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 mob, the presence of his sister seein' him start for the first time, and the sullen glare across the ring of the rugged, experienced Shifty Mullen, all bothered this young wildcat the same way they are bothered in Iceland over the price of electric fans. Fightin' was Young Stillwell's gift—his trick! He touched gloves with Mullen, danced back till he felt the ropes against his skin, and then bounded off 'em like a maniac—nothin' else. The hard-boiled Mullen clipped him on the chin with a terrible right as he was comin' in, and then stepped away to let him fall. Young Stillwell grinned over to Joan and went to work on the body with both hands. Mullen tried everything he knew, but it was a waste of time. In two and a half minutes Young Stillwell had battered him to the canvas, where he was only too glad to stay—all through.

The boy got a big hand leavin' the ring, and Joan, her eyes sparklin', led the cheering. Her brother was back from the dressin' room in no time, unmarked, unruffled, and grinnin' his head off. I pulled him aside and slipped him the whole five hundred berries. I didn't take a nickel from the boy—the purse was too small, and then, again, I knowed I'd get mine later. He dumps the bills into Joan's lap and shouts that I've guaranteed him twenty thousand the next year. They was still excitedly chatterin' away to each other as Young Stillwell led her down the aisle and out, and a blind man could see Joan was a convert.

But Kid Roberts's fight—his last battle—was all different, and I was mighty glad that Joan had left the abattoir and that Dolores had kept away. Up against a remarkably clever, two-handed hitter, which had the