a hasty supper ere the evening rush of business. Also, Patsy Horan
was angry with the world. He had got out of the wrong side of bed that
morning, and nothing had gone right all day. Had his barkeepers been
asked, they would have described his mental condition as a grouch. But
Carter Watson did not know this. As he passed the little hallway, Patsy
Horan's sullen eyes lighted on the magazine he carried under his arm.
Patsy did not know Carter Watson, nor did he know that what he carried
under his arm was a magazine. Patsy, out of the depths of his grouch,
decided that this stranger was one of those pests who marred and scarred
the walls of his back rooms by tacking up or pasting up advertisements.
The color on the front cover of the magazine convinced him that it was
such an advertisement. Thus the trouble began. Knife and fork in hand,
Patsy leaped for Carter Watson.

"Out wid yeh!" Patsy bellowed. "I know yer game!"

Carter Watson was startled. The man had come upon him like the eruption
of a jack-in-the-box.

"A defacin' me walls," cried Patsy, at the same time emitting a string
of vivid and vile, rather than virile, epithets of opprobrium.

"If I have given any offense I did not mean to--"

But that was as far as the visitor got. Patsy interrupted.

"Get out wid yeh; yeh talk too much wid yer mouth," quoted Patsy,
emphasizing his remarks with flourishes of the knife and fork.

Carter Watson caught a quick vision of that eating-fork inserted
uncomfortably between his ribs, knew that it would be rash to talk
further with his mouth, and promptly turned to go. The sight of his
meekly retreating back must have further enraged Patsy Horan, for that
worthy, dropping the table implements, sprang upon him.

Patsy weighed one hundred and eighty pounds. So did Watson. In this they
were equal. But Patsy was a rushing, rough-and-tumble saloon-fighter,
while Watson was a boxer. In this the latter had the advantage, for
Patsy came in wide open, swinging his right in a perilous sweep. All
Watson had to do was to straight-left him and escape. But Watson had
another advantage. His boxing, and his experience in the slums and
ghettos of the world, had taught him restraint.

He pivoted on his feet, and, instead of striking, ducked the other's
swinging blow and went into a clinch. But Patsy, charging like a bull,
had the momentum of his rush, while Watson, whirling to meet him, had no
momentum. As a result, the pair of them went