ight. His body was
perfect, alive with easy suppleness and health and strength. The skin
was white as a woman's, and as smooth. All grace, and resilience,
and power resided therein. He had proved it in scores of battles. His
photographs were in all the physical culture magazines.

A groan went up as Spider Hagerty peeled Rivera's sweater over his head.
His body seemed leaner, because of the swarthiness of the skin. He had
muscles, but they made no display like his opponent's. What the audience
neglected to see was the deep chest. Nor could it guess the toughness of
the fiber of the flesh, the instantaneousness of the cell explosions
of the muscles, the fineness of the nerves that wired every part of
him into a splendid fighting mechanism. All the audience saw was a
brown-skinned boy of eighteen with what seemed the body of a boy. With
Danny it was different. Danny was a man of twenty-four, and his body
was a man's body. The contrast was still more striking as they stood
together in the center of the ring receiving the referee's last
instructions.

Rivera noticed Roberts sitting directly behind the newspaper men. He was
drunker than usual, and his speech was correspondingly slower.

"Take it easy, Rivera," Roberts drawled.

"He can't kill you, remember that. He'll rush you at the go-off, but
don't get rattled. You just and stall, and clinch. He can't hurt cover
up, much. Just make believe to yourself that he's choppin' out on you at
the trainin' quarters."

Rivera made no sign that he had heard.

"Sullen little devil," Roberts muttered to the man next to him. "He
always was that way."

But Rivera forgot to look his usual hatred. A vision of countless rifles
blinded his eyes. Every face in the audience, far as he could see, to
the high dollar-seats, was transformed into a rifle. And he saw the long
Mexican border arid and sun-washed and aching, and along it he saw the
ragged bands that delayed only for the guns.

Back in his corner he waited, standing up. His seconds had crawled out
through the ropes, taking the canvas stool with them. Diagonally across
the squared ring, Danny faced him. The gong struck, and the battle was
on. The audience howled its delight. Never had it seen a battle open
more convincingly. The papers were right. It was a grudge fight.
Three-quarters of the distance Danny covered in the rush to get
together, his intention to eat up the Mexican lad plainly advertised. He
assailed with not one b