“You think for a second you can lick me?” Danny blurted in. Rivera nodded. “Oh, come; listen to reason,” Kelly pleaded. “Think of the advertising.” “I want the money,” was Rivera's answer. “You couldn't win from me in a thousand years,” Danny assured him. “Then what are you holdin' out for?” Rivera countered. “If the money's that easy, why don't you go after it?” “I will, so help me!” Danny cried with abrupt conviction. “I'll beat you to death in the ring, my boy--you monkeyin' with me this way. Make out the articles, Kelly. Winner take all. Play it up in the sportin' columns. Tell 'em it's a grudge fight. I'll show this fresh kid a few.” Kelly's secretary had begun to write, when Danny interrupted. “Hold on!” He turned to Rivera. “Weights?” “Ringside,” came the answer. “Not on your life, Fresh Kid. If winner takes all, we weigh in at ten A.M.” “And winner takes all?” Rivera queried. Danny nodded. That settled it. He would enter the ring in his full ripeness of strength. “Weigh in at ten,” Rivera said. The secretary's pen went on scratching. “It means five pounds,” Roberts complained to Rivera. “You've given too much away. You've thrown the fight right there. Danny'll lick you sure. He'll be as strong as a bull. You're a fool. You ain't got the chance of a dewdrop in hell.” Rivera's answer was a calculated look of hatred. Even this Gringo he despised, and him had he found the whitest Gringo of them all. IV Barely noticed was Rivera as he entered the ring. Only a very slight and very scattering ripple of half-hearted hand-clapping greeted him. The house did not believe in him. He was the lamb led to slaughter at the hands of the great Danny. Besides, the house was disappointed. It had expected a rushing battle between Danny Ward and Billy Carthey, and here it must put up with this poor little tyro. Still further, it had manifested its disapproval of the change by betting two, and even three, to one on Danny. And where a betting audience's money is, there is its heart. The Mexican boy sat down in his corner and waited. The slow minutes lagged by. Danny was making him wait. It was an old trick, but ever it worked on the young, new fighters. They grew frightened, sitting thus and facing their own apprehensions and a callous, tobacco-smoking audience. But for once the trick failed. Roberts was right. Rivera had no goat. He, who was more delicately coordinated, more finely nerved and strung than any of them, had no nerves of this sort. The atmosphere of foredoomed defeat in his own corner had no effect on him. His handlers were Gringos and strangers. Also they were scrubs--the dirty driftage of the fight game, without honor, without efficiency. And they were chilled, as well, with certitude that theirs was the losing corner.