A white flash blinded him as he dropped. He was down for the count of eight. He was "out on his feet" when he struggled up again. He smiled feebly and pawed in front of him with his left. The Battler brushed it aside and as John fell forward in a last desperate effort to clinch, his right went over. The smack of the Mexican's fist as it landed the knockout punch sounded like the slap of a paddle on water. "Eight--nine--you're out!" They carried him to his corner, the Battler on one side, the referee on the other. As through a fog he saw the Mexican dance back to his corner to be received joyously by his seconds. He saw Jack Dempsey looking up at him, nodding his head and smiling. He saw a terribly anxious look on a pale, strained face he slowly recognized as that of Charlie Chaplin. He closed his eyes. If they would only let him alone and stop throwing water on him. He could not see out of one of his eyes. They tore the gloves from his hands and the sharp odor of smelling salts bit into his nostrils. His head ached, his lungs burned. "Come on, kid, get back to da dressin' room," a husky voice said. He pulled himself to his feet. He was whipped. His only chance to get money to pay for his father's funeral was gone. So weak that his body shook and his legs trembled, hysterical tears sprang to his eyes and he sobbed--gasping sobs that choked him. The hot tears smarted like salt in the cuts on his cheek as he stumbled up the aisle toward the dressing rooms. Someone came running up behind him. A hand grasped his arm and he heard a voice say: "Just a minute, my boy, I want to talk to you." CHAPTER II He looked up into the whimsically comic face of Charlie Murray, famous in film farces--with funny features and gruff ways, but a heart as soft as a mother's. With no idea to whom he was speaking, John Gallant blurted: "Please, not now--I can't." "Just a word with you, son; come along, let's get back to your dressing room," said the other without taking his arm from his shoulder. As they left the arena they heard the gong sound for the opening round of another bout. It brought back to John the bitterness of his loss in defeat and his chagrin. He had made a mess of things. How could he go back to his mother with his face battered and swollen and without the $200 he had expected to take to her to pay for his father's funeral? He flung himself on a bench in his dressing room and buried his face in his hands. He sat for a time until he had choked back his hysterical crying and when he looked up he saw the stranger who had stopped him in the aisle gazing at him intently. He saw something in the mild blue eyes of this man that overcame the momentary feeling of shame he felt for having given way to his bitterness and despair. "What's your trouble, son?" the stranger asked. He sat silent. "Out with it, son, something's wrong somewhere and I may be able to help you." "Who are you?" John asked.