ul._

* * * * *

The words had been going through his mind like a silly chant since the
first moment he had seen Nate Schirmer in the library. Poor Paul. Dan
did all right for himself, he did--made quite a name down in
Washington, you know, a fighter, a real fighter. The Boy with the
Golden Touch (joke, son, laugh now). Everything he ever did worked out
with him on top, somehow. Paul was different. Smart enough, plenty of
the old gazoo, but he never had Dan's drive. Bad breaks, right down
the line. Kinda tough on a guy, with a comet like Dan in the family.
Poor Paul.

He let his mind drift back slowly, remembering little things, trying
to spot the time, the single instant in time, when he stopped fighting
Paul and started feeling sorry for him. It had been different, years
ago. Paul was the smart one, all right. Never had Dan's build but he
could think rings around him. Dan was always a little slow--never
forgot anything he learned, but he learned slow. Still, there were
ways to get around that--

Dad and Mom always liked Paul the best (their first boy, you know) and
babied him more, and that was decidedly tougher to get around--Still
there were ways.

Like the night the prize money came from the lottery, when he and Paul
had split a ticket down the middle. How old was he then--ten? Eleven?
And Paul was fifteen. He'd grubbed up the dollar polishing cars, and
met Paul's dollar halfway, never dreaming the thing would pay off. And
when it did! Oh, he'd never forget that night. He wanted the
jet-racer. The ticket paid two thousand, a hell of a lot of cash for a
pair of boys--and the two thousand would buy the racer. He'd been so
excited tears had poured down his face.... But Paul had said no. Split
it even, just like the ticket, Paul had said. There were hot words,
and pleading, and threats, and Paul had just laughed at him until he
got so mad he wanted to kill him with only his fists. Bad mistake,
that. Paul was skinny, not much muscle, read books all the time it
looked like a cinch. But Paul had five years on him that he hadn't
counted on. Important five years. Paul connected with just one--enough
to lay Dan flat on his back with a concussion and a broken jaw, and
that, my boy, was that.

Almost.

Dan had won the fight, of course. It was the broken jaw that did it,
that night, later the fight Mom and Dad had, worse than usual, a cruel
one, low blows, mean--But Dan got his racer, on