Saxon noted that it was Billy who paid the reckoning for the
four. They knew many of the young men and women at the other
tables, and greetings and fun flew back and forth. Bert was very
possessive with Mary, almost roughly so, resting his hand on
hers, catching and holding it, and, once, forcibly slipping off
her two rings and refusing to return them for a long while. At
times, when he put his arm around her waist, Mary promptly
disengaged it; and at other times, with elaborate obliviousness
that deceived no one, she allowed it to remain.

And Saxon, talking little but studying Billy Roberts very
intently, was satisfied that there would be an utter difference
in the way he would do such things . . . if ever he would do
them. Anyway, he'd never paw a girl as Bert and lots of the other
fellows did. She measured the breadth of Billy's heavy shoulders.

"Why do they call you 'Big' Bill?" she asked. "You're not so very
tall."

"Nope," he agreed. "I'm only five feet eight an' three-quarters.
I guess it must be my weight."

"He fights at a hundred an' eighty," Bert interjected.

"Oh, out it," Billy said quickly, a cloud-rift of displeasure
showing in his eyes. "I ain't a fighter. I ain't fought in six
months. I've quit it. It don't pay."

"Yon got two hundred the night you put the Frisco Slasher to the
bad," Bert urged proudly.