in certain sections of the West Side, the men and boys formed

a rough ring about the contestants.

The battle was a long one. The two were rolling about

in the dust of the alley quite as often as they were upon their

feet exchanging blows. There was nothing fair, nor decent,

nor scientific about their methods. They gouged and bit and

tore. They used knees and elbows and feet, and but for

the timely presence of a brickbat beneath his fingers at the

psychological moment Billy Byrne would have gone down to

humiliating defeat. As it was the other boy went down, and

for a week Billy remained hidden by one of the gang pending

the report from the hospital.

When word came that the patient would live, Billy felt an

immense load lifted from his shoulders, for he dreaded arrest

and experience with the law that he had learned from

childhood to deride and hate. Of course there was the loss

of prestige that would naturally have accrued to him could

he have been pointed out as the "guy that croaked Sheehan";

but there is always a fly in the ointment, and Billy only

sighed and came out of his temporary retirement.

That battle started Billy to thinking, and the result of that

mental activity was a determination to learn to handle his

mitts scientifically--people of the West Side do not have

hands; they are equipped by Nature with mitts and dukes.

A few have paws and flippers.

He had no opportunity to realize his new dream for several

years; but when he was about seventeen a neighbor's

son surprised his little world by suddenly developing from an

unknown teamster into a locally famous light-weight.

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