nickel-plated steamer in which they were heated to an unbearable
temperature seemed to puff its cheeks with a consciousness of
painful and almost offensive cleanliness. The men who worked here
had hard, black eyes, but their hands were soft and white. The
rows of mugs that stood inside the glass cupboards were inscribed
with the names of prominent actors, managers, and booking-agents
of the Rialto--for this was a famous place in its way.

Tony, engaged in administering a shampoo, nodded at Jim, and from
force of habit murmured politely:

"Next!" Then, with a meaning glance, he indicated a door at the
rear of the shop. In the third chair Jim recognized Max Melcher,
although the face of the sporting-man was swathed in steaming
cloths.

Jim passed on and into a rear room, where he found three men
seated at a felt-covered card-table. They were well dressed, quiet
persons--one a bookmaker whom the racing laws had reduced from
affluence to comparative penury; another, a tall, pallid youth
with bulging eyes. The third occupant of the room was an ex-
lightweight champion of the ring, Young Sullivan, by name. His
trim waist and powerful shoulders betokened his trade. His jaw was
firm, and a cauliflower ear overhung his collar like a fungus.

Jim drew up a chair and chatted idly until the book-maker yawned,
rose, and went out. Then Jim and the others relaxed.

"Gee, he's a sticker!" exclaimed the pugilist. "I thought he'd
broke his back."