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Steve, when the contest opened, was disposed to be consolatory in word

as well as deed. He kept up a desultory conversation as he circled and

feinted.

"You gotta look at it this way," he began, side-stepping a left, "it

ain't often you hear of anything going wrong at times like this. You

gotta remember", he hooked Kirk neatly on the jaw, "that" he concluded.

Kirk came back with a swing at the body which made his adversary grunt.

"That's true," he said.

"Sure," rejoined Steve a little breathlessly, falling into a clinch.

They moved warily round each other.

"So," said Steve, blocking a left, "that ought to comfort you some."

Kirk nodded. He guessed correctly that the other was alluding to his

last speech, not to the counter which had just made the sight of his

left eye a little uncertain.

Gradually, as the bout progressed, Kirk began to lose the slight

diffidence which had hampered him at the start. He had been feeling so

wonderfully friendly toward Steve, so grateful for his presence, and

his sympathy, that it had been hard, in spite of the other's

admonitions, to enter into the fray with any real conviction. Moreover,

subconsciously, he was listening all the time for sounds from above

which never came.

These things gave a certain lameness to his operations. It was

immediately after this blow in the eye, mentioned above, that he ceased

to be an individual with private troubles and a wandering mind, and

became a boxer pure and simple, his whole brain concentrated on the

problem of how to get past his opponent's guard.

Steve, recognizing the change in an instant, congratulated himself on

the success of his treatment. It had worked even more quickly than he

had hoped. He helped the cure with another swift jab which shot over

Kirk's guard.

Kirk came in with a rush. Steve slipped him. Kirk rushed again. Steve,

receiving a hard punch on a nose which, though accustomed to such

assaults, had never grown really to enjoy them, began to feel a slight

diminution of his detached attitude toward this encounter. Till now his

position had been purely that of the kindly physician soothing a

patient. The rapidity with which the patient was permitting himself to

be soothed rendered the post of physician something of a sinecure; and

Steve, as Kirk had done, began to slip back into the boxer.

It was while he was in what might be called a transition stage that an

unexpected swing sent him with some violence against the wall; and from

that moment nature asserted itself. A curious, set look appeared on his

face; wrinkles creased his forehead; his jaw protruded slightly.

Kirk made another rush. This time Steve did not slip; he went to meet

it, head down and hands busy.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Lora Delane Porter came downstairs with the measured

impressiveness of one who bears weighty news. Her determined face was

pale and tired, as it had every right to be; but she bore herself

proudly, as one who has fought and not been defeated.

"Mr. Winfield," she said.

There was no answer. Looking about her, she found the studio empty.

Then, from behind the closed door of the inner room, she was aware of a

strange, shuffling sound. She listened, astonished. She heard a gasp,

then curious thuds, finally a bump louder than the thuds. And then

there was silence.

These things surprised Mrs. Porter. She opened the door and looked in.

It says much for her iron self-control that she remained quiet at this

point. A lesser person, after a far less tiring ordeal than she had

passed through, would have found relief in some cry or exclamation,

possibly even in a scream.

Against the far wall, breathing hard and fondling his left eye with a

four-ounce glove, leaned Steve Dingle. His nose was bleeding somewhat

freely, but this he appeared to consider a trifle unworthy of serious

attention. On the floor, an even more disturbing spectacle, Kirk lay at

full length. To Mrs. Porter's startled gaze he appeared to be dead. He

too, was bleeding, but he was not in a position to notice it.

"It's all right, ma'am," said Steve, removing the hand from his face

and revealing an eye which for spectacular dilapidation must have

rivalled the epoch-making one which had so excited his mother on a

famous occasion. "It's nothing serious."

"Has Mr. Winfield fainted?"

"Not exactly fainted, ma'am. It's like this. He'd got me clear up in a

corner, and I seen it's up to me if I don't want to be knocked through

the wall, so I has to cross him. Maybe I'd gotten a little worked up

myself by then. But it was my fault. I told him to go all out, and he

sure did. This eye's going to be a pippin to-morrow."

Mrs. Porter examined the wounded organ with interest.

"That, I suppose Mr. Dingle, is what you call a blue eye?"

"It sure is, ma'am."

"What has been happening?"

"Well, it's this way. I see he's all worked up, sitting around doing

nothing except wait, so I makes him come and spar a round to take his

mind off it. My old dad, ma'am, when I was coming along, found that

dope fixed him all right, so I reckoned it would do as much good here.

My old dad went and beat the block off a fellow down our street, and it

done him a lot of good."

Mrs. Porter shook his gloved hand.

"Mr. Dingle," she said with enthusiasm, "I really believe that you are

the only sensible man I have ever met. Your common sense is

astonishing. I have no doubt you saved Mr. Winfield from a nervous

break-down. Would you be kind enough, when you are rested, to fetch

some water and bring him to and inform him that he is the father of a

son?"

 

Chapter IX The White Hope is Turned Down

William Bannister Winfield was the most wonderful child. Of course,

you had to have a certain amount of intelligence to see this. To the

vapid and irreflective observer he was not much to look at in the early

stages of his career, having a dough-like face almost entirely devoid

of nose, a lack-lustre eye, and the general appearance of a poached

egg. His immediate circle of intimates, however, thought him a model of

manly beauty; and there was the undeniable fact that he had come into

the world weighing nine pounds. Take him for all in all, a lad of

promise.

Kirk's sense of being in a dream continued. His identity seemed to have

undergone a change. The person he had known as Kirk Winfield had

disappeared, to be succeeded by a curious individual bubbling over with

an absurd pride for which it was not easy to find an outlet. Hitherto a

rather reserved man, he was conscious now of a desire to accost perfect

strangers in the street and inform them that he was not the ordinary

person they probably imagined, but a father with an intensely unusual

son at home, and if they did not believe him they could come right

along and see for themselves.

The only flaw in his happiness at the moment was the fact that his

circle of friends was so small. He had not missed the old brigade of

the studio before, but now the humblest of them would have been

welcome, provided he would have sat still and listened. Even Percy

Shanklyn would have been acceptable as an audience.

Steve, excellent fellow, was always glad to listen to him on his

favourite subject. He had many long talks with Steve on the question of

William's future. Steve, as the infant's godfather, which post he had

claimed and secured at an early date, had definite views on the matter.