At the finish, Mike, with an eye of bland innocence--for he is certain the theatre will give him something, even if it withhold the full two hundred--tells John he will pay for the soup within the hour, when he returns. “That’s all right, Mike,” cries the good-natured baker, “any time will do.” “This w’y, me cove,” observes a person with a cockney accent, as the sharp gamin delivers Mike, together with the message to the Terror, at the stage door; “this w’y; ’ere’s a dressin’ room for you to shift your togs.” Later, when Mike’s outer husks are off and he stands arrayed for the ring, this person, who is old and gray and wears a scarred and battered visage, looks Mike over in approval: “You seems an amazin’ bit of stuff, lad,” says this worthy man; “the build of Tom Sayres at his best, but’eavier. I ’opes you’ll do this Mick, but I’m afeared on it. You looks too pretty; an’ you ain’t got a fightin’ face. How ’eavy be you, lad?” “One hundred and eighty-one,” replies Mike, smiling on the Englishman with his boy’s eyes. “Can you spar a bit?” asks the other. “Why, of course I can!” and Mike’s tones exhibit surprise. “Well, laddy,” says the other; “don’t let this Dublin bloke rattle you. ’E’s a great blow’ard, I takes it, an’ will quit if he runs ag’in two or three stiff ’uns. A score of years ago, I’d a-give ’im a stone an’ done for ’im myself. I’m to be in your corner, laddy, an’ I trusts you’ll not disgrace me.” “Who are you?” asks Mike. “Oh, me?” says the other; “I works for the theayter, laddy, an’, bein’ as ’ow I’m used to fightin’, I goes on to ’eel an’ ’andle the amatoors as goes arter the Terror. It’s all square, laddy; I’ll be be’ind you; an’ I’ll ’elp you to win those pennies if I sees a w’y.” “I have also the honor,” shouts the loud master of ceremonies, “to introduce to you Mike Men-ares, who will contend with the Dublin Terror. Should he stay four rounds, Marquis of Queens-berry rules, the management forfeits two hundred dollars to the said Menares.” “What a model for my Jason,” says a thin shaving of a man who stands as a spectator in the wings. He is an artist of note, and speaks to a friend at his elbow. “What a model for my Jason! I will give him five dollars an hour for three hours a day. What’s his name? Mike what?” The battle is about to commence; the friend, tongue-tied of interest, makes no reply. The Dublin Terror is a rugged, powerful ruffian, with lumpy shoulders, thick short neck, and a shock gorilla head. His little gray eyes are lighted fiercely. His expression is as savagely bitter as Mike’s is gentle. The creature, a fighter by nature, was born meaning harm to other men. There is a roped square, about eighteen feet each way, on the stage, in which the gladiators will box. The floor is canvas made safe with rosin. The master of cermonies, himself a pugilist of celebration, will act as referee. The old battered man of White Chapel is in Mike’s corner.