re left in peace. A warm bath and a drink of brandy did
wonders both for Jerry's appearance and his spirits, and at last we
got him to bed. But he could not sleep, and so we sat at his bedside
and talked to him until far into the night, Jerry propped up on his
pillows, his bad eye comically decorated with a part of his morning's
steak.

By dint of persuasion and a promise to stay all night at last we got
the boy to sleep and went to bed. I think Jack was rather glad to be
beyond the reach of the parental ire, and my own wish was to be near
Jerry now, to help him on the morrow to readjust his mind to his
disappointment, and do what other service I could to save him from the
results of his folly.

The morning papers brought the evidences of it in vivid scare heads
upon their first pages and detailed accounts of the whole affair,
written by their best men, who gave Jerry, I am glad to say, the
credit that was his due, calling him "the new star in pugilistic
circles," "the coming heavyweight champion," and the yellowest of
them, the one that had unmasked Jim Robinson the afternoon before,
came out with an offer to back Jerry Benham for five thousand dollars
against Jack Clancy or any other heavyweight except the Champion.
Jerry read the articles in silence, a queer smile upon his face and at
last shoved the papers aside.

"Nice of those chaps, very, considering the way I've treated 'em, but
it's no go. I've finished."

Jack had ventured out to brave the storm and I sat quietly, scarcely
daring to hope that I had heard correctly.

"I'm done, Roger," he repeated. "No more fights for me. I staked
everything on science and head-work. I failed. He got me--somewhere
that hurt like the devil--and I saw red. I don't remember much after
that except that I was as much of a brute as he was. I failed, Roger,
failed miserably. The fellow that can't hold his temper has no
business in the ring."

His voice was heavy, like his manner, weary, disappointed, and as he
threw off his dressing gown I saw that his left arm was hideously
discolored from wrist to shoulder.

"Does it hurt?" I asked.

"What? Oh, my arm. No. But I'm sore inside of me Roger, my mind I
mean. To do a thing like that, and fail--that's what hurts. Because I
hadn't will enough--"

"You're in earnest, then," I asked, "about not fighting again?"

"Yes. I'm through--for good." And then boyishly, "But I didn't quit,
Roger, did I?"

"I think any unprejudiced obse