the sporting
writers, Carthey had been lying up, badly injured. There was no one to
take his place. Kelly had been burning the wires East to every eligible
lightweight, but they were tied up with dates and contracts. And now
hope had revived, though faintly.

"You've got a hell of a nerve," Kelly addressed Rivera, after one look,
as soon as they got together.

Hate that was malignant was in Rivera's eyes, but his face remained
impassive.

"I can lick Ward," was all he said.

"How do you know? Ever see him fight?"

Rivera shook his head.

"He can beat you up with one hand and both eyes closed."

Rivera shrugged his shoulders.

"Haven't you got anything to say?" the fight promoter snarled.

"I can lick him."

"Who'd you ever fight, anyway!" Michael Kelly demanded. Michael was the
promotor's brother, and ran the Yellowstone pool rooms where he made
goodly sums on the fight game.

Rivera favored him with a bitter, unanswering stare.

The promoter's secretary, a distinctively sporty young man, sneered
audibly.

"Well, you know Roberts," Kelly broke the hostile silence. "He ought to
be here. I've sent for him. Sit down and wait, though f rom the looks of
you, you haven't got a chance. I can't throw the public down with a bum
fight. Ringside seats are selling at fifteen dollars, you know that."

When Roberts arrived, it was patent that he was mildly drunk. He was a
tall, lean, slack-jointed individual, and his walk, like his talk, was a
smooth and languid drawl.

Kelly went straight to the point.

"Look here, Roberts, you've been bragging you discovered this little
Mexican. You know Carthey's broke his arm. Well, this little yellow
streak has the gall to blow in to-day and say he'll take Carthey's
place. What about it?"

"It's all right, Kelly," came the slow response. "He can put up a
fight."

"I suppose you'll be sayin' next that he can lick Ward," Kelly snapped.

Roberts considered judicially.

"No, I won't say that. Ward's a top-notcher and a ring general. But he
can't hashhouse Rivera in short order. I know Rivera. Nobody can get
his goat. He ain't got a goat that I could ever discover. And he's a
two-handed fighter. He can throw in the sleep-makers from any position."

"Never mind that. What kind of a show can he put up? You've been
conditioning and training fighters all your life. I take off my hat to
your judgment. Can he give the public a run for its money?"

"He sure can, and he'll worr