Then Morehouse remembered. Old Jerry had not had much to say that night, but his face and his shrill eagerness to snatch a little of the spotlight was unforgettable. And it was of that very night Morehouse had been thinking--that and the face of the big boy silent there on the threshold--when the interruption came. But still he uttered no welcome; instead there was something close akin to distinct aversion in his manner as he drew up a chair for the old man. Old Jerry felt the chill lack of cordiality, but he sat down. And after a long period of silence, in which Morehouse made no move to put him more at ease, he swallowed hard and went on with his explanation. "I come down to--to see Denny fight," he stated. "It kinda seemed to us--to me--that he'd think it strange if somebody from his home town wa'n't there. So I come along. And I wouldn't a bothered you at all today--it's gettin' late and I ain't got my ticket to get in yet--only--only I was worried a mite--jest a trifle--and I thought I'd better see you if I could." Morehouse tilted his head again. Old Jerry gave up any attempt of further excusing his intrusion and went straight to the heart of the matter. He unfolded a paper that bulged from the side pocket of his coat and spread it out on the desk. "It's this," he said, indicating the column that had scoffed so openly at Young Denny's chances. "You--you wrote it, I suppose, didn't you?" Again that impersonal nod. "Well, I just wanted to ask you if--if you really thought it was--if you think he ain't got no chance at all?" The eagerness of that trembling old voice was not to be ignored any longer. But Morehouse couldn't help but recollect the eager circle of "Ayes" which had flanked the Judge that other night. "What of it?" he inquired coolly. "What if he hasn't? I though Jed Conway was the particular pride of your locality!" Old Jerry's beady eyes widened. There was no mistaking the positive dislike in that round face, any more than one could misunderstand the antagonism of that round-faced man's words. For weeks Morehouse had been puzzling over a question which he could not answer--something which, for all the intimacy that had sprung up between himself and Denny Bolton, he had never felt able to ask of the boy with the grave eyes and graver lips. Even since the conference in Hogarty's little office, when he had agreed to the ex-lightweight's plan, it had been vexing him, no nearer solution than it had been that day when he assured Hogarty that there was more behind young Denny's eagerness to meet Jed Conway than the prize-money could account for. Now, that afternoon, on the very eve of that battle, he sat there in the thickening dusk, unconscious of the passage of time, and listened to the explanation that came pouring from Old Jerry's lips, haltingly at first, and then in a steady falsetto stream, and learned the answer to it.