"Ah, there ye've got me, sor. Jerry's a rare one, he is, and plucky--and quick as any man of his weight in the wor-rld--but Clancy is a good 'un, too--young, strong as a bull an' expayrienced. Fought steady for three years, an' winning, sor. He'll have the confidence--but Masther Jerry is a wonder. He'll have a chanct, sor, more than an even chanct, I'd say, if he don't waste nothin'." "Waste nothing?" "He's got to land, sor--every time and waste no whiffs on nothin'." "I see." Flynn was eyeing the door impatiently. He was a busy man and had no time to answer foolish questions. "There's no chance of getting out of it?" I asked. "None, sor. He couldn't quit now. Ye wouldn't want him to, would you, sor?" he finished in a reproachful tone, which just missed being disagreeable. I opened the door and he lost no time in getting to the gymnasium. That next afternoon in the midst of the work out, I had another surprise, for a wagon arrived from the station and in it were Marcia Van Wyck and Miss Gore, the latter dragged against her will to play a part she little cared for. I happened to meet them in the hall, where, since none of the pugilists were present, Marcia put aside subterfuge, nodded coolly and asked for Jerry. She wore the badly fitting suit her maid had procured for her and chewed gum incessantly. I looked anxiously at Miss Gore, but it seems that even her martyrdom stopped at that. I led the way to the gymnasium where Jerry and the irritable Carty were resting between rounds. The girl nodded to Jerry, who waved his glove, and took one of the chairs by the ring-side, the obedient Miss Gore next her. "What round?" she asked masticating leisurely. "Third," said Flynn with his gaze on his watch, "Time!" And they went at it hammer and tongs. From my chair beside Miss Gore I watched the girl. Her hands were clasped over her knees as she leaned forward, her eyes glowing, watching the swift motions of the two men as they moved backward and forward. Miss Gore wore the fixed smile of the perpetually bored. She watched Jerry and Carty exchanging their blows, with a sphinxlike air as though inspecting half-naked men dancing around each other was her usual afternoon's employment. She was admirable, accepting her lot in life with a philosophy which had in it something of the stoic. Only when Carty landed on Jerry's lip and the blood showed did she wince. "You--approve of this?" she whispered, then to me. "No. I'm helpless," I returned. "You know?" "Yes. It's madness. She made him do--" "Sh--" she warned, for the round had ended, and Marcia turned toward her. But I knew that she understood. "You're a good sport, Mr. Benham," said Marcia to me, assuming her role with an air of enjoyment, "havin' the boys up here to train. Jim's comin' fast, ain't he?" I nodded uncomfortably.