“Round-seven! At-the-sound-of-the-bell-the-two-men-leap-to-the-center-of-the-ring! They-exchange-a-whirlwind-of-jabs-and-upper-cuts! The-fighting-is-the-fiercest-ever-seen-in-a-heavyweight-contest! Suddenly-the-knockout-blow-is-delivered-full-upon-the-point-of-the-jaw! The-defeated-man-drops-like-a-log! His-seconds-drag-his-unconscious-form-into-his-corner! The-maddened-throng-acclaims-the-winner-and-pandemonium-reigns-supreme!” Here he paused with the air of one who has completed a hard job. From a thousand throats behind him one question arose in a mighty chorus: “Who wins?” Dramatically Mercer raised his hand for silence. A deep hush befell. “The dispatches do not state,” he said, simply, and sat down. § 42 In Permanent Storage Once upon a time, in the middle part of Georgia, there lived a banker who was known far and wide as the Human Safety Clutch. In his day he was accused of many things, but nobody ever charged him with being a spendthrift. His home was on a plantation a mile from town. One Sunday he remembered that he had left some important papers on his desk, and he gave an aged negro servitor on the place his keys and sent him for the documents. It was a hot day and the road was dusty, but in an hour the old darky had returned with the papers intact. The owner felt in all his pockets, one after the other. “That’s too bad, Uncle Jim,” he said finally; “I thought I had a nickel here that I was going to give you.” “Cap’n Henry,” said Uncle Jim, “you look ag’in. Ef ever you had a nickel you got it yit.” § 43 What Might Be Called an Active Man The wharf at New Orleans was crowded with foot travelers, vehicles and freight piles. A brawny Irishman, driving a truck, locked wheels with another truck operated by a negro. As the trucks jammed the negro opened his mouth in profane and highly disrespectful protest. But before he had uttered six words unconsciousness shut off further speech from him. For the Irishman, with one flying leap, had reached the earth. His left hand closed on the negro’s ankle, and as the latter was jerked violently into space the enemy’s right fist landed a wing shot squarely on the point of his jaw, and for the time being he knew no more. Ten minutes later the victim half opened his eyes. A policeman was bending over him. “What’s the matter with you?” demanded the officer. “A w’ite man hit me,” said the darky, “an’ I wants him arrested.” “What’s his name?” “I don’t know whut his name is, boss—never seed him befo’ in my life.” “Well, then, what does he look like?” “I don’t rightly know dat, neither. Hit all happen’ so quick-lak I didn’t got a good look at ’im.” “Then how do you expect me to find him if you can’t describe him?” asked the puzzled policeman. “Boss, dat ain’t goin’ be no trouble,” stated the negro. “You jest go lookin’ for the doin’est man they is in Newerleans!” § 44 Sauce for the Goose