to the floor, but failed to hold him.

Then in the Jam-wagon there awoke the ancient spirit of the Berserker.
He cared no more for punishment. He was insensible to pain. He was the
sea-pirate again, mad with the lust of battle. Like a fiend he tore
himself loose, and went after his man, rushing him with a swift,
battering hail of blows around the ring. Like a tiger he was, and the
violent lunges of Locasto only infuriated him the more.

Now they were in a furious mix-up, and suddenly Locasto, seizing him
savagely, tried to whip him smashing to the floor. Then the wonderful
agility of the Englishman was displayed. In a distance of less than a
two-foot drop he turned completely like a cat. Leaping up, he was free,
and, getting a waist-hold with a Cornish heave, he bore Locasto to the
floor. Quickly he changed to a crotch-lock, and, lastly, holding
Locasto's legs, he brought him to a bridge and worked his weight up on
his body.

Black Jack, with a mighty heave, broke away and again regained his
feet. This seemed to enrage the Jam-wagon the more, for he tore after
his man like a maddened bull. Getting a hold with incredible strength,
he lifted him straight up in the air and hurled him to the ground with
sickening force.

Locasto lay there. His eyes were closed. He did not move. Several men
rushed forward. "He's all right," said a medical-looking individual;
"just stunned. I guess you can call the fight over."

The Jam-wagon slowly put on his clothes. Once more, in the person of
Locasto, he had successfully grappled with "Old Man Booze." He was badly
bruised about the body, but not seriously hurt in any way. Shudderingly
I looked down at Locasto's face, beaten to a pulp, his body livid from
head to foot. And then, as they bore him off to the hospital, I realised
I was revenged.

"Did you know that man Spitzstein was charging a dollar for admission?"
queried the Prodigal.

"No!"

"That's right. That darned little Jew netted nearly a thousand dollars."

CHAPTER VI

"Let me introduce you," said the Prodigal, "to my friend the 'Pote.'"

"Glad to meet you," said the Pote cheerfully, extending a damp hand.
"Just been having a dishwashing bee. Excuse my dishybeel."

He wore a pale-blue undershirt, white flannel trousers girt round the
waist with a red silk handkerchief, very gaudy moccasins, and a rakish
Panama hat with a band of chocolate and gold.

"Take a seat, won't you?" Through his gold-rimmed spectac