The fellow lifted his hairy fists. "Those are all I--"

"In that case--" Steele took the weapon, on which his hand had rested,
from his pocket; rising with alacrity he placed it on a rickety stand
behind him. "You have me a little outclassed; about seventeen stone, I
should take it; barely turn thirteen, myself. However," tossing his coat
in the corner, "you look a little soft; hardly up to what you were when
you got the belt for the heavy-weight championship. Do you remember? The
'Frisco Pet went against you; but he was only a low, ignorant sailor and
had let himself get out of form. You beat him, beat him," John Steele's
eyes glittered; he touched the other on the arm, "though he fought
seventeen good rounds! You stamped the heart out of him, Tom."

The red-headed giant's arms fell to his side. "How do you--"

"I was there!" An odd smile crossed Steele's determined lips. "Lost a
little money on that battle. Recall the fourteenth round? He nearly had
you; but you played safe in the fifteenth, and then--you sent him
down--down," John Steele's voice died away. "It was a long time before
he got up," he added, almost absently.

The listener's face had become a study; perplexity mingled with other
conflicting emotions. "You know all that--?"

"And all the rest! How for you the fascination of the road became
greater than that of the ring; how the old wildness would crop out; how
the highway drew you, until--"

"See here, what's your little game? Straight now; quick! You come here,