in' the papers, Mr. Blair," chanted Devereau.
Having struck this vein of satire and found it rich he followed it up.
"Full of lovely reading these days, now aren't they?"

That was not so; not as it was meant. Perry had found the columns
devoted to himself singularly flat and devoid of interest. There was
only one item, in fact, which never failed. Only one which he always
read, the daily quotation on livestock. But he kept quiet. His eyes
alone were attentive.

"So you've been reading the papers!" Mincingly Devereau went back and
picked it up. "Well-well! Ha-ha!" But hard after came again that
half-blind, half-incoherent rage.

"Listen, now, you! You listen! Listen, and I'll give you an interview
that's never been put on any press."

And he gave it to him, briefly, coldly. He repeated substantially what
the carpers had said at the time Perry won the title.

"Champion?" he said. "Sure--because I made you champion. Because
Fanchette wouldn't a'stepped into the ring with Jimmy Montague, or
Jigger Holliday; no, nor even old Kid Fall. I know, believe me I know,
because I tried him with all of 'em. Not for the purse that was
offered. He wasn't looking to commit suicide at bargain prices.

"But you? He'd take a chance on you. Sure he would. Who the hell was
Perry Blair, anyway? He knew that Montague'd cut him to pieces.
Holliday'd have tore off his lid. So I swung him to you.

"And why? Because I thought you'd listen to reason. Oh, you don't
believe it. Ask Dunham. Are you still such a hick that you don't know
he was behind that match? Why, he's behind 'em all--nine tenths of
'em. His bankroll is."

"Whose right hand was it put Fanchette but?" asked Perry mildly.

"Pah!" slurred Devereau. "Pah! I coulda done it myself."

But Blair's quietness fooled him.

"I'm not saying that it wasn't convincing." He thought it time to
placate. "It was neat. I've gave you credit. Sure! You looked
great. You looked like a world-beater, in there against Fanchette.
But that's just what I'm trying to get at. Oh, Dunham and I talked it
over before anybody in this burg knew you were alive. That's what I'm
trying to get at. You been crabbin' your own act; you been making it
hard for yourself. You gotta play it up now. You gotta work different.

"Nowadays a champ has just two outs. He's got to be a glad hand
artist, or a bruiser. That covers it. He's either got to be so
popular that they don'