"Luck," one said, "mere luck."
"It's all in the game. But Benham's the better man."
"Lucky for Clancy that Jerry mixed it. Could 'a cut the Sailor to pieces."
"Some fight—what?"
"The best in years. The boy's a wonder."
All this from hardened followers of the ring. The door to the dressing-room was jammed and a force of policemen was keeping back the people. Our anxious queries were passed along to the doorway.
"He's coming around all right," said the sergeant. "Now move along there, gents. No admittance here."
But Jack and I awaited our chance and when Sagorski poked his head out of the door he saw us and the sergeant let us through.
It was a very crestfallen group that greeted us. Flynn and the negro, Monroe, were working over Jerry, who lay on a cot-bed near the window. He had recovered consciousness and even as we entered he raised his head wearily and looked around. His face was battered and bruised, and his smile as he greeted us partook of the character of his injuries. But he was whole and I hoped not badly hurt. Youth and strength, the best of medicines, were already reviving him.
"Well, Roger," he muttered dully, "I'm licked."