But it was not Billy who needed assistance--it was the

gentleman from Bohemia. With difficulty Lasky dragged

Billy from his prey.

"Leave enough of him for the inquest," pleaded Lasky.

When the wagon arrived Billy had disappeared, but

Lasky had recognized him and thereafter the two had nodded

pleasantly to each other upon such occasions as they chanced

to meet upon the street.

Two years elapsed before the event transpired which proved

a crisis in Billy's life. During this period his existence had

been much the same as before. He had collected what was

coming to him from careless and less muscular citizens. He

had helped to stick up a half-dozen saloons. He had robbed

the night men in two elevated stations, and for a while had

been upon the pay-roll of a certain union and done strong

arm work in all parts of the city for twenty-five dollars a

week.

By day he was a general utility man about Larry Hilmore's

boxing academy, and time and time again Hilmore

urged him to quit drinking and live straight, for he saw

in the young giant the makings of a great heavy-weight;

but Billy couldn't leave the booze alone, and so the best that

he got was an occasional five spot for appearing in preliminary

bouts with third- and fourth-rate heavies and has-beens; but

during the three years that he had hung about Hilmore's he had

acquired an enviable knowledge of the manly art of self-defense.

On the night that things really began to happen in the

life of Billy Byrne that estimable gentleman was lolling in

front of a saloon at the corner of Lake and Robey. The

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