that job for a while. If I can I'm
goin' to whale the life outa you."

Jack slipped out of his coat and tossed it on the desk. Even in that
moment, while Kirby was concentrating for the attack, the rough rider
found time to regret that so good-looking a youth, one so gallantly
poised and so gracefully graceless, should be a black-hearted scamp.

"Hop to it!" invited the college man. Under thick dark lashes his
black eyes danced with excitement.

Kirby lashed out with his right, hard and straight. His cousin ducked
with the easy grace of a man who has spent many hours on a ballroom
floor. The cattleman struck again. Jack caught the blow and deflected
it, at the same time uppercutting swiftly for the chin. The counter
landed flush on Kirby's cheek and flung him back to the wall.

He grinned, and plunged again. A driving left caught him off balance
and flung him from his feet. He was up again instantly, shaking his
head to clear it of the dizziness that sang there.

It came to him that he must use his brains against this expert boxer or
suffer a knockout. He must wear Jack out, let him spend his strength
in attack, watch for the chance that was bound to come if he could
weather the storm long enough.

Not at all loath, Jack took the offensive. He went to work coolly to
put out his foe. He landed three for one, timing and placing his blows
carefully to get the maximum effect. A second time Kirby hit the floor.

Jack hoped he would stay down. The clubman was a little out of
condition. He was beginning to breathe fast. His cousin had landed
hard two or three times on the body. Back of each of these blows there
had been a punishing force. Cunningham knew he had to win soon if at
all.

But Kirby had not the least intention of quitting. He was the tough
product of wind and sun and hard work. He bored in and asked for more,
still playing for his opponent's wind. Kirby knew he was the stronger
man, in far better condition. He could afford to wait--and Jack could
not. He killed the boxer's attacks with deadly counter-blows, moving
in and out lithely as a cat.

The rough rider landed close to the solar plexus. Jack winced and gave
ground. Kirby's fist got home again. He crowded Jack, feeling that
his man was weakening.

Jack rallied for one last desperate set-to, hoping for a chance blow to
knock Kirby out. He scored a dozen times. Lane gave ground, slowly,
watchfully, guarding as best he coul