Despair was in all their faces. Jose Amarillo, their last hope, a recent convert, who had promised money, had been apprehended at his hacienda in Chihuahua and shot against his own stable wall. The news had just come through. Rivera, on his knees, scrubbing, looked up, with suspended brush, his bare arms flecked with soapy, dirty water. “Will five thousand do it?” he asked. They looked their amazement. Vera nodded and swallowed. He could not speak, but he was on the instant invested with a vast faith. “Order the guns,” Rivera said, and thereupon was guilty of the longest flow of words they had ever heard him utter. “The time is short. In three weeks I shall bring you the five thousand. It is well. The weather will be warmer for those who fight. Also, it is the best I can do.” Vera fought his faith. It was incredible. Too many fond hopes had been shattered since he had begun to play the revolution game. He believed this threadbare scrubber of the Revolution, and yet he dared not believe. “You are crazy,” he said. “In three weeks,” said Rivera. “Order the guns.” He got up, rolled down his sleeves, and put on his coat. “Order the guns,” he said. “I am going now.” III After hurrying and scurrying, much telephoning and bad language, a night session was held in Kelly's office. Kelly was rushed with business; also, he was unlucky. He had brought Danny Ward out from New York, arranged the fight for him with Billy Carthey, the date was three weeks away, and for two days now, carefully concealed from the sporting writers, Carthey had been lying up, badly injured. There was no one to take his place. Kelly had been burning the wires East to every eligible lightweight, but they were tied up with dates and contracts. And now hope had revived, though faintly. “You've got a hell of a nerve,” Kelly addressed Rivera, after one look, as soon as they got together. Hate that was malignant was in Rivera's eyes, but his face remained impassive. “I can lick Ward,” was all he said. “How do you know? Ever see him fight?” Rivera shook his head. “He can beat you up with one hand and both eyes closed.” Rivera shrugged his shoulders. “Haven't you got anything to say?” the fight promoter snarled. “I can lick him.” “Who'd you ever fight, anyway!” Michael Kelly demanded. Michael was the promotor's brother, and ran the Yellowstone pool rooms where he made goodly sums on the fight game. Rivera favored him with a bitter, unanswering stare. The promoter's secretary, a distinctively sporty young man, sneered audibly. “Well, you know Roberts,” Kelly broke the hostile silence. “He ought to be here. I've sent for him. Sit down and wait, though f rom the looks of you, you haven't got a chance. I can't throw the public down with a bum fight. Ringside seats are selling at fifteen dollars, you know that.”