hing mouth was now grim and stern as a prison door. For days he had
been fighting a dim intangible foe. Here at last was something human and
definite. He advanced to Locasto.

"Why don't you strike some one nearer your own size?" he demanded. His
voice was tense, yet ever so quiet.

Locasto flashed at him a look of surprise, measuring him from head to
foot.

"You're a brute," went on the Jam-wagon evenly; "a cowardly brute."

Black Jack's face grew dark and terrible. His eyes glinted sparks of
fire.

"See here, Englishman," he said, "this isn't your scrap. What are you
butting in about?"

"It isn't," said the Jam-wagon, and I could see the flame of fight
brighten joyously in him. "It isn't, but I'll soon make it mine. There!"

Quick as a flash he dealt the other a blow on the cheek, an open-handed
blow that stung like a whiplash.

"Now, fight me, you coward."

There and then Locasto seemed about to spring on his challenger. With
hands clenched and teeth bared, he half bent as if for a charge. Then,
suddenly, he straightened up.

"All right," he said softly; "Spitzstein, can we have the Opera House?"

"Yes, I guess so. We can clear away the benches."

"Then tell the crowd to come along; we'll give them a free show."

* * * * *

I think there must have been five hundred men around that ring. A big
Australian pugilist was umpire. Some one suggested gloves, but Locasto
would not hear of it.

"No," he said, "I want to mark the son of a dog so his mother will never
know him again."

He had become frankly brutal, and prepared for the fray exultantly. Both
men fought in their underclothing.

Stripped down, the Jam-wagon was seen to be much the smaller man, not
only in height, but in breadth and weight. Yet he was a beautiful figure
of a fighter, clean, well-poised, firm-limbed, with a body that seemed
to taper from the shoulders down. His fair hair glistened; his eyes were
wary and cool, his lips set tightly. In the person of this living
adversary he was fighting an unseen one vastly more dread and terrific.

Locasto looked almost too massive. His muscles bulged out. The veins in
his forearms were cord-like. His great chest seemed as broad as a door.
His legs were statuesque in their size and strength. In that camp of
strong men probably he was the most powerful.

And nowhere in the world could a fight have been awaited with greater
zest. These men, miners, gamblers, advent