“Now the ‘Paradise Garden’ was a mint; money came in by the ton, and I only had to stop this side of murder. And it was the place to go,” with great pride. “Anybody that blew into New York had to take a flyer at my place to be in the running. It cost them something; but it was worth the money. The show I gave them was the real goods; and the drinks were fine--if the buyer was sober. What’s the use of wasting good liquor on a guy that’s stewed to the eyes. He can’t appreciate it.” “Your reasoning is highly modern,” said Kenyon, dryly. “You managed mit-pushers then, didn’t you?” asked Big Slim, rolling a second cigarette. “I did. Local champs, you know, with followings of friends. The friends were always good shots over a bar. They could hit the cash register with a silver dollar every time they’d try. It was a pleasing performance.” The Gypsy had lost his scowl, and his eyes glistened at the thought of his more prosperous days. “But,” he resumed, “of all the chamois artists I ever managed, the ‘Steamhammer’ was the biggest winner. You see, he worked in Washington Market, and all the marketmen and longshore people would be on hand whenever he’d engage. And they were a thirsty lot. I’d have to sit on the safe all night with a gun after they’d been on the job. “I had the Hammer for almost a year. Twice a week I’d advertise him as open to meet all comers at the middleweight limit; and he’d gone right along the line putting them away without missing once. At last the bugs began to whisper to me that I had the wonder of the age; and that it was my correct move to put him in front of the big mixer himself. But our friend here,” indicating Kenyon, “saved me the trouble.” “Is that so?” inquired Big Slim, interestedly. “Tell us how.” “He came into the Gardens one night with a lot of them West Point fellows. I think it had been a football day, and they were wild to pull something off. They had heard about the Hammer, and when I made the regular offer from the stage about him being willing to exchange wallops, one of them was on in a minute and the rest of them were howling with joy.” “It’s that sort of thing that boys do,” apologized Kenyon. “And I was very young then, you know.” “You were fifteen pounds lighter than the Hammer, I know that,” grinned Gypsy Brady. “And when you put up your guard I thought he had you sure.” “But he didn’t?” interrogated Big Slim. “He didn’t even come near doing it. You see the Hammer’s regular stunt was to rush his man up to the wall--I only had ropes on three sides--pin him against it with his left hand and pour it into him with his right. When he thought he’d handed over enough he’d pull out the pin, and the guy would generally drop. But this time the game didn’t work. The boy from the army school met the rush with a body stab that brought the Hammer up short; then he feinted him into a tangle and shot one over on his baggage truck that put him away.”