Outside, Charlie wiped the perspiration from his face. “God, what a job,” he thought. “If she don’t come through after me doin’ the sob stuff and turnin’ on the water-works, I’m licked.” Then he grinned. “She’s the kind of a jane any guy might fall for. If it wasn’t for this racket, I wouldn’t mind havin’ her myself.”

As he stepped out of the elevator and entered the lobby he saw the Bearcat sitting in one of the chairs. He was startled at seemg his manager. Charlie walked over to him.

“Thought you was stretchin’ out up in your room.”

“I’m meetin’ some pals,” said the Bearcat. “Takin’ a little air before I turn in. What you doin’ here?”

“Same thing. Only I’m just quittin’ ’em. I got somethin’ to say to you before you hit the hay.”

“All right,” the Bearcat responded.

That night in Charlie’s room, the Bearcat sat on the edge of the bed, while Charlie talked.

“Week from tonight, you’re goin’ to be standin’ in the road,” Charlie pointed to the autographed champions on the walls, “that them fellows there walked to a barrel of gold—or you’ll be a hard luck story for a dime magazine. From now on, Bearcat, you turn in at ten every night and cut out this Gordon woman.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I said.”

“What do you know about—”

Charlie interrupted.

“It’s too early in the game for a good pug to mix a woman with his fightin’.”

“What are you talkin’ about?”

“I’m talkin’ about Babe Gordon. I don’t want you to feel bad, kid, but all the sap and guts and iron brain you got can’t be wasted in any love clinches.”

“Why, there ain’t nothin’ wrong between us, Charlie.”

“Well, if there ain’t yet, there will be. I know Babe. Yes, sir, I know what I’m talkin’ about. Stick with her and you’ll wish you were dead. Anyway, kid, if I see you with her until you’ve won this fight, I’m going to cancel the bout. And that goes, if she even so much as comes into the gym while you’re trainin’. One o’clock, kid. This ain’t no time for you to be up.”

VII THE PATH OF GLORY

HARLEM JOE HASTINGS stooped through the ropes and stepped onto the white canvas square. A mighty shout went up from the packed arena—a black and white political, sporting and social assemblage. Jeweled white women bravoed and waved handkerchiefs alongside of smartly groomed black companions. Babe sat in a ringside seat, in a thousand dollars’ worth of clothes, a black broadcloth wrap with a bushed fox collar, a smart black hat pressed down on marcelled gold.