“That’s great, Charlie. Couple a months I’ll be champ. See if I ain’t. So long.” Bearcat hurried out feeling sure of himself agam. Charlie lit a fresh cigar, combed his hair in the mirror, and thought: “That bastard Babe! And this kid was no flash in the pan either. She ought to be knocked off.” Charlie went to eat by himself.

The Bearcat, in spite of conscientious training, could not get back to form. He got a draw with Sailor Reagan when he should have outclassed him in every round. He couldn’t understand it himself. He simply hadn’t the energy to crush his antagonist with the old reserve power. Then he lost several fights to second raters and found it difficult to get even a preliminary match.

His whole career was taking on an aspect of catastrophe. His showings were not only disappointing, they were making him look ridiculous. At the hotel, his old friends made excuses for him, patted him on the back sympathetically, cheered him with insincerities like: “Next time, Bearcat.”—“Why, you’re as good as you ever were.” But Bearcat was no longer the center of an admiring throng, and he felt injured and abused.

Babe knew that up in Harlem the Bearcat was regarded with contempt. He was laughed at as a “farce,” a “lemon” and a “bust.” Of course, his money was still buying her dresses but his funds were getting low. His glamor was tarnishing and she was losing interest, becoming more indifferent towards him every day. The world loves a hero and success, and Babe couldn’t be ’bothered with a fallen idol. Her life with Bearcat had grown stale.

As he kept slipping, he reached out to her for comfort like a drowning man to a straw. Her body was the refuge where he could drown remorse and bury disappointment. But Babe was fed up. She was afraid to break with the Bearcat too suddenly. She knew that in a twinkling he could be transformed into a brute and with all his primitive passion roused could crush her to subordination.

Well, Bearcat couldn’t go on much longer. He was almost at the end of his rope.

Several days after he had lost his most recent fight, the Bearcat walked into the hotel room and sat down on the bed. Babe was ready to go out. They said nothing to each other for a few minutes. Babe was adjusting her hat.

The Bearcat watched her.

“Better wait,” he said. “I got something to say to you.”

Babe turned from the mirror and looked at him.

“What’s the matter? The next fight off?”

“It’s a whole lot more important than that.”

“I didn’t know there could be anythin’ more important than a match right now.”

The Bearcat looked uncomfortable.

“Well, there is. I’m through fightin’.”

“Yeah?” A surprised look flared up in Babe’s eyes.

“Charlie’s through with me.”