Jerry
Benham--she gave no sign of it. It seemed to me that she was in her
element; as though in this adventure, the most unusual she had perhaps
ever attempted, she had found the very acme, the climax of her
experience.

When the introductions were finished, the hubbub began anew. Had Henry
Ballard succeeded in buying Clancy off? I hoped and I feared it. Men
came from the dressing-rooms and whispered in the ear of the announcer
who sent them back hurriedly. The crowd was becoming impatient. There
were no more pugilists to introduce and the man in the ring walked to
and fro mopping his perspiring brow. At last when the sounds from the
crowd became one muffled roar, he clambered down through the ropes and
went himself to the dressing-rooms, returning in a while with the
referee of the match whom he presented. The new referee looked at his
watch and announced that there was a slight delay and begged the crowd
to be patient a few moments longer.

But when the moments were no longer few and there were no signs from
the dressing-room doors the people in the rear seats rose howling in a
body. There were cries of "Fake" and "Give us our money" and the man
in the ring, Diamond Joe Gannon, held up his hands in vain for
silence. For awhile it looked as though there would be a riot. Had
Ballard Senior succeeded?

Suddenly the howling was hushed and merged into shouts of acclaim.
"Good boy, Kid! Here he comes," and, rising with the others, I saw
coming down the aisle from the dressing-rooms "Kid" Spatola, the
bootblack champion. He carried a bucket, sponges and towels and after
a word with the clamorous reporters clambered up into the ring,
followed by a colored man, in whom I recognized Danny Monroe, the
Swedish negro. He wore suspenders over his undershirt and carried
several bottles which he placed in the corner of the ring beside the
bucket. The eyes of the crowd were focused upon the door from which
Spatola had emerged. I saw two figures come out, one grim and silent
who made his way toward the street doors, the other who came quickly
down the aisle--Ballard Senior and Jack. The latter questioned an
usher and was shown directly to my box, by his prominence investing
both himself and me with immediate publicity. I felt the gaze of our
neighbors upon us, but Jack seated himself coolly and lighted a
cigarette.

"What happened?" I questioned in a whisper.

"They're going to fight," he returned.

"Your father--?"

He smil