THE CHAMPION BY CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY The Riverside Press, Cambridge 1902 COPYRIGHT, 1902, BY MARY N. MURFREE ALL RIGHTS RESERVED _Published September, 1902._ [Illustration: "I CAN'T HIDE IT! I BURNT THE COPY."] THE CHAMPION CHAPTER I The devil was looking out of the window. Yet the traffic in the streets was unchecked. The cable-cars whizzed past with a clanging clamor. Great rumbling vans laden with freight alternated with carriages rolling noiselessly on rubber-tired wheels. The sidewalks were crowded with pedestrians. Men and boys, ladies and little children, boldly came and went over the neighboring crossing, although they could plainly see the devil's head poking out of a high window in the newspaper building and hear the shrill tones of the devil's voice as he discoursed to his friend within. For in fact this was not the old Enemy of Mankind, but a small imp--commonly known as a printer's devil--who by virtue of a beguiling chirp of "Copy!" served as a means of communication between the foreman of the composing-room and the editorial staff. "That's wher' they set her up!" he said, pointing to the composing-room in an explanatory way, and with a paw copiously smeared with ink. There were streaks of this commodity on his face also, although his functions had no concern with it. Still the devil is not the only fiend who dabbles in printer's ink without a call. His friend, Peter Bateman, a heavy, thickset boy, with a broad, sullen, flushed face and a lowering eye, cast a glance at the cases visible through the open door from the hall. "Wher' do the boss do the writin' at?" he asked, in a hoarse, wheezy voice. The devil tossed his red head. "Boss don't hev ter write none!" he retorted arrogantly. "_Foreman_ is what _we_ call him--bes' printer in these 'ere Newnited States!" "But wher' do the feller stay what hes ter write?" persisted Pete. "Oh,--_him_?" responded the devil, disparagingly. "They puts him in a little 'rinktum,' they call it, all by himself. _He_ ain't much force! He can't write a word if folks git ter gabblin' ter him. Why, sometimes when I jes' say 'Copee' ter him, he looks like he will go out of his mind! They hev ter hire a whole passel o' other fellers ter help him _jes' do the writin'_. They hev got a double row of desks for a lot of 'em in that long room. They are all orful slow. Sometimes I be kep' yappin' 'Copee' at 'em all day so I can't stay abed o' night--ef I eats toler'ble hearty,--but jes' keeps jumpin' out an' yappin' 'Copee' in my sleep, till my mother gits afeard I'll fetch the perlice with my noise."