The Italian had sprung from his corner with the spring of a cat. And Irish felt surprisedly that he had been struck with two terrific hammers on the jaw. And as he wondered who had hit him his knees buckled surprisingly, and he was on his hands and knees on the floor. And he heard some one say: "... three ... four..." He struggled to his feet. Somewhere Maher was shouting. "Take the count, Irish." Irish dully wondered what he meant. And now Chip was in front of him, concentrated, poised. And once more the hammer crashed on the jaw. And he tumbled to the boards on his side. He was very dull, very dazed. For a while he knew nothing. And then he understood; the referee pumping his hand up and down, and the roar of the crowd. "Eight!" As he moved he felt the ropes, and blindly he groped for them, pulling himself to his feet somehow. About him the din surged. The referee stepped back. The Italian was pawing at the referee's arm, protesting. Irish understood. Chip wanted the fight stopped, did n't want to hit him any more. Ah, he was a good kid, Chip was. And then the ring slithered underneath him; the hand grasping the rope grew lifeless, let go; and the lights went out for him; and Irish crashed forward on his face. The old man looked at the battered face above the blue serge suit. "Well," he said, "it must have been a grand fight entirely!" "It was a great fight," Irish grinned, "and a good man won." "Meaning yourself?" "No, meaning the Guinea." "So you were beat, eh?" the old man jeered. "I never thought you were much good at it." "Ah, I don't know." And Irish grinned again. "Tell me," the old man snapped, "did you bring me 'The Advocate'?" "I did." And Irish handed it over. "'T is a wonder you remembered it," the old man snarled. "And the fine lacing you 're after taking!" And Irish grinned again. Wasn't he a queer, grumpy old man! BY ORDEAL OF JUSTICE Very much as though he were entering a disreputable place, Matthew Kerrigan slipped furtively from the taxicab into the hallway of the old New York mansion made over into an apartment-house. He stood at the door, portly, important, wrapped in his fur coat. He pushed the button marked "Mr. Sergius." A young Russian butler admitted him. "Just say a Mr. Smith," Kerrigan announced importantly. Across the Russian boy's harsh features there was the shadow of contempt. He reappeared in an instant and held open a door for Kerrigan.