Someone came running up behind him. A hand grasped his arm and he heard a voice say:
"Just a minute, my boy, I want to talk to you."
CHAPTER II
He looked up into the whimsically comic face of Charlie Murray, famous in film farces—with funny features and gruff ways, but a heart as soft as a mother's. With no idea to whom he was speaking, John Gallant blurted:
"Please, not now—I can't."
"Just a word with you, son; come along, let's get back to your dressing room," said the other without taking his arm from his shoulder.
As they left the arena they heard the gong sound for the opening round of another bout. It brought back to John the bitterness of his loss in defeat and his chagrin. He had made a mess of things. How could he go back to his mother with his face battered and swollen and without the $200 he had expected to take to her to pay for his father's funeral?
He flung himself on a bench in his dressing room and buried his face in his hands. He sat for a time until he had choked back his hysterical crying and when he looked up he saw the stranger who had stopped him in the aisle gazing at him intently. He saw something in the mild blue eyes of this man that overcame the momentary feeling of shame he felt for having given way to his bitterness and despair.