Thrice he rushed him to the ropes, and once the man fell through them into the laps of the hooting spectators—only now they were not hooting Billy. Until the gong Billy played with his man as a cat might play with a mouse; yet not once had he landed a knockout blow.
“Why didn’t you finish him?” cried Professor Cassidy, as Billy returned to his corner after the round. “You had ’im goin’ man—why in the world didn’t yeh finish him?”
“I didn’t want to,” said Billy; “not in that round. I’m reserving the finish for the fifth round, and if you want to win some money you can take the hunch!”
“Do you mean it?” asked Cassidy.
“Sure,” said Billy. “You might make more by laying that I’d make him take the count in the first minute of the round—you can place a hundred of mine on that, if you will, please.”
Cassidy took the hunch, and a moment later as the two men faced each other he regretted his act, for to his surprise the “white hope” came up for the fifth round smiling and confident once more.
“Someone’s been handin’ him an earful,” grumbled Cassidy, “an’ it might be all he needed to take ’im through the first minute of the round, and maybe the whole round—I’ve seen that did lots o’ times.”
As the two men met the “white hope” was the aggressor. He rushed in to close quarters aiming a stinging blow at Billy’s face, and then to Cassidy’s chagrin and the crowd’s wonder, the mucker lowered his guard and took the wallop full on the jaw. The blow seemed never to jar him the least. The “hope” swung again, and there stood Billy Byrne, like a huge bronze statue taking blow after blow that would have put an ordinary man down for the count.
The fans saw and appreciated the spectacular bravado of the act, and they went wild. Cheer on cheer rose, hoarse and deafening, to the rafters. The “white hope” lost his self-control and what little remained of his short temper, and deliberately struck Billy a foul blow, but before the referee could interfere the mucker swung another just such blow as he had missed and fallen with in the second round; but this time he did not miss—his mighty fist caught the “coming champion” on the point of the chin, lifted him off his feet and landed him halfway through the ropes. There he lay while the referee tolled off the count of ten, and as the official took Billy’s hand in his and raised it aloft in signal that he had won the fight the fickle crowd cheered and screamed in a delirium of joy.
Cassidy crawled through the ropes and threw his arms around Billy.
“I knew youse could do it, kid!” he screamed. “You’re as good as made now, an’ you’re de next champ, or I never seen one.”
The following morning the sporting sheets hailed “Sailor” Byrne as the greatest “white hope” of them all. Flashlights of him filled a quarter of a page. There were interviews with him. Interviews with the man he had defeated. Interviews with Cassidy. Interviews with the referee. Interviews with everybody, and all were agreed that he was the most likely heavy since Jeffries. Corbett admitted that, while in his prime he could doubtless have bested the new wonder, he would have found him a tough customer.
Everyone said that Byrne’s future was assured. There was not a man in sight who could touch him, and none who had seen him fight the night before but would have staked his last dollar on him in a mill with the black champion.
Cassidy wired a challenge to the Negro’s manager, and received an answer that was most favorable. The terms were, as usual, rather one-sided but Cassidy accepted them, and it seemed before noon that a fight was assured.
Billy was more nearly happy again than he had been since the day he had renounced Barbara Harding to the man he thought she loved. He read and reread the accounts in the papers, and then searching for more references to himself off the sporting page he ran upon the very name that had been constantly in his thoughts for all these months—Harding.
Persistent rumor has it that the engagement of the beautiful Miss Harding to Wm. J. Mallory has been broken. Miss Harding could not be seen at her father’s home up to a late hour last night. Mr. Mallory refused to discuss the matter, but would not deny the rumor.
There was more, but that was all that Billy Byrne read. The paper dropped from his hand. Battles and championships faded from his thoughts. He sat with his eyes bent upon the floor, and his mind was thousands of miles away across the broad Pacific upon a little island in the midst of a turbulent stream.
And far uptown another sat with the same paper in her hand. Barbara Harding was glancing through the sporting sheet in search of the scores of yesterday’s woman’s golf tournament. And as she searched her eyes suddenly became riveted upon the picture of a giant man, and she forgot about tournaments and low scores. Hastily she searched the heads and text until she came upon the name—“ ‘Sailor’ Byrne!”
Yes! It must be he. Greedily she read and reread all that had been written about him. Yes, she, Barbara Harding, scion of an aristocratic house—ultra-society girl, read and reread the accounts of a brutal prize fight.
A half hour later a messenger boy found “Sailor” Byrne the center of an admiring throng in Professor Cassidy’s third-floor gymnasium. With worshiping eyes taking in his new hero from head to foot the youth handed Byrne a note.
He stood staring at the heavy weight until he had perused it.
“Any answer?” he asked.
“No answer, kid,” replied Byrne, “that I can’t take myself,” and he tossed a dollar to the worshiping
