s sultry. It would be hot there in
the ring--but it would be hot for both of them. Muscle for muscle and
tissue for tissue, Jerry could stand what another could. I glanced at
my watch. It was now nine. The preliminary bouts would be beginning,
but I had no interest in these. I walked down town, purposely delaying
my steps, but found my footsteps hurrying in spite of me, and it was
only half after nine when I entered the building.

I remembered a six-day bicycle race that I had witnessed there years
ago, but I was not prepared for the sight of the crowd that had
gathered under the enormous roof. The match had been well advertised
and the article in the _Despatch_ must have lent an added spice to the
attraction. The heated air was already a blue fog of tobacco smoke,
through which beyond the glare of the ring, tiny spots of light flared
and disappeared like glow-worms--where in the gallery the smokers
lighted their tobacco. As I entered I scanned the crowd. Eager, stupid
or brutal faces, the washed and the unwashed, the gloved and the
ungloved, cheek by jowl, all talking, smoking, cheering, jeering or
waiting calmly for the expected thrill. They had paid their money to
see blood, and as I found my seat I realized the inevitableness of
Jerry's appearance. He could not disappoint these people now.

My seat was in a box, in the second row of boxes, the first row being
just back of the press seats which were along the sides of the ring.
In this vast crowd I would be lost to Jerry and I was thankful not to
be directly under the ring where the sight of my anxious face might
have diverted him. A bout was in progress now, of six rounds, between
two lightweights, a rapid affair which drew to a conclusion none too
quickly for me. The final bout was to take place at ten, but I knew
from the long intervals between these preliminaries that the hour
would be much later. I thought for a moment of going out and walking
the streets for awhile, but realized that I should be even more
unhappy there than here; so I sat quietly absorbing the scene,
listening to the conversation of my neighbors in the next box, who
seemed to have their money on the sailor. One of their comments
aroused my ire.

"What's this goldfish their feedin' to the sea lion? Say, that story
ain't straight about young Benham bein' Robinson?"

"Sure thing. Clancy will eat him alive--_eat him alive_," the man
repeated, slowly and with unction.

I glanced at the speaker