Forbes, the artist, had reached that blasé period when, only upon rare

occasions, did he feel disposed to enlarge his acquaintance. But this

fresh-skinned young Britisher went to his heart at once, a kindred

soul, and he adopted him forthwith. He and Thomas paired off and

talked "fight" all the way to the boxing club.

There was a great crowd pressing about the entrance. There were eddies

of turbulent spirits. A crowd in America is unlike any other. It is

full of meanness, rowdyism, petty malice. A big fellow, smelling of

bad whisky, shouldered Killigrew aside, roughly. Killigrew's Irish

blood flamed.

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"Here! Look where you're going!" he cried.

The man reached back and jammed Killigrew's hat down over his eyes.

Killigrew stumbled and fell, and Crawford and Forbes surged to his

rescue from the trampling feet. Thomas, however, caught the ruffian's

right wrist, jammed it scientifically against the man's chest, took him

by the throat and bore him back, savagely and relentlessly. The crowd,

packed as it was, gave ground. With an oath the man struck. Thomas

struck back, accurately. Instantly the circle widened. A fight

outside was always more interesting than one inside the ropes. A blow

ripped open Thomas' shirt. It became a slam-bang affair. Thomas

knocked his man down just as a burly policeman arrived. Naturally, he

caught hold of Thomas and called for assistance. The wrong man first

is the invariable rule of the New York police.

"Milligan!" shouted Killigrew, as he sighted one of the club's

promoters.

Milligan recognized his millionaire patron and pushed to his side.

After due explanations, Thomas was liberated and the real culprit was

forced swearing through the press toward the patrol-wagon, always near

on such nights. Eventually the four gained Crawford's box. Aside from

a cut lip and a torn shirt, Thomas was uninjured. If his

fairy-godmother had prearranged this fisticuff, she could not have done

anything better so far as Killigrew was concerned.

"Thomas," he said, as the main bout was being staged, the chairs and

water-pails and paraphernalia changed to fresh corners, "I'll remember

that turn. If you're not Irish, it's no fault of yours. I wish you

knew something about coffee."

"I enjoy drinking it," Thomas replied, smiling humorously.

Ever after the merchant-prince treated Thomas like a son; the kind of a

boy he had always wanted and could not have. And only once again did

he doubt; and he longed to throttle the man who brought into light what

appeared to be the most damnable evidence of Thomas' perfidy.




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