The next day and the next, days without end, witnessed the afternoon fight.  When he put up his arms, each day, to begin, they pained exquisitely, and the first few blows, struck and received, racked his soul; after that things grew numb, and he fought on blindly, seeing as in a dream, dancing and wavering, the large features and burning, animal-like eyes of Cheese-Face.  He concentrated upon that face; all else about him was a whirling void.  There was nothing else in the world but that face, and he would never know rest, blessed rest, until he had beaten that face into a pulp with his bleeding knuckles, or until the bleeding knuckles that somehow belonged to that face had beaten him into a pulp.  And then, one way or the other, he would have rest.  But to quit,—­for him, Martin, to quit,—­that was impossible!

Came the day when he dragged himself into the Enquirer alley, and there was no Cheese-Face.  Nor did Cheese-Face come.  The boys congratulated him, and told him that he had licked Cheese-Face.  But Martin was not satisfied.  He had not licked Cheese-Face, nor had Cheese-Face licked him.  The problem had not been solved.  It was not until afterward that they learned that Cheese-Face’s father had died suddenly that very day.

Martin skipped on through the years to the night in the nigger heaven at the Auditorium.  He was seventeen and just back from sea.  A row started.  Somebody was bullying somebody, and Martin interfered, to be confronted by Cheese-Face’s blazing eyes.

“I’ll fix you after de show,” his ancient enemy hissed.

Martin nodded.  The nigger-heaven bouncer was making his way toward the disturbance.

“I’ll meet you outside, after the last act,” Martin whispered, the while his face showed undivided interest in the buck-and-wing dancing on the stage.

The bouncer glared and went away.

“Got a gang?” he asked Cheese-Face, at the end of the act.

“Sure.”

“Then I got to get one,” Martin announced.

Between the acts he mustered his following—­three fellows he knew from the nail works, a railroad fireman, and half a dozen of the Boo Gang, along with as many more from the dread Eighteen-and-Market Gang.

When the theatre let out, the two gangs strung along inconspicuously on opposite sides of the street.  When they came to a quiet corner, they united and held a council of war.

“Eighth Street Bridge is the place,” said a red-headed fellow belonging to Cheese-Face’s Gang.  “You kin fight in the middle, under the electric light, an’ whichever way the bulls come in we kin sneak the other way.”

“That’s agreeable to me,” Martin said, after consulting with the leaders of his own gang.