Before the man’s companions realized what had happened Billy had possessed himself of the fallen club and struck one of them a blinding, staggering blow across the eyes.  Then number three pulled his gun and fired point-blank at Billy.  The bullet tore through the mucker’s left shoulder.  It would have sent a more highly organized and nervously inclined man to the pavement; but Billy was neither highly organized nor nervously inclined, so that about the only immediate effect it had upon him was to make him mad—­before he had been but peeved—­peeved at the rank crust that had permitted these cheap-skates from south of Twelfth Street to work his territory.

Thoroughly aroused, Billy was a wonder.  From a long line of burly ancestors he had inherited the physique of a prize bull.  From earliest childhood he had fought, always unfairly, so that he knew all the tricks of street fighting.  During the past year there had been added to Billy’s natural fighting ability and instinct a knowledge of the scientific end of the sport.  The result was something appalling—­to the gink from Twelfth Street.

Before he knew whether his shot had killed Billy his gun had been wrenched from his hand and flung across the street; he was down on the granite with a hand as hard as the paving block scrambling his facial attractions beyond hope of recall.

By this time Patrolman Lasky had staggered to his feet, and most opportunely at that, for the man whom Billy had dazed with the club was recovering.  Lasky promptly put him to sleep with the butt of the gun that he had been unable to draw when first attacked, then he turned to assist Billy.  But it was not Billy who needed assistance—­it was the gentleman from Bohemia.  With difficulty Lasky dragged Billy from his prey.

“Leave enough of him for the inquest,” pleaded Lasky.

When the wagon arrived Billy had disappeared, but Lasky had recognized him and thereafter the two had nodded pleasantly to each other upon such occasions as they chanced to meet upon the street.

Two years elapsed before the event transpired which proved a crisis in Billy’s life.  During this period his existence had been much the same as before.  He had collected what was coming to him from careless and less muscular citizens.  He had helped to stick up a half-dozen saloons.  He had robbed the night men in two elevated stations, and for a while had been upon the pay-roll of a certain union and done strong arm work in all parts of the city for twenty-five dollars a week.

By day he was a general utility man about Larry Hilmore’s boxing academy, and time and time again Hilmore urged him to quit drinking and live straight, for he saw in the young giant the makings of a great heavy-weight; but Billy couldn’t leave the booze alone, and so the best that he got was an occasional five spot for appearing in preliminary bouts with third- and fourth-rate heavies and has-beens; but during the three years that he had hung about Hilmore’s he had acquired an enviable knowledge of the manly art of self-defense.