Kid all over the place I explained to him that I'd be out of order there, or, at least, that I'd feel that way, and besides, I couldn't get out of the fight game with the ease that he was goin' to, because box fightin' is the only game I know. He broke in on me many times, tellin' me he'd take me in partnership with him and his dad, but I couldn't see that part of it either. Where in the Hades would I fit in Wall Street and society? Even whilst the Kid argued with me, my mind was

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 wanderin'. Wanderin' back to Young Stillwell, which I was goin' to make lightweight champion of the world as sure as the ocean is damp and just as I made Kid Roberts king of the heavies. Kid Roberts was through after his fight with Knockout Pierce, but I had to continue on at the trade I was born to—and king maker ain't so bad a trade at that! You see, the story of Kid Roberts represents practically his whole career, but it's just a chapter in my life. Just a chapter!

I told the Kid about Young Stillwell and what I hoped to do with him, and when he seen it was no use to argue further he grinned and wished me luck, particularly in convincin' Joan that a box fighter ain't necessarily a bum. Well, on that point I had hopes, because I had managed to make the girl agree to see her brother box once, and I promised to tear up my contract with the boy if she asked me to after that. This come about in a odd way. There was what the Kid would call a incident happened which give me the delightful sensations of bein' a hero for a spell.

Havin' convinced Senator Brewster that she hadn't double-crossed us with that article in the Newark "Evenin' Yell," Joan was on one of Dolores' committees, campaignin' with her for the female vote. The senator's campaignin' manager, Mike Henderson, a wise old bird and a veteran at political tricks, took the angle that Joan's story in the Newark paper, which had been reprinted in New York, would do the senator more good than harm. He claimed the broadcast publication of the fact that his daughter was goin' to marry a box fighter would make a unqualified hit with the rough

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 and readys, whilst the hint of his Wall Street connections, even though exaggerated, would do him no harm with that type of vote. Altogether, Big Mike was well pleased and had congratulated Joan in the Senator's office, prob'ly fallin' under the spell of them eyes himself. Joan would of gave a mummy a thrill! Senator Brewster, whilst not as enthusiastic as Henderson, had forgave Joan and was undoubtlessly interested in her.

But, anyways, Joan was speakin' from the back of a auto down on Tenth Avenue one night, with me and her brother along as bodyguards. We was right in the middle of the guy's territory which was runnin' against Senator Brewster, and there was some tough-lookin' babies gathered around the bus. The whole thing didn't take fifteen minutes, but that was long enough to close my right eye tighter than a drum and loosen a few odd teeth. Somebody made a insultin' crack, and Young Stillwell goes over the side of the car in one leap, both hands pumpin' fast. Joan let forth a shriek, and a guy jumpin' on the runnin' board copped the chauffeur on the jaw.

I flattened that baby with a chop on the side of the head, and then I figured that if Young Stillwell got badly hurt I would be out one comin' champion, whereas if I got beat up it wouldn't mean nothin'. Havin' got that settled I jumped into the strugglin' mass around the car, layin' about me right merrily, as the sayin' is. I ain't much of a gymnasium boxer myself, but if I do say it I fight a mean street brawl! There was two guys workin' on Stillwell, and I yanked him in back of me, pushin' him into the car whilst I buried my knee in the stomach of one of 'em and, with-

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 out losin' position, socked the other one stiff with a right uppercut that not even Kid Roberts would of had to apologize for. The chauffeur had come to life by this time and started the motor, and after I have distributed a few more clouts where they would do the most good and—eh—stopped a few myself, I managed to jump back into the car again and we shot away, and that's all there was to that.

Joan wiped my face off with her handerchiefhandkerchief [sic] and made a heavy fuss over me for "rescuin her, as she put it, whereas, to be frank with you, the main thing I was thinkin' of when I went over the top of that auto was that under no circumstances did I want my comin' champ beat up!

Well, I couldn't get Kid Roberts to come away from New York and Dolores, although four times we split up for good as a result of arguments over his ideas of trainin' for a championship fight. The best he would do was some mechanical boxin' and weight pullin' a few hours a day. There was times when I didn't even see him for days, and that's the way the two months went by till the day of the battle with Knockout Pierce and the last appearance in the ring of Kid Roberts.

I had Joan's brother set for one of the preliminaries. He was to go six rounds with "Shifty" Mullen—a tough boy—and I demanded and got $500 for him, more money than Young Stillwell had ever seen before in his life. As she promised, Joan was there beside me at the ringside, white-faced and tremblin', braced to see a bloody slaughter. The absence of his usual reception from the bigger, noisier, and nastier

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 mob, the presence of his sister seein' him start for the first time, and the sullen glare across the ring of the rugged, experienced Shifty Mullen, all bothered this young wildcat the same way they are bothered in Iceland over the price of electric fans. Fightin' was Young Stillwell's gift—his trick! He touched gloves with Mullen, danced back till he felt the ropes against his skin, and then bounded off 'em like a maniac—nothin' else. The hard-boiled Mullen clipped him on the chin with a terrible right as he was comin' in, and then stepped away to let him fall. Young Stillwell grinned over to Joan and went to work on the body with both hands. Mullen tried everything he knew, but it was a waste of time. In two and a half minutes Young Stillwell had battered him to the canvas, where he was only too glad to stay—all through.

The boy got a big hand leavin' the ring, and Joan, her eyes sparklin', led the cheering. Her brother was back from the dressin' room in no time, unmarked, unruffled, and grinnin' his head off. I pulled him aside and slipped him the whole five hundred berries. I didn't take a nickel from the boy—the purse was too small, and then, again, I knowed I'd get mine later. He dumps the bills into Joan's lap and shouts that I've guaranteed him twenty thousand the next year. They was still excitedly chatterin' away to each other as Young Stillwell led her down the aisle and out, and a blind man could see Joan was a convert.

But Kid Roberts's fight—his last battle—was all different, and I was mighty glad that Joan had left the abattoir and that Dolores had kept away. Up against a remarkably clever, two-handed hitter, which had the

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 priceless advantage of youth, perfect condition, reach, and about twelve pounds in weight, the champion fought a losin' fight almost from the first bell. The old stamina wasn't there, the old perfect timin' of punches was gone, the once terrible right hook had lost its kick.

Too much confidence, too much easy livin', chasin' around at all hours of the day and night makin' speeches for Senator Brewster, and the most fatal—holdin' Knockout Pierce too cheaply—told the story. With everything missin' but his heart, Kid Roberts fought eleven bloody, desperate rounds on that alone before goin' out like the champ of champs he was! He didn't need to make no apologies as he staggered down the aisle to his dressin' room after it was all over, between rows of guys which had gone crazy cheerin' him, and still kept on cheerin' him, ignorin' the flushed and pantin' new champion till they had give the Kid his due. That must of helped a little, hey?

Nobody amongst the odd 30,000 screamin' maniacs which seen Kid Roberts go down before Knockout Pierce sat on a chair from the first round to the finish—nobody could speak above a whisper for days afterward. At the very beginnin' there was enough sensation to satisfy Nero! After some light sparrin', the Kid led with his left, but was short and got a crack on the nose in return that brought the blood and a yell from Pierce's friendsof "How d'ye like him, Roberts?" Again the Kid tried his left, and this time landed solidly on the mouth, but Pierce shook his head and drove a wicked right to the wind and a left to the heart, showin' he had been tipped on the Kid's poor condition, and was

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 instructed to work on the body. They exchanged light jabs in Pierce's corner, and, in dancin' away, Pierce slipped to the floor. Kid Roberts instantly stooped and helped him up, gettin' a big hand from the crowd and a shake from Pierce, who then suddenly ripped another right to the heart. The Kid's face paled and down come his guard. Wam! Like a flash Pierce had hooked his left to the jaw, and the champ sprawled on his back whilst the house was in a wild uproar.

Roberts was up at "seven," groggy but full of fight. He tried to rush Pierce, but this guy stepped coolly aside and floored the Kid again with a right chop to the side of the head. The Kid got to his hands and knees, pulled himself erect by the ropes, and, only waitin' till he straightened up with his arms danglin' helplessly, Pierce shot over two more hard rights, crashin' him again to the mat.

By this time the mob was tearin' up the seats, and I had bit entirely through my lower lip. The champion just beat the count by a eyelash, got up reelin', but had generalship enough left to fold his arms over his head and dive into a clinch. Pierce, strong as a young bull, shook him off, however, and was measurin' him for the finisher when the bell rang. Knockout Pierce run to his corner, wavin' his gloves at the crazy mob. The Kid sagged over against the ropes and would of fell through 'em if I hadn't grabbed him. His eyes was starin' vacantly at nothin'.

Well, a round-by-round account of this battle would not be pretty, and it brings back no fond memories to me, except to remind me of a exhibition of courage which has been seldom equaled and never surpassed in

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 the history of a game where courage is the first requirement. From that heartbreakin' first round on, the Kid was on Queer Street, battlin' without a chance and battlin' on the pure fightin' instinct which must of been bred into him by centuries of thoroughbred stock.

In the fourth round Knockout Pierce devoted all his attention to the Kid's reddened body, and one of the champion's ribs, busted a year before by Dynamite Jackson, cracked again under the bombardment, changin' the Kid's complexion to a sickly gray with pain from then on. In Round Seven, Pierce closed the Kid's right eye tight, and in the ninth shut the other. Blinded, unable even to see where his punches was goin', the Kid wouldn't let me throw in the sponge, but stood up to his beatin' like somethin' even higher than a champion—if there es any such thing! Even the guys which had bet on Pierce was tearin' the air now with their cheers for Kid Roberts—or maybe their cheers was not so much for the battered, grimly pawin' Kid as they was for the fightin' heart which kept his tremblin' body erect. Man, pan the fight game all you want—call it brutal, disgustin', crooked, sordid, anything you please, but don't say you can't get a kick out of it!

In the tenth round Kid Roberts made a dyin' rally that panicked the already hysterical mob. Findin' Pierce, by instinct alone it must of been, he split his nose with a straight left and drove him to cover against the ropes with a desperate flurry of hooks and swings. But that was the last. Nature was beginnin' to reach for the sponge now! Yet this big stiff Pierce, his

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 own heart broke by the Kid's superhuman exhibition of gameness, seemed unable to land the finishin' blow—the clean knockout which would of wound it up mercifully. I cursed that guy for a tramp till the referee warned me, as he cut and slashed wildly at the swayin', blinded champ, every blow that socked against that boy bein' a knife in my own poundin' heart.

Then, in the middle of the eleventh round, I couldn't stand it no longer! Kid Roberts, holdin' himself up with one arm on the ropes was feebly tryin' to protect himself with the other from a hurricane of rights and lefts to the head. Pierce was too excited at the prospects of a knockout to stand off and measure him, but was batterin' him to pieces with short, choppy blows. With tears that I ain't ashamed of streamin' down my face, I jumped through the ropes, pushed past the referee in between 'em and caught the Kid in my arms, shovin' my face into Pierce's and yellin' in a voice that I didn't recognize: "Leave him alone, you big stiff. You'll make a fine champ, you will! You're a hell of a finisher—you can't knock a dyin' man stiff!"

Then half the crowd was in the ring with me, and Knockout Pierce stood alone, whilst the mob fought to shake the hand of the loser.

For many's the week afterward the sport writers panned me to a fare-thee-well, arguin' that I lost Kid Roberts the title by committin' the foul of jumpin' into the ring. They claimed the Kid might of come back—that with his heart he always had a chance while he was in there. Well, boys and girls, that's what I funped in for. I wanted them babies to think just that! It was about the last thing I could do for Kid Roberts,

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 anyways. The boy was licked, as they all have to be some time. Why should I let that big stiff cut him to pieces? I made him lose on a foul and saved him at least the disgrace a champ never forgets—bein' knocked stiff!

Well, that's about all. Senator Brewster was reelected; I don't remember by how much majority, but if it was one it was enough, hey? He presented Joan with a job as his private secretary and Dolores with a check for $250,000 when she married Kid Roberts, or Kane Halliday again now, a month after the fight. I had the exactin' portfolio of best man at the weddin' and Joan was a bridesmaid. It was a very quiet affair, no hullabaloo what the so ever, and they sailed for Europe right afterward, leavin' the loneliest guy in the world on the dock, meanin' me. I went back to the hotel, looked in the Kid's room which he would never occupy again, cussed a bit, and begin linin' up a campaign amongst the set-ups for Young Stillwell. Not bein' able to keep my mind on the subject, what with all the excitement and the etc., I called up Joan and, usin' nerve which I never thought was in me, I asked her could I take her to dinner and then maybe to a show. She said she'd be tickled silly, which made it two people which felt that way. I asked about Jimmy, her brother, and she says he's fine and is now goin' to bed at nine and gettin' up at six to do his road work.

"I hear nothing day and night but what a wonderful person you are," she says. "Jimmy already looks upon you as his big brother!"

"Eh—oh, he'll get over that," I says, kind of thrilled.

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 "Maybe he will," says Joan, very soft, "but I won't!"

A couple of months later we sent the Kid a cable to Monte Carlo. I would liked to of seen his face when he read it.

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text: The Leather Pushers (1921, G. P. Putnam's Sons)


text: The Leather Pushers (1921, G. P. Putnam's Sons)/Round 1


text:
Page:The lay of the Nibelungs; (IA nibelungslay00hortrich).pdf/411

Within the door an entrance thus gallant Dankwart made;

The household folk of Etzel to stand aside he bade.

The whole of his apparel bespatter’d was with gore;

A mighty naked weapon within his hand he bore.

Then loudly Dankwart shouted before the assembled throng:

“Bestir thee, brother Hagen, thou sittest all too long!

To thee and God in Heaven appeal I in our need:

Yeomen and knights together lie in the hostel dead.”

And he cried back in answer: “And who hath done it then?”

Quoth Dankwart: “The Lord Bloedel, together with his men.

But dearly hath he paid it, that would I have you know.

I smote his head from off him; mine own hand gave the blow.”

“’Tis but a little grievance,” quoth Hagen of Tronjé;

“Whene’er one has occasion of any thane to say,

That he by hands of warrior was of his life fordone,

So much the less fair women for him have need to moan.

“Now tell me, brother Dankwart, why all so red ye be?

Methinks that thou art wounded and suffer’st grievously.

If in the land he liveth who this on thee hath done,

Except the foul fiend save him, his life’s as good as gone.”


text: The Leather Pushers (1921, G. P. Putnam's Sons)/Round 2


text: The Leather Pushers (1921, G. P. Putnam's Sons)/Round 3


text: The Leather Pushers (1921, G. P. Putnam's Sons)/Round 4


text: The Leather Pushers (1921, G. P. Putnam's Sons)/Round 5


text: The Leather Pushers (1921, G. P. Putnam's Sons)/Round 6


text: The Leather Pushers (1921, G. P. Putnam's Sons)/Round 7


text: The Leather Pushers (1921, G. P. Putnam's Sons)/Round 8


text: The Leather Pushers (1921, G. P. Putnam's Sons)/Round 9


text: The Leather Pushers (1921, G. P. Putnam's Sons)/Round 10


text: The Leather Pushers (1921, G. P. Putnam's Sons)/Round 11


text: The Leather Pushers (1921, G. P. Putnam's Sons)/Round 12


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 but with his wrath? Indeed, I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just; that his justice cannot sleep for ever; that, considering numbers, nature, and natural means only, a revolution of the wheel of fortune, an exchange of situation, is among possible events; that it may become probable by supernatural interference! The Almighty has no attribute which can take side with us in such a contest.

"What an incomprehensible machine is man! Who can endure toil, famine, stripes, imprisonment, and death itself, in vindication of his own liberty, and the next moment be deaf to all those motives, whose power supported him through his trial, and inflict on his fellow men a bondage, one hour of which is fraught with more misery than ages of that which he rose in rebellion to oppose! But we must wait with patience the workings of an overruling Providence, and hope that that is preparing the deliverance of these our suffering brethren. When the measure of their tears shall be full—when their tears shall have involved heaven itself in darkness—doubtless a God of justice will awaken to their distress, and by diffusing light and liberality among their oppressors, or at length by his exterminating thunder, manifest his attention to things of this world, and that they are not left to the guidance of blind fatality."

The same man, speaking of the probability that the slaves might some day attempt to gain their liberties by a revolution, said,

"I tremble for my country, when I recollect that God is just, and that His justice cannot sleep for ever. The Almighty has no attribute that can take sides with us in such a struggle."

But, sad to say, Jefferson is not the only American statesman who has spoken high-sounding words in favour of freedom, and then left his own children to die slaves.

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334

“You see me whole and hearty; with blood my clothes are red,

But from the wounds of others it thus hath happenéd;

And they have been so many that I have slain to-day,

That verily their number on oath I could not say.”

He answer’d: “Brother Dankwart, see to the door do thou,

And let not of the Hunsmen a single man come through.

I’ll reckon with these warriors, as need we have, in faith!

Our men-at-arms are lying in undeservéd death.”

“If chamberlain I must be,” the gallant man replied,

“To serve such mighty rulers, I am well satisfied.

I’ll answer for the stairway, as honour’s dear to me.”

Unto Kriemhilda’s warriors naught could more direful be.

“It is to me a marvel,” Hagen thereafter spake:

“What meaneth all the fluster these Hunnish warriors make?

They think they well could spare him, who yonder door doth hold,

And hath these high concernments to the Burgundians told!

“Long time about Kriemhilda have I been wont to hear,

That she her bitter sorrow was not content to bear.

Now drink we to her darling! for royal wine we’ll call!

The princeling of the Hunfolk shall be the first of all!”

Then the child Ortlieb slew he, Hagen, that warrior good,

So that from sword-blade downward flow’d o’er his hands the blood;

The infant’s head was sever’d and on the queen’s lap fell.

Then rose amongst the warriors a slaughter horrible.


text: Clotel/Chapter 17

title: Clotel/Chapter 17


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 one who took no note of to-morrow. And for this reason Georgians took peculiar interest in the young man, for Carlton was but little above thirty and unmarried. The young Christian felt that she would not be living up to that faith that she professed and believed in, if she did not exert herself to the utmost to save the thoughtless man from his downward career; and in this she succeeded to her most sanguine expectations. She not only converted him, but in placing the Scriptures before him in their true light, she redeemed those sacred writings from the charge of supporting the system of slavery, which her father had cast upon them in the discussion some days before.

Georgiana's first object, however, was to awaken in Carlton's breast a love for the Lord Jesus Christ. The young man had often sat under the sound of the gospel with perfect indifference. He had heard men talk who had grown grey bending over the Scriptures, and their conversation had passed by him unheeded; but when a young girl, much younger than himself, reasoned with him in that innocent and persuasive manner that woman is wont to use when she has entered with her whole soul upon an object, it was too much for his stout heart, and he yielded. Her next aim was to vindicate the Bible from sustaining the monstrous institution of slavery. She said, "God has created of one blood all the nations of men, to dwell on all the face of the earth.' To claim, bold, and treat a human being as property is felony against God and man. The Christian religion is opposed to slaveholding in its spirit and its principles; it classes men-stealers among murderers; and it is the duty of all who wish to meet God in peace, to discharge that duty in spreading these principles. Let us not deceive ourselves into the idea that slavery is right, because it is profitable to us. Slaveholding

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 is the highest possible violation of the eighth commandment. To take from a man his earnings, is theft; but to take the earner is a compound, life-long theft; and we who profess to follow in the footsteps of our Redeemer, should do our utmost to extirpate slavery from the land. For my own part, I shall do all I can. When the Redeemer was about to ascend to the bosom of the Father, and resume the glory which he had with him before the world was, he promised his disciples that the power of the Holy Ghost should come upon them, and that they should be witnesses for him to the uttermost parts of the earth. What was the effect upon their minds? 'They all continued with one accord in prayer and supplication with the women.' Stimulated by the confident expectation that Jesus would fulfil his gracious promise, they poured out their hearts in fervent supplications, probably for strength to do the work which he had appointed them unto, for they felt that without him they could do nothing, and they consecrated themselves on the altar of God, to the great and glorious enterprise of preaching the unsearchable riches of Christ to a lost and perishing world. Have we less precious promises in the Scriptures of truth? May we not claim of our God the blessing promised unto those who consider the poor: the Lord will preserve them and keep them alive, and they shall be blessed upon the earth? Does not the language, 'Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye did it unto me,' belong to all who are rightly engaged in endeavouring to unloose the bondman's fetters? Shall we not then do as the apostles did? Shall we not, in view of the two millions of heathen in our very midst, in view of the souls that are going down in an almost unbroken phalanx to utter perdition, continue in prayer and supplication, that God will grant

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 us the supplies of his Spirit to prepare us for that work which he has given us to do? Shall not the wail of the mother as she surrenders her only child to the grasp of the ruthless kidnapper, or the trader in human blood, animate our devotions? Shall not the manifold crimes and horrors of slavery excite more ardent outpourings at the throne of grace to grant repentance to our guilty country, and permit us to aid in preparing the way for the glorious second advent of the Messiah, by preaching deliverance to the captives, and the opening of the prison doors to those who are bound."

Georgiana had succeeded in rivetting the attention of Carlton during her conversation, and as she was finishing her last sentence, she observed the silent tear stealing down the cheek of the newly born child of God. At this juncture her father entered, and Carlton left the room. "Dear papa," said Georgiana, "will you grant me one favour; or, rather, make me a promise?" "I can't tell, my dear, till I know what it is," replied Mr. Peck. "If it is a reasonable request, I will comply with your wish," continued he. "I hope, my dear," answered she, "that papa would not think me capable of making an unreasonable request." "Well, well," returned he; "tell me what it is." "I hope," said she, "that in your future conversation with Mr. Carlton, on the subject of slavery, you will not speak of the Bible as sustaining it." "Why, Georgiana, my dear, you are mad, aint you?" exclaimed he, in an excited tone. The poor girl remained silent; the father saw in a moment that he had spoken too sharply; and taking her hand in his he said, "Now, my child, why do you make that request?" "Because," returned she, "I think he is on the stool of repentance, if he has not already been received among the elect. He, you know, was bordering upon infidelity, and

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text:
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 "There's been a great change in him in the last two years," said Mr. Farr. "He let the war worry him for one thing."

"No good doing that," said Mr. Dad.

"And even before the war," Sir Eliphaz began.

"Even before the war," said Mr. Farr, in a pause.

"There was a change," said Sir Eliphaz. "He had been bitten by educational theories."

"No business for a headmaster," said Mr. Farr.

"Our intention had always been a great scientific and technical school," said Sir Eliphaz. "He introduced Logic into the teaching of plain English—against my opinion. He encouraged some of the boys to read philosophy."

"All he could," said Mr. Farr.

"I never held with his fad for teaching history," said Mr. Dad. "He was history mad. It got worse and worse. What's history after all? At the best, it's over and done with But he wouldn't argue upon it—not reasonably. He was—overbearing. He had a way of looking at you It was never our intention to make Woldingstanton into a school of history."

"And now, Mr. Farr," said Sir Eliphaz, "what are the particulars of the fire?"

"It isn't for me to criticise," said Mr. Farr.

"What I say," said Mr. Dad, projecting his muzzle with an appearance of great determination, "is, fix responsibility. Fix responsibility. Here is a door locked that common sense dictated should be open. Who was responsible?"

"No one in School House seems to have been


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 if the Bible sanctions slavery, then he will naturally enough say that it is not from God; for the argument from internal evidence is not only refuted, but actually turned against the Bible. If the Bible sanctions slavery, then it misrepresents the character of God. Nothing would be more dangerous to the soul of a young convert than to satisfy him that the Scriptures favoured such a system of sin." "Don't you suppose that I understand the Scriptures better than you? I have been in the world longer." "Yes," said she, "you have been in the world longer, and amongst slaveholders so long that you do not regard it in the same light that those do who have not become so familiar with its every-day scenes as you. I once heard you say, that you were opposed to the institution, when you first came to the South." "Yes," answered he, "I did not know so much about it then." "With great deference to you, papa," replied Georgiana, "I don't think that the Bible sanctions slavery. The Old Testament contains this explicit condemnation of it, 'He that stealeth a man, and selleth him, or if he be found in his hand, he shall surely be put to death;' and 'Woe unto him that buildeth his house by unrighteousness, and his chambers by wrong; that useth his neighbour's service without wages, and giveth him not for his work;' when also the New Testament exhibits such words of rebuke as these, 'Behold the hire of the labourers who have reaped down your fields, which is of you kept back by fraud, crieth; and the cries of them who have reaped are entered into the ears of the Lord of Sabaoth.' 'The law is not made for a righteous man, but for the lawless and disobedient, for the ungodly and for sinners, for unholy and profane, for murderers of fathers and murderers of mothers, for manslayers, for whoremongers, for them that defile themselves with mankind, for menstealers, for liars,

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text:
Page:Tristimulus specification of the Munsell book of color from spectrophotometric measurements (IA jresv31n1p55).pdf/6

Values of X, Y, Z, x, and y for all of the samples and for the four illuminants, as explained above, together with the Munsell notations, 'H V/C (hue, value, and chroma), and the Munsell painting number for each sample, are given in table 2. Values for the neutrals are at the end of the table. Values of z are omitted, since z=1-x-y.

Values of the trilinear coordinates, x and y, for ICI illuminant C, are plotted in figures 2 to 8 for Munsell values 2 to 8, respectively. The x and y values for 101 illuminant C, and therefore for magnesium oxide and for any other spectrally nonselective sample, are given in each diagram at x=0.3101, y=0.3163. Values of x and y for the Munsell samples obtained at the National Bureau of Standards are plotted as circled points. The data obtained by Glenn and Killian [8] at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in 1935 are plotted as uncircled points for comparison with the present data. When the two points for a sample coincide, the combination is plotted, as a circled point with a short line attached; in many cases, to avoid confusion, the two points are joined by a fine line. Lines are drawn connecting all of the NBS points of constant chroma on each diagram, resulting in the spiderweb-like figures shown.


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XXXIII.]

With double-handed sword-stroke he dealt a blow at large

Against the man of learning, who had the child in charge.

His head all in a moment before the table lay:

In good sooth for the teacher it was but sorry pay!

He saw by Etzel’s table a certain minstrel-man,

And Hagen in his fury to fall on him began;

His left hand on the fiddle he lopp’d off suddenly:

“There’s somewhat thou canst carry for news to Burgundy!”

“Woe for my hand!” cried Werbel the minstrel: “wilt thou say

What evil I have done thee, Lord Hagen of Tronjé?

In all good faith I journey’d unto your master’s land;

The notes how can I finger since I have lost my hand?”

But little heeded Hagen, though he ne’er fiddled more.

He wreak’d within the palace a vengeance grim and sore

Upon the knights of Etzel, of whom a host he slew.

Death dealt he in the palace to people not a few.

The ever-ready Volker up from the table sprang:

And in his hand right loudly his fiddle-bow outrang.

Right fearsome was the music that Gunther’s minstrel play’d;

Ay! ’mid the gallant Hunsmen what enemies he made!

Upsprang, too, from the table, the noble rulers three:

They gladly would have stay’d it, ere mischief worse should be.

But all their wit avail’d not the rising storm to quell,

When Volker joining Hagen to such wild raving fell.


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 for perjured persons.' A more scathing denunciation of the sin in question is surely to be found on record in no other book. I am afraid," continued the daughter, "that the acts of the professed friends of Christianity in the South do more to spread infidelity than the writings of all the atheists which have ever been published. The infidel watches the religious world. He surveys the church, and, lo! thousands and tens of thousands of her accredited members actually hold slaves. Members 'in good and regular standing,' fellowshipped throughout Christendom except by a few anti-slavery churches generally despised as ultra and radical, reduce their fellow men to the condition of chattels, and by force keep them in that state of degradation. Bishops, ministers, elders, and deacons are engaged in this awful business, and do not consider their conduct as at all inconsistent with the precepts of either the Old or New Testaments. Moreover, those ministers and churches who do not themselves hold slaves, very generally defend the conduct of those who do, and accord to them a fair Christian character, and in the way of business frequently take mortgages and levy executions on the bodies of their fellow men, and in some cases of their fellow Christians.

"Now is it a wonder that infidels, beholding the practice and listening to the theory of professing Christians, should conclude that the Bible inculcates a morality not inconsistent with chattelising human beings? And must not this conclusion be strengthened, when they hear ministers of talent and learning declare that the Bible does sanction slaveholding, and that it ought not to be made a disciplinable offence in churches? And must not all doubt be dissipated, when one of the most learned professors in our theological seminaries asserts that the Bible 'recognises that the relation may still exist, salva fide et salva

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336

When saw the Lord of Rhineland the fight could not be stay’d,

The prince himself fought also, and many a wide wound made

Upon his foemen’s bodies, their shining mail-coats through.

A hand-strong hero was he: as now all grimly knew.

The stalwart Gernot likewise was forward in the strife;

Ay! he among the Hunsmen took many a hero’s life,

A keen-edged weapon wielding,— by Rüdeger ’twas given.

By him were Etzel’s warriors right grievously bedriven.

The young son of Dame Uté into the fight now dash’d,

And gloriously his broadsword right through the helmets crash’d,—

To grief of Etzel’s warriors of the Hungarian land.

There wrought were many marvels by gallant Gis’lher’s hand.

Howe’er the kings and liegemen were valiant in the fight,

Above them all right plainly did Giselher in might

Stand forth against the foemen; he was a hero good.

Such wounds he dealt, that many fell weltering in their blood.

The men of Etzel also stood stoutly to the foe.

There one might see the strangers go hacking to and fro

With their bright glancing weapons, all through the royal hall.

And horrid shrieks from all sides upon the ear did fall.

They who were on the outside would to their friends within;

But found that at the doorways small vantage they could win.

Out from the hall right gladly would they within it fare:

But none of them would Dankwart let up or down the stair.


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 ecclesia ' (without injury to the Christian faith or church) and that only 'the abuse of it is the essential and fundamental wrong?' Are not infidels bound to believe that these professors, ministers, and churches understand their own Bible, and that, consequently, notwithstanding solitary passages which appear to condemn slaveholding, the Bible sanctions it? When nothing can be further from the truth. And as for Christ, his whole life was a living testimony against slavery and all that it inculcates. When he designed to do us good, he took upon himself the form of a servant. He took his station at the bottom of society. He voluntarily identified himself with the poor and the despised. The warning voices of Jeremiah and Ezekiel were raised in olden time, against sin. Let us not forget what followed. 'Therefore, thus saith the Lord—ye have not hearkened unto me in proclaiming liberty every one to his brother, and every one to his neighbour—behold I proclaim a liberty for you saith the Lord, to the sword, to the pestilence, and to the famine.' Are we not virtually as a nation adopting the same impious language, and are we not exposed to the same tremendous judgments? Shall we not, in view of those things, use every laudable means to awaken our beloved country from the slumbers of death, and baptize all our efforts with tears and with prayers, that God may bless them. Then, should our labour fail to accomplish the end for which we pray, we shall stand acquitted at the bar of Jehovah, and although we may share in the national calamities which await unrepented sins, yet that blessed approval will be ours.—'Well done good and faithful servants, enter ye into the joy of your Lord.'"

"My dear Georgiana," said Mr. Peck, "I must be permitted to entertain my own views on this subject, and to exercise my own judgment."

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 "Believe me, dear papa," she replied, "I would not be understood as wishing to teach you, or to dictate to you in the least; but only grant my request, not to allude to the Bible as sanctioning slavery, when speaking with Mr. Carlton."

"Well," returned he, "I will comply with your wish."

The young Christian had indeed accomplished a noble work; and whether it was admitted by the father, or not, she was his superior and his teacher. Georgiana had viewed the right to enjoy perfect liberty as one of those inherent and inalienable rights which pertain to the whole, human race, and of which they can never be divested, except by an act of gross injustice. And no one was more able than herself to impress those views upon the hearts of all with whom she came in contact. Modest and self-possessed, with a voice of great sweetness, and a most winning manner, she could, with the greatest ease to herself, engage their attention.

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 get a religious interview with the blacks. By-the-by," remarked Carlton, "I saw an advertisement in the Free Trader to-day that rather puzzled me. Ah, here it is now; and," drawing the paper from his pocket, "I will read it, and then you can tell me what it means:

When I read this to-day I thought that the advertiser must be a man of eminent skill as a physician, and that he intended to cure the sick negroes; but on second thought I find that some of the diseases enumerated are certainly incurable. What can he do with these sick negroes?" "You see," replied Mr. Peck, laughing, "that he is a doctor, and has use for them in his lectures. The doctor is connected with a small college. Look at his prospectus, where he invites students to attend, and that will explain the matter to you." Carlton turned to another column, and read the following:

"These are for dissection, then?" inquired Carlton with a trembling voice. "Yes," answered the parson. "Of course they wait till they die before they

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