of dozens of bodies. Again the rifles of the soldiers of Porfirio Diaz
cracked, and again he dropped to the ground and slunk away like some
hunted coyote of the hills.

To his ears came a great roar, as of the sea, and he saw Danny Ward,
leading his retinue of trainers and seconds, coming down the center
aisle. The house was in wild uproar for the popular hero who was bound
to win. Everybody proclaimed him. Everybody was for him. Even Rivera's
own seconds warmed to something akin to cheerfulness when Danny ducked
jauntily through the ropes and entered the ring. His face continually
spread to an unending succession of smiles, and when Danny smiled he
smiled in every feature, even to the laughter-wrinkles of the corners of
the eyes and into the depths of the eyes themselves. Never was there so
genial a fighter. His face was a running advertisement of good feeling,
of good fellowship. He knew everybody. He joked, and laughed, and
greeted his friends through the ropes. Those farther away, unable to
suppress their admiration, cried loudly: "Oh, you Danny!" It was a
joyous ovation of affection that lasted a full five minutes.

Rivera was disregarded. For all that the audience noticed, he did not
exist. Spider Lagerty's bloated face bent down close to his.

"No gettin' scared," the Spider warned.

"An' remember instructions. You gotta last. No layin' down. If you lay
down, we got instructions to beat you up in the dressing rooms. Savve?
You just gotta fight."

The house began to applaud. Danny was crossing the ring to him. Danny
bent over, caught Rivera's right hand in both his own and shook it with
impulsive heartiness. Danny's smile-wreathed face was close to his. The
audience yelled its appreciation of Danny's display of sporting spirit.
He was greeting his opponent with the fondness of a brother. Danny's
lips moved, and the audience, interpreting the unheard words to be
those of a kindly-natured sport, yelled again. Only Rivera heard the low
words.

"You little Mexican rat," hissed from between Danny's gaily smiling
lips, "I'll fetch the yellow outa you."

Rivera made no move. He did not rise. He merely hated with his eyes.

"Get up, you dog!" some man yelled through the ropes from behind.

The crowd began to hiss and boo him for his unsportsmanlike conduct,
but he sat unmoved. Another great outburst of applause was Danny's as he
walked back across the ring.

When Danny stripped, there was ohs! and ahs! of del