ats to the
number of about forty had assembled, though not all of these, to the
regret of Mr. Lester Burrowes, the manager of the eminent Bugs Butler,
had parted with solid coin. Many of those present were newspaper
representatives and on the free list--writers who would polish up Mr.
Butler's somewhat crude prognostications as to what he proposed to do
to Mr. Lew Lucas, and would report him as saying, "I am in really superb
condition and feel little apprehension of the issue," and artists who
would depict him in a state of semi-nudity with feet several sizes too
large for any man.

The reason for Fillmore's relief was that Mr. Burrowes, who was a great
talker and had buttonholed him a quarter of an hour ago, had at last had
his attention distracted elsewhere, and had gone off to investigate some
matter that called for his personal handling, leaving Fillmore free to
slide away to the hotel and get a bite to eat, which he sorely needed.
The zeal which had brought him to the training-camp to inspect the final
day of Mr. Butler's preparation--for the fight was to take place on the
morrow--had been so great that he had omitted to lunch before leaving
New York.

So Fillmore made thankfully for the door. And it was at the door that he
encountered Sally. He was looking over his shoulder at the moment, and
was not aware of her presence till she spoke.

"Hallo, Fillmore!"

Sally had spoken softly, but a dynamite explosion could not have
shattered her brother's composure with more completeness. In the leaping
twist which brought him facing her, he rose a clear three inches from
the floor. He had a confused sensation, as though his nervous system had
been stirred up with a pole. He struggled for breath and moistened his
lips with the tip of his tongue, staring at her continuously during the
process.

Great men, in their moments of weakness, are to be pitied rather than
scorned. If ever a man had an excuse for leaping like a young ram,
Fillmore had it. He had left Sally not much more than a week ago in
England, in Shropshire, at Monk's Crofton. She had said nothing of any
intention on her part of leaving the country, the county, or the house.
Yet here she was, in Bugs Butler's training-camp at White Plains, in the
State of New York, speaking softly in his ear without even going
through the preliminary of tapping him on the shoulder to advertise her
presence. No wonder that Fillmore was startled. And no wonder that, as
he adj