his home town
wa'n't there. So I come along. And I wouldn't a bothered you at all
today--it's gettin' late and I ain't got my ticket to get in
yet--only--only I was worried a mite--jest a trifle--and I thought I'd
better see you if I could."

Morehouse tilted his head again.

Old Jerry gave up any attempt of further excusing his intrusion and
went straight to the heart of the matter. He unfolded a paper that
bulged from the side pocket of his coat and spread it out on the
desk.

"It's this," he said, indicating the column that had scoffed so openly
at Young Denny's chances. "You--you wrote it, I suppose, didn't you?"

Again that impersonal nod.

"Well, I just wanted to ask you if--if you really thought it was--if
you think he ain't got no chance at all?"

The eagerness of that trembling old voice was not to be ignored any
longer. But Morehouse couldn't help but recollect the eager circle of
"Ayes" which had flanked the Judge that other night.

"What of it?" he inquired coolly. "What if he hasn't? I though Jed
Conway was the particular pride of your locality!"

Old Jerry's beady eyes widened. There was no mistaking the positive
dislike in that round face, any more than one could misunderstand the
antagonism of that round-faced man's words.

For weeks Morehouse had been puzzling over a question which he could
not answer--something which, for all the intimacy that had sprung up
between himself and Denny Bolton, he had never felt able to ask of the
boy with the grave eyes and graver lips. Even since the conference in
Hogarty's little office, when he had agreed to the ex-lightweight's
plan, it had been vexing him, no nearer solution than it had been that
day when he assured Hogarty that there was more behind young Denny's
eagerness to meet Jed Conway than the prize-money could account for.

Now, that afternoon, on the very eve of that battle, he sat there in
the thickening dusk, unconscious of the passage of time, and listened
to the explanation that came pouring from Old Jerry's lips, haltingly
at first, and then in a steady falsetto stream, and learned the answer
to it.

The old mail carrier didn't know what he was doing. His one desire was
to vindicate himself in the cold eyes of the man before him. But he
told it well and he did not spare himself.

Once he though he caught a glimpse of thawing mirth in that face when
he had finished relating how Denny had led him, reluctant and fearful,
from the kitchen o