"Ladees and gen-tul-men, I now take pleasure in in-ter-ducing to you Mr. Ed Fiteon, father and handler of Johnny Fiteon, who wears th' bantamweight crown _o' th' world_." The crowd made evident its vehement gratitude for Ed's share in Johnny's creation. "Chee," whispered Moxey to Al, as they sat close and rapt, with shining eyes, on the dollar seats high up and far away, "they'd tear up the chairs for Johnny's mother if they'd perduce her." But now something was happening by the east entrance. The cheering suddenly ceased, A low anxious buzzing whisper ran over the entire assemblage. Men stood up to look eastward regardless of monitions from behind to sit down. Something was cutting through the crowd from the east entrance to the ring. It was Kid O'Mara in his cotton bathrobe preceded by a gigantic mulatto and followed by two smaller Caucasians. Moxey's bony fingers dug suddenly into Al's biceps. "Kid, you gotta do it, Kid, you gotta," he whispered. "O, fer God's sake, Kid." Al was surprised. "Are you with O'Mara?" he asked. "Am I with him?" answered Moxey with a sob in his voice; "am I with him--he's me cousin." "O'Mara _your_ cousin?" "Lipkowsky's his right name--same as mine. Look at his beak and see." There was no doubt of it. "Kid O'Mara's" proboscis corroborated Moxey's claim. Johnny's entrance a few minutes later was still more effective and his reception warmer. Fight fans are courtiers, always with the king. When the two boys stripped, Johnny showed short and stocky, the Kid lank and lithe. Johnny depended on his punch, the Kid on his reach. They fought ten rounds and it was called a draw, probably a just decision inasmuch as the adherents of each contestant proclaimed that the referee had been corrupted against their man. Besides, a draw meant another fight between them with plenty of money in the house. This evening in fistiana was perhaps the most powerful single experience which influenced Al at this period of his life. For a long time he sat silent beside Moxey on the return trip, pondering the physical beauty of Johnny and the Kid and ruefully comparing their bodies with his own. He sighed, "And now I s'pose your cousin'll go out and kill it to-night!" "Not him," Moxey reassured; "he never touches it in any form or shape, understand." "He's training all the time?" continued Al, bent on deciphering the secret ways of greatness. "Yep. So you might say." "Oh," then Al relapsed into silence to wrestle with the angel of training all the time. Like most young fellows, Al regarded his body as the source of all the happiness that amounted to anything. The brain was merely its adjunct, its money maker and guide. Its operations might lead to life, but they were not life like the body's.