About two feet
away, lumberman's measure, observin' the wreck and yawning was Francis
Xavier Scanlan, known to the trade as Kid Scanlan, welterweight
champion of the world and Shantung. I looked around for a director and
a camera man, but they was nobody else in sight, so figurin' this
couldn't be nothin' more than a dress rehearsal, I stepped over to the
Kid.

"Who's your friend?" I asks him, noddin' to the sleepin' beauty.

"I seen Genaro lookin' for you," says the Kid. "I'll bet you been over
to Frisco tryin' to nail that dame at the Busy Bee, ain't you?"

"A gambler will never get nowheres," I tells him, "but you're startin'
off with a win on that bet!" I points at the model for still life
again. "When does that guy get up?" I inquires.

The Kid looks down at him for a minute, proddin' him carelessly with
his foot.

"Weather permittin'," he answers, "he ought to be on his feet in five
more minutes, and I'd never have raised a finger to him, if he hadn't
come at me first!"

"D'ye mean to say you been wallopin' that guy?" I says.

"Well, what does it look like?" sneers the Kid. "A man's got a right
to protect himself, ain't he?"

"He hit you, eh?" I says.

"No!" answers the Kid. "He didn't get that far with it, but he claimed
he was goin' to, and naturally it was up to me to stop him from gettin'
in a brawl. I never seen a gamer guy in my life, either," he goes on,
admirin'ly. "He knows he'll catch cold layin' on the ground like that,
and yet the minute I stung him he takes a dive and stays down!"

By this time our hero has risen to his feet and, while dustin' off his
clothes, he looks like he's figurin' whether he ought to claim he'd
been doped and ask for a return bout, or call it a day and let it go at
that. Except for where the Kid had jabbed him, he wasn't a bad lookin'
bird, his best bets bein' a crop of dark, wavy hair and a set of
features which any movie leadin' man could give ten thousand bucks for
and make it up on the first picture. The suit of clothes he was
wearin' had probably put the tailor over, and he also had two yellow
gloves and a little trick cane. He walks over to where me and the Kid
was standin' and takes off his hat. It was one of them dashin',
devilish soft things that has names like Pullman cars--you know, "The
Bryn Mawr, $2.50. All Harvard Wears One." Then he points at the Kid
with his cane.

"I made a serious error," he remarks, "in engaging in a brawl with a