CHAPTER II

He looked up into the whimsically comic face of Charlie Murray, famous
in film farces--with funny features and gruff ways, but a heart as soft
as a mother's. With no idea to whom he was speaking, John Gallant
blurted:

"Please, not now--I can't."

"Just a word with you, son; come along, let's get back to your dressing
room," said the other without taking his arm from his shoulder.

As they left the arena they heard the gong sound for the opening round
of another bout. It brought back to John the bitterness of his loss in
defeat and his chagrin. He had made a mess of things. How could he go
back to his mother with his face battered and swollen and without the
$200 he had expected to take to her to pay for his father's funeral?

He flung himself on a bench in his dressing room and buried his face in
his hands. He sat for a time until he had choked back his hysterical
crying and when he looked up he saw the stranger who had stopped him in
the aisle gazing at him intently. He saw something in the mild blue eyes
of this man that overcame the momentary feeling of shame he felt for
having given way to his bitterness and despair.

"What's your trouble, son?" the stranger asked.

He sat silent.

"Out with it, son, something's wrong somewhere and I may be able to help
you."

"Who are you?" John asked.

"I'm Charlie Murray--if that means anything to you. And, believe me,
son, I know that something beside the licking you got out there is
worrying you. That's why I followed you here. Let's have it; come on,
tell me what's wrong. It'll make you feel better."

Before he really knew it, John was telling him his story.

"That's the reason I made a fool of myself," he said. "I couldn't help
crying like that. I guess I was too far gone. I don't know what to do
now. It will break my mother's heart when she sees me in this condition.
It would have helped if I could have handed her enough to pay the
funeral expenses.

"I don't know why I've told you all this. Making more of a fool of
myself, I suppose."

Murray listened to it all, silently. Then he rose and went to the door.

"Oh, Murphy," he called, putting his head out the dressing room door.

The youth with the twisted nose whom John remembered as his second
answered Murray's call.

"Fix this boy up, Murphy," said Murray. "Patch up his face the best you
can and keep him here until I get back. Understand, keep him here until
I get back. Don't le