But times had changed. Tom King was getting old; and old
men, fighting before second-rate clubs, couldn't expect to run bills of
any size with the tradesmen.

He had got up in the morning with a longing for a piece of steak, and
the longing had not abated. He had not had a fair training for this
fight. It was a drought year in Australia, times were hard, and even
the most irregular work was difficult to find. He had had no sparring
partner, and his food had not been of the best nor always sufficient.
He had done a few days' navvy work when he could get it, and he had run
around the Domain in the early mornings to get his legs in shape. But
it was hard, training without a partner and with a wife and two kiddies
that must be fed. Credit with the tradesmen had undergone very slight
expansion when he was matched with Sandel. The secretary of the Gayety
Club had advanced him three pounds--the loser's end of the purse--and
beyond that had refused to go. Now and again he had managed to borrow a
few shillings from old pals, who would have lent more only that it was a
drought year and they were hard put themselves. No--and there was no
use in disguising the fact--his training had not been satisfactory.
He should have had better food and no worries. Besides, when a man is
forty, it is harder to get into condition than when he is twenty.

"What time is it, Lizzie?" he asked.

His wife went across the hall to inquire, and came back.

"Quarter before eight."

"They'll be startin' the first bout in a few minutes," he said. "Only a
try-out. Then there's a four-round spar 'tween Dealer Wells an' Gridley,
an' a ten-round go 'tween Starlight an' some sailor bloke. I don't come
on for over an hour."

At the end of another silent ten minutes, he rose to his feet.

"Truth is, Lizzie, I ain't had proper trainin'."

He reached for his hat and started for the door. He did not offer to
kiss her--he never did on going out--but on this night she dared to kiss
him, throwing her arms around him and compelling him to bend down to her
face. She looked quite small against the massive bulk of the man.

"Good luck, Tom," she said. "You gotter do 'im."

"Ay, I gotter do 'im," he repeated. "That's all there is to it. I jus'
gotter do 'im."

He laughed with an attempt at heartiness, while she pressed more closely
against him. Across her shoulders he looked around the bare room. It was
all he had in the world, with the rent overdue, and her and