"I'm goin' to start somethin'," said Jack in a low tone. "Ed wants me to punch de head offen dat youngest one." "That big guy looks hard to handle," commented the bartender. "Make it quick. I don't like no rough house here. The license ain't any too safe now." "I'm going back to see what's there," whispered Kennedy to Swanson. "You stick here. I'll bluff it through." He walked toward the door leading back from the bar and started to pass through it. "Here, young feller," said the bartender, "where you goin'?" "Washroom," replied Kennedy, keeping on through the door. "Naw you don't. Come back outen there," ordered the fighter angrily. "Who appointed you boss?" asked Kennedy belligerently. "Well, I'm boss anywhere I goes," declared the big fellow. "Youse stay outen there. D'ye hear?" He grabbed the ball player by the arm--and at that instant Kennedy swung. His fist caught the bruiser squarely on the mouth and he reeled back, then, with a bellow of rage, he sprang at Kennedy. With a roar of anger Swanson hurled himself into the fray. Kennedy's fist had caught the ex-fighter and cut his cheek open and blood spurted upon both as they fought, the frail partition swaying under their weight. Swanson leaped with his arm drawn for a knock-out blow, just as Jack's right caught Kennedy upon the jaw and dropped him to the floor helpless. The blow the Swede had aimed at the fighter hit him upon the shoulder and slid over his head, and Jack, whirling, faced his new adversary. Swanson sprang to close quarters with the giant and his fist thudded home. Jack, groggy and already half spent from his exertions, clinched and hung on. The Swede, now a man gone mad with the lust of battle, shook him off, hurled the giant backward against the partition, and, crouching, he prepared to swing his right, waiting for the opening to the jaw, while Jack, groggy and half dazed, covered his head with his arms and swayed. The blow never landed. Suddenly it seemed to Swanson as if the worlds were crashing around his head. Bright stars danced before his eyes, his knees gave way beneath him, and with a foolish laugh he sank to the floor and rolled, helpless, beside his fallen comrade. His last recollection was of hearing a telephone bell jangling somewhere. The ringing of the telephone bell that Swanson heard as he lapsed into unconsciousness was the call of Barney Baldwin for Ed Edwards. The gambler, who, with his frightened companion, had heard the sounds of the terrific struggle in the barroom sink into silence, spoke rapidly for an instant, then, as Baldwin said: "They've got the wrong man," he hung up the receiver with an oath and leaped toward the doorway. He emerged upon a tableau showing his slugger, half dazed and hanging to the partition for support, two figures inert upon the floor and the bartender coolly walking back toward the bar, carrying a heavy bung-starter in his hand, that explained the sudden ending of the fight.