“Cool off his motor there, seconds!”

“Yes, sir, he’s steamin’ now!”

“Give him those sledgehammers of yours, Blacksmith!”

“What a chassis you got, Bearcat!”

“You should of brought one of your horseshoes along, Blacksmith. You’d sure knock him out.”

“Hit him with that steering-gear, Bearcat!”

“Give him a little oil!”

A little fellow in the balcony arose and recited:

“‘Under the spreading chestnut tree, the village smithy stands.’”

The crowd howled with glee.

The gong sounded for the last round.

II THE WINNER

BLACKSMITH COOPER, saving his surprise tactics for the last round, beat upon the body of Bearcat with all his anvil strength. All at once iron sledgehammers seemed to be crushing mercilessly against a white pillar there in the ring. In another minute it would be smashed to pieces.

The crowd sat tense and breathless, watching the pitiless gloves like a hail of shells exploding about the white column that was Bearcat. In another second it would come crashing down. It would be blasted, wiped out by the dynamite charge laid against it.

Then, suddenly, from the ring there came a sound like a loud hand-clap. Babe looked up and saw the Blacksmith go flying against the ropes as if shot from a cannon. In an instant Bearcat was at him, driving vicious rights and lefts into a body that was too hurt to protect itself. Blacksmith sagged; his face turned up hideously contorted, his eyes rolling back till only the whites showed. He slumped to the floor on his face and moved no more till the referee counted him out and Bearcat helped carry him to his corner.

The crowd was delirious with excitement, as the announcer shot his hand to the Bearcat’s corner declaring him the winner, by a knockout.

Streaming with perspiration, bruised and happy, the Bearcat was muffled in his bathrobe and congratulated by his seconds and trainer. Then an enthusiastic delegation of drivers from the American Railway Express Company swept down on him and it took the combined efforts of ringside attendants and police to rescue him from his friends.

“Good boy,” shouted Charlie. “I knew you’d do it.”

The crowd, curious for a close-up of the Bearcat, was hemmed tightly about the new idol who was making progress back to the dressing room very slowly. Only after the cops were able to break up the mob did Bearcat get elbow room.

Joe Malone, a fighter who had once made Babe and who occasionally smoked hop with Jenny, was pushing his way to mit the Bearcat who had finally reached the stair-landing. His mouth was bloody and swollen.

“Swell kid!” Joe Malone shouted.

Bearcat waved. Babe fixed her eyes greedily on him.

“I’ll be up in a minute,” Malone called and turned to look into Babe’s eyes.

“Oh, hello, Joe,” she greeted him.

“Well, if it ain’t the Babe, and Jen, too,” he said. “Swell mix, ’at las’ one, eh?”