“Who was he?” broke in Rorke, his eyeteeth showing, his deep voice a half-coherent growl. “Who——”
“The doctor that gave the man the p’scription,” said Keegan slowly, “was that old down-and-out M. D. slob that Feltman has for a handy man. The feller that bought the poison and asked Reuter how to fix it was—Kid Feltman. He——”
The manager got no further. Dan Rorke was out of the door and down the steps at one bound. It was only as he stopped to yank madly at the gate latch that Red and Curly overtook him and threw themselves bodily on the raging man. Even then it was a matter of minutes before their combined strength and Bud’s wrestling grip, from behind, could quell him.
“Let me go!” he snarled, straining and biting at the detaining arms. “I’ll settle with him before Jeff’s cold! I’ll——”
“You’ll settle with him a heap better’n by trying to beat him up now, with his handlers and them to keep you from doing it,” promised Keegan. “There’s better ways. Lots better ways. You listen to me, Danny boy!”
Momentarily spent with his own fury, Rorke suffered himself to be dragged indoors. There Keegan faced him and said:
“You want to square yourself with Feltman—and more’n square yourself? Good. Then here’s the way: Feltman’s always hated you, ever since he lost to you that time. He’s told fifty folks he’d get even. He’s seen, and he’s heard, how much store you set by Jeff. So he poisoned him to get back at you. Now here’s how you’ll get back at him: You was going to fight him clean. And he’d ‘a’ most likely won. So that ain’t the way to fight him, if you want to settle with him for poor Jeff. The way to do is to sail in with every foul that can git past Kampfmuller. And a hay load of ’em c’n git past that ivory mine. Foul him from the start, with the murderingest set of fouls I’ve ever learned you. Cripple him so he’ll be in the hosp’tal a year. Foul him into a dead one; and then punch his head off’n him and win as early in the fight as you want to. Git the idee? Foul him to death if you like. It’s no worse’n he treated Jeff. The ring’s the place to finish him. Not now, where you’d likely land up in the hoosgow before you’d more’n half hit him. Go to it!”
Dan grunted avid assent. And after breakfast careful rehearsing of old foul tactics and a study of new ones began.
As Dan Rorke, stripped and eager, sat in his hot dressing room under the auditorium that night, waiting for the summons to enter the ring, he had his first minute of solitary reflection throughout the whole Keegan-infested day. His manager was upstairs, wrangling with the carnival treasurer. Curly had gone to the ring to watch the wind-up of the second preliminary bout.
Dan was alone. In his heart still raged black hate and a craving for revenge. And he was sick with grief over his chum’s murder.