Sally's emotions, as she sat in her apartment on the morning of herreturn to New York, resembled somewhat those of a swimmer who, afterwavering on a raw morning at the brink of a chill pool, nerves himselfto the plunge. She was aching, but she knew that she had done well. Ifshe wanted happiness, she must fight for it, and for all these monthsshe had been shirking the fight. She had done with wavering on thebrink, and here she was, in mid-stream, ready for whatever might befall.

　　It hurt, this coming to grips. She had expected it to hurt. But it was apain that stimulated, not a dull melancholy that smothered. She feltalive and defiant.

　　She had finished unpacking and tidying up. The next move was certainlyto go and see Ginger. She had suddenly become aware that she wanted verybadly to see Ginger. His stolid friendliness would be a support and aprop. She wished now that she had sent him a cable, so that he couldhave met her at the dock. It had been rather terrible at the dock. Theechoing customs sheds had sapped her valour and she felt alone andforlorn.

　　She looked at her watch, and was surprised to find how early it was.

　　She could catch him at the office and make him take her out to lunch.

　　She put on her hat and went out.

　　The restless hand of change, always active in New York, had not sparedthe outer office of the Fillmore Nicholas Theatrical Enterprises Ltd. inthe months of her absence. She was greeted on her arrival by an entirelynew and original stripling in the place of the one with whom at her lastvisit she had established such cordial relations. Like his predecessorhe was generously pimpled, but there the resemblance stopped. He was agrim boy, and his manner was stern and suspicious. He peered narrowly atSally for a moment as if he had caught her in the act of purloining theoffice blotting-paper, then, with no little acerbity, desired her tostate her business.

　　"I want Mr. Kemp," said Sally.

　　The office-boy scratched his cheek dourly with a ruler. No one wouldhave guessed, so austere was his aspect, that a moment before herentrance he had been trying to balance it on his chin, juggling thewhile with a pair of paper-weights. For, impervious as he seemed tohuman weaknesses, it was this lad's ambition one day to go intovaudeville.

　　"What name?" he said, coldly.

　　"Nicholas," said Sally. "I am Mr. Nicholas' sister."On a previous occasion when she had made this announcement, disastrousresults had ensued; but to-day it went well. It seemed to hit theoffice-boy like a bullet. He started convulsively, opened his mouth,and dropped the ruler. In the interval of stooping and recovering it hewas able to pull himself together. He had not been curious about Sally'sname. What he had wished was to have the name of the person for whom shewas asking repeated. He now perceived that he had had a bit of luck. Awearying period of disappointment in the matter of keeping thepaper-weights circulating while balancing the ruler, had left himpeevish, and it had been his intention to work off his ill-humour on theyoung visitor. The discovery that it was the boss's sister who wastaking up his time, suggested the advisability of a radical change oftactics. He had stooped with a frown: he returned to the perpendicularwith a smile that was positively winning. It was like the sun suddenlybursting through a London fog.

　　"Will you take a seat, lady?" he said, with polished courtesy evenunbending so far as to reach out and dust one with the sleeve of hiscoat. He added that the morning was a fine one.

　　"Thank you," said Sally. "Will you tell him I'm here.""Mr. Nicholas is out, miss," said the office-boy, with gentlemanlyregret. "He's back in New York, but he's gone out.""I don't want Mr. Nicholas. I want Mr. Kemp.""Mr. Kemp?""Yes, Mr. Kemp."Sorrow at his inability to oblige shone from every hill-top on the boy'sface.

　　"Don't know of anyone of that name around here," he said,apologetically.

　　"But surely..." Sally broke off suddenly. A grim foreboding had come toher. "How long have you been here?" she asked.

　　"All day, ma'am," said the office-boy, with the manner of a Casablanca.

　　"I mean, how long have you been employed here?""Just over a month, miss.""Hasn't Mr. Kemp been in the office all that time?""Name's new to me, lady. Does he look like anything? I meanter say,what's he look like?""He has very red hair.""Never seen him in here," said the office-boy. The truth shone coldlyon Sally. She blamed herself for ever having gone away, and told herselfthat she might have known what would happen. Left to his own resources,the unhappy Ginger had once more made a hash of it. And this hash musthave been a more notable and outstanding hash than any of his previousefforts, for, surely, Fillmore would not lightly have dismissed one whohad come to him under her special protection.

　　"Where is Mr. Nicholas?" she asked. It seemed to her that Fillmore wasthe only possible source of information. "Did you say he was out?""Really out, miss," said the office-boy, with engaging candour. "Hewent off to White Plains in his automobile half-an-hour ago.""White Plains? What for?"The pimpled stripling had now given himself up wholeheartedly to socialchit-chat. Usually he liked his time to himself and resented theintrusion of the outer world, for he who had chosen jugglery for hiswalk in life must neglect no opportunity of practising: but sofavourable was the impression which Sally had made on his plastic mindthat he was delighted to converse with her as long as she wished.

　　"I guess what's happened is, he's gone up to take a look at BugsButler," he said.

　　"Whose butler?" said Sally mystified.

　　The office-boy smiled a tolerant smile. Though an admirer of the sex,he was aware that women were seldom hep to the really important thingsin life. He did not blame them. That was the way they were constructed,and one simply had to accept it.

　　"Bugs Butler is training up at White Plains, miss.""Who is Bugs Butler?"Something of his former bleakness of aspect returned to the office-boy.

　　Sally's question had opened up a subject on which he felt deeply.

　　"Ah!" he replied, losing his air of respectful deference as heapproached the topic. "Who is he! That's what they're all saying, allthe wise guys. Who has Bugs Butler ever licked?""I don't know," said Sally, for he had fixed her with a penetrating gazeand seemed to be pausing for a reply.

　　"Nor nobody else," said the stripling vehemently. "A lot of stiffs outon the coast, that's all. Ginks nobody has ever heard of, except CycloneMullins, and it took that false alarm fifteen rounds to get a referee'sdecision over him. The boss would go and give him a chance against thechamp, but I could have told him that the legitimate contender was K-legBinns. K-leg put Cyclone Mullins out in the fifth. Well," said theoffice-boy in the overwrought tone of one chafing at human folly, "ifanybody thinks Bugs Butler can last six rounds with Lew Lucas, I've twobucks right here in my vest pocket that says it ain't so."Sally began to see daylight.

　　"Oh, Bugs--Mr. Butler is one of the boxers in this fight that my brotheris interested in?""That's right. He's going up against the lightweight champ. Lew Lucasis the lightweight champ. He's a bird!""Yes?" said Sally. This youth had a way of looking at her with his headcocked on one side as though he expected her to say something.

　　"Yes, sir!" said the stripling with emphasis. "Lew Lucas is a hotsketch. He used to live on the next street to me," he added as clinchingevidence of his hero's prowess. "I've seen his old mother as close as Iam to you. Say, I seen her a hundred times. Is any stiff of a BugsButler going to lick a fellow like that?""It doesn't seem likely.""You spoke it!" said the lad crisply, striking unsuccessfully at a flywhich had settled on the blotting-paper.

　　There was a pause. Sally started to rise.

　　"And there's another thing," said the office-boy, loath to close thesubject. "Can Bugs Butler make a hundred and thirty-five ringsidewithout being weak?""It sounds awfully difficult.""They say he's clever." The expert laughed satirically. "Well, what'sthat going to get him? The poor fish can't punch a hole in anut-sundae.""You don't seem to like Mr. Butler.""Oh, I've nothing against him," said the office-boy magnanimously.

　　"I'm only saying he's no licence to be mixing it with Lew Lucas."Sally got up. Absorbing as this chat on current form was, moreimportant matters claimed her attention.

　　"How shall I find my brother when I get to White Plains?" she asked.

　　"Oh, anybody'll show you the way to the training-camp. If you hurry,there's a train you can make now.""Thank you very much.""You're welcome."He opened the door for her with an old-world politeness which disuse hadrendered a little rusty: then, with an air of getting back to businessafter a pleasant but frivolous interlude, he took up the paper-weightsonce more and placed the ruler with nice care on his upturned chin.

　　Fillmore heaved a sigh of relief and began to sidle from the room. Itwas a large room, half barn, half gymnasium. Athletic appliances ofvarious kinds hung on the walls and in the middle there was a wideroped-off space, around which a small crowd had distributed itself withan air of expectancy. This is a commercial age, and the days when aprominent pugilist's training activities used to be hidden from thepublic gaze are over. To-day, if the public can lay its hands on fiftycents, it may come and gaze its fill. This afternoon, plutocrats to thenumber of about forty had assembled, though not all of these, to theregret of Mr. Lester Burrowes, the manager of the eminent Bugs Butler,had parted with solid coin. Many of those present were newspaperrepresentatives and on the free list--writers who would polish up Mr.

　　Butler's somewhat crude prognostications as to what he proposed to do toMr. Lew Lucas, and would report him as saying, "I am in really superbcondition and feel little apprehension of the issue," and artists whowould depict him in a state of semi-nudity with feet several sizes toolarge for any man.

　　The reason for Fillmore's relief was that Mr. Burrowes, who was a greattalker and had buttonholed him a quarter of an hour ago, had at last hadhis attention distracted elsewhere, and had gone off to investigatesome matter that called for his personal handling, leaving Fillmore freeto slide away to the hotel and get a bite to eat, which he sorelyneeded. The zeal which had brought him to the training-camp to inspectthe final day of Mr. Butler's preparation--for the fight was to takeplace on the morrow--had been so great that he had omitted to lunchbefore leaving New York.

　　So Fillmore made thankfully for the door. And it was at the door thathe encountered Sally. He was looking over his shoulder at the moment,and was not aware of her presence till she spoke.

　　"Hallo, Fillmore!"Sally had spoken softly, but a dynamite explosion could not haveshattered her brother's composure with more completeness. In the leapingtwist which brought him facing her, he rose a clear three inches fromthe floor. He had a confused sensation, as though his nervous system hadbeen stirred up with a pole. He struggled for breath and moistened hislips with the tip of his tongue, staring at her continuously during theprocess.

　　Great men, in their moments of weakness, are to be pitied rather thanscorned. If ever a man had an excuse for leaping like a young ram,Fillmore had it. He had left Sally not much more than a week ago inEngland, in Shropshire, at Monk's Crofton. She had said nothing of anyintention on her part of leaving the country, the county, or the house.

　　Yet here she was, in Bugs Butler's training-camp at White Plains, in theState of New York, speaking softly in his ear without even going throughthe preliminary of tapping him on the shoulder to advertise herpresence. No wonder that Fillmore was startled. And no wonder that, ashe adjusted his faculties to the situation, there crept upon him a chillapprehension.

　　For Fillmore had not been blind to the significance of that invitationto Monk's Crofton. Nowadays your wooer does not formally approach agirl's nearest relative and ask permission to pay his addresses; but,when he invites her and that nearest relative to his country home andcollects all the rest of the family to meet her, the thing may be saidto have advanced beyond the realms of mere speculation. ShrewdlyFillmore had deduced that Bruce Carmyle was in love with Sally, andmentally he had joined their hands and given them a brother's blessing.

　　And now it was only too plain that disaster must have occurred. If theinvitation could mean only one thing, so also could Sally's presence atWhite Plains mean only one thing.

　　"Sally!" A croaking whisper was the best he could achieve. "What...

　　what... ?""Did I startle you? I'm sorry.""What are you doing here? Why aren't you at Monk's Crofton?"Sally glanced past him at the ring and the crowd around it.

　　"I decided I wanted to get back to America. Circumstances arose whichmade it pleasanter to leave Monk's Crofton.""Do you mean to say... ?""Yes. Don't let's talk about it.""Do you mean to say," persisted Fillmore, "that Carmyle proposed to youand you turned him down?"Sally flushed.

　　"I don't think it's particularly nice to talk about that sort of thing,but--yes."A feeling of desolation overcame Fillmore. That conviction, whichsaddens us at all times, of the wilful bone-headedness of our fellowsswept coldly upon him. Everything had been so perfect, the wholearrangement so ideal, that it had never occurred to him as a possibilitythat Sally might take it into her head to spoil it by declining to playthe part allotted to her. The match was so obviously the best thing thatcould happen. It was not merely the suitor's impressive wealth that madehim hold this opinion, though it would be idle to deny that the prospectof having a brother-in-lawful claim on the Carmyle bank-balance had casta rosy glamour over the future as he had envisaged it. He honestly likedand respected the man. He appreciated his quiet and aristocraticreserve. A well-bred fellow, sensible withal, just the sort of husband agirl like Sally needed. And now she had ruined everything. With thecapricious perversity which so characterizes her otherwise delightfulsex, she had spilled the beans.

　　"But why?""Oh, Fill!" Sally had expected that realization of the facts wouldproduce these symptoms in him, but now that they had presentedthemselves she was finding them rasping to the nerves. "I should havethought the reason was obvious.""You mean you don't like him?""I don't know whether I do or not. I certainly don't like him enough tomarry him.""He's a darned good fellow.""Is he? You say so. I don't know."The imperious desire for bodily sustenance began to competesuccessfully for Fillmore's notice with his spiritual anguish.

　　"Let's go to the hotel and talk it over. We'll go to the hotel and I'llgive you something to eat.""I don't want anything to eat, thanks.""You don't want anything to eat?" said Fillmore incredulously. Hesupposed in a vague sort of way that there were eccentric people of thissort, but it was hard to realize that he had met one of them. "I'mstarving.""Well, run along then.""Yes, but I want to talk..."He was not the only person who wanted to talk. At the moment a smallman of sporting exterior hurried up. He wore what his tailor'sadvertisements would have called a "nobbly" suit of checked tweedand--in defiance of popular prejudice--a brown bowler hat. Mr. LesterBurrowes, having dealt with the business which had interrupted theirconversation a few minutes before, was anxious to resume his remarks onthe subject of the supreme excellence in every respect of his youngcharge.

　　"Say, Mr. Nicholas, you ain't going'? Bugs is just getting ready tospar."He glanced inquiringly at Sally.

　　"My sister--Mr. Burrowes," said Fillmore faintly. "Mr. Burrowes is BugsButler's manager.""How do you do?" said Sally.

　　"Pleased to meecher," said Mr. Burrowes. "Say...""I was just going to the hotel to get something to eat," said Fillmore.

　　Mr. Burrowes clutched at his coat-button with a swoop, and held him witha glittering eye.

　　"Yes, but, say, before-you-go-lemme-tell-ya-somef'n. You've never seenthis boy of mine, not when he was feeling right. Believe me, he's there!

　　He's a wizard. He's a Hindoo! Say, he's been practising up a left shiftthat..."Fillmore's eye met Sally's wanly, and she pitied him. Presently shewould require him to explain to her how he had dared to dismiss Gingerfrom his employment--and make that explanation a good one: but in themeantime she remembered that he was her brother and was suffering.

　　"He's the cleverest lightweight," proceeded Mr. Burrowes fervently,"since Joe Gans. I'm telling you and I know! He...""Can he make a hundred and thirty-five ringside without being weak?"asked Sally.

　　The effect of this simple question on Mr. Burrowes was stupendous. Hedropped away from Fillmore's coat-button like an exhausted bivalve, andhis small mouth opened feebly. It was as if a child had suddenlypropounded to an eminent mathematician some abstruse problem in thehigher algebra. Females who took an interest in boxing had come into Mr.

　　Burrowes' life before---in his younger days, when he was a famousfeatherweight, the first of his three wives had been accustomed to sitat the ringside during his contests and urge him in language of theseverest technicality to knock opponents' blocks off--but somehow he hadnot supposed from her appearance and manner that Sally was one of theelect. He gaped at her, and the relieved Fillmore sidled off like a birdhopping from the compelling gaze of a snake. He was not quite sure thathe was acting correctly in allowing his sister to roam at large amongthe somewhat Bohemian surroundings of a training-camp, but the instinctof self-preservation tu............