"The doc ain't strong for the stuff," proceeded the hollow-chested man. "He's been knocking to get me to shut it off. But he don't understand my constitution like I do."
Here there was a sudden hubbub of voices at the other end of the bar; through the confusion a voice declared, excitedly:
"I'm gonna' beat him up! That goes, do you hear? I'm gonna' flatten the big stiff. He made a monkey outa me, and he ain't gonna' get away with it."
A half dozen voices protested against this at one time. "Duke" Sheehan, in his shirt sleeves and diamonds, leaned over the bar.
"Don't be a nut now," remonstrated he. "A guy in your line, Push, wants to do all his fighting in the ring. If he don't he'll get a bad name."
All the voices began to sound once more, and Bat Scanlon glanced at the man at his side.
"It looks like trouble of some kind," said he.
The hollow-chested man, who had ordered another drink out of the dirty little bottle, nodded.
"That big fellow that 'Duke' Sheehan's talking to is Push Allen, the fighter. He comes all the way from K. C. thinking he was matched with a guy; but when he gets here he finds his manager ain't put up the dough to make the thing good. And so he's stung."
"That's bad behavior," said Scanlon. "Very bad. Mr. Allen will pick his managers better next time."