“Not if you’ll keep on stayin’ away from the booze, kid,” said Professor Cassidy, “an’ let me handle you.”

“I gotcha Steve,” said Billy; “go to it; but first, stake me to a feed.  The front side of my stomach’s wrapped around my back bone.”

CHAPTER XVIII

THE GULF BETWEEN

For three months Billy met has-beens, and third- and fourth-rate fighters from New York and its environs.  He thrashed them all—­usually by the knockout route and finally local sports commenced talking about him a bit, and he was matched up with second-raters from other cities.

These men he cleaned up as handily as he had the others, so that it was apparent to fight fandom that the big, quiet “unknown” was a comer; and pretty soon Professor Cassidy received an offer from another trainer-manager to match Billy against a real “hope” who stood in the forefront of hopedom.

This other manager stated that he thought the mill would prove excellent practice for his man who was having difficulty in finding opponents.  Professor Cassidy thought so too, and grinned for two hours straight after reading the challenge.

The details of the fight were quickly arranged.  In accordance with the state regulations it was to be a ten round, no decision bout—­the weight of the gloves was prescribed by law.

The name of the “white hope” against whom Billy was to go was sufficient to draw a fair house, and there were some there who had seen Billy in other fights and looked for a good mill.  When the “coming champion,” as Billy’s opponent was introduced, stepped into the ring he received a hearty round of applause, whereas there was but a scattered ripple of handclapping to greet the mucker.  It was the first time he ever had stepped into a ring with a first-rate fighter, and as he saw the huge muscles of his antagonist and recalled the stories he had heard of his prowess and science, Billy, for the first time in his life, felt a tremor of nervousness.

His eyes wandered across the ropes to the sea of faces turned up toward him, and all of a sudden Billy Byrne went into a blue funk.  Professor Cassidy, shrewd and experienced, saw it even as soon as Billy realized it—­he saw the fading of his high hopes—­he saw his castles in Spain tumbling in ruins about his ears—­he saw his huge giant lying prone within that squared circle as the hand of the referee rose and fell in cadence to the ticking of seconds that would count his man out.

“Here,” he whispered, “take a swig o’ this,” and he pressed a bottle toward Billy’s lips.

Billy shook his head.  The stuff had kept him down all his life—­he had sworn never to touch another drop of it, and he never would, whether he lost this and every other fight he ever fought.  He had sworn to leave it alone for her sake!  And then the gong called him to the center of the ring.