On the sidewalk before the saloon McGregor stopped. “Look here,” he said, turning and facing the superintendent, “I'm after Frank's place. I'm going to learn the business as fast as I can. I won't put it up to you to fire him. When I get ready for the place he won't be there.” A light flashed into the eyes of the little man. He held the cigar McGregor had paid for as though about to throw it into the street. “How far do you think you can go with your big fists?” he asked, his voice rising. McGregor smiled. He thought he had earned another victory and lighting his cigar held the burning match before the little man. “Brains are intended to help fists,” he said, “I've got both.” The superintendent looked at the burning match and at the cigar between his fingers. “If I don't which will you use on me?” he asked. McGregor threw the match into the street. “Aw! don't bother asking,” he said, holding out another match. McGregor and the superintendent walked along the street. “I would like to fire you but I won't. Some day you'll run that warehouse like a clock,” said the superintendent. McGregor sat in the street-car and thought of his day. It had been he felt a day of two battles. First the direct brutal battle of fists in the passageway and then this other battle with the superintendent. He thought he had won both fights. Of the fight with the tall German he thought little. He had expected to win that. The other was different. The superintendent he felt had wanted to patronise him, patting him on the back and buying him drinks. Instead he had patronised the superintendent. A battle had gone on in the brains of the two men and he had won. He had met a new kind of man, one who did not live by the raw strength of his muscles and he had given a good account of himself. The conviction that he had, besides a good pair of fists, a good brain swept in on him glorifying him. He thought of the sentence, “Brains are intended to help fists,” and wondered how he had happened to think of it. CHAPTER II The street in which McGregor lived in Chicago was called Wycliff Place, after a family of that name that had once owned the land thereabout. The street was complete in its hideousness. Nothing more unlovely could be imagined. Given a free hand an indiscriminate lot of badly trained carpenters and bricklayers had builded houses beside the cobblestone road that touched the fantastic in their unsightliness and inconvenience.