"Why, they're going to take every single thing!" murmured Mary, in a shocked voice.
"S-sh. Wait!" answered Pete, staring wide-eyed at the man whose body was framed in the transom.
"All right, then," the man was saying. "Only don't forget. The gentleman who give us the use of this house is a friend of ours and we don't want to get him into no trouble."
"Aw, we're wise; we're wise," remarked a voice whose owner they could not see. "Start somethin'."
Mary was clutching Pete's arm and staring at him with widely questioning eyes. The gentleman who gave the use of the house! Why——
"Now, the winner of this bout, gents——" The beefy man was talking again. "The winner of this bout is goin' to be matched against the champion. Everything here is strictly on its merits. The men will wear six-ounce gloves, accordin' to regulations. Both of 'em was weighed in this afternoon at three o'clock, with the scale set at one hundred and thirty-five, and neither of 'em tipped the beam. And the bout goes to a finish."
There was a rumbling chorus of satisfaction from the invisible audience, and the speaker checked it sharply.
"Lay off the noise, now. That's just what we ain't goin' to have. You guys paid your good money to get in here and I guess you don't want trouble any more'n I do. Now, in this corner is Charley Collins, the Trenton Bearcat, lightweight champion of New Jersey."
As he spoke another person stepped into the field of vision. It was unquestionably the Bearcat. He was a blond-haired youth of sturdy proportions, clad in a breech clout, a pair of shoes and two six-ounce gloves. He nodded carelessly in response to the introduction and began testing the floor with his feet.
"In this corner," continued the stout man, "is Kid Whaley, pride of the East Side."