Perry Walsh grinned at Travis, tight mental checkrein on his temper. He must hold his temper this time. He'd promised Flórence, his wife.

The throbbing in the back of his head had quieted now. Only the sharp knives in his throat and chest were left. It was chilly.

Mike Travis moved toward him again, the slight sneer still on his smooth face, confident behind that sniping left hand. He isn't punching at me, Perry realized, he's walloping at my temper. Perry half- crouched, shuffled forward, let a hail of jabs rattle high across his forehead and bulled his man into the ropes. He ground a half-dozen murderous lefts and rights. into Travis' belly before they clinched, and as the referee worried them out of it a backhand flick slapped sweat into his eyes. A deliberate foul. Perry grinned.

With the bell Travis dropped his gloves and headed toward his corner, a swagger in his walk, because the championship was one round nearer. Perry turned to his corner more slowly, economizing on strength, and sat down. Buzz, his second, sloshed water into his mouth, hard hands lifted his chest to make room for deep gulps of air. Perry casually gazed out into the smoky dimness. A full house. His cut would be a good one, and he needed it. "Lotsa shoes for baby," he thought and pictured his wife listening to the radio, alone, anxious... pulling for him not to go crazy again. Little Katy would be asleep in her crib.

It was still early in the evening when he and Dick had sat down at one of the tables in his little restaurant to count the day's receipts. Dick ran the place for him. It was deserted when the three robbers had walked in, guns gripped tight in their hands, coat collars turned up.

He felt good, strong, as he sat in his corner. Buzz was working over him hard, kneading his legs. His eyes wandered out over the crowd again. The dirtiest man in the ring, they called him... The Bum. Well, what the hell, why not, he'd thought for so many years. He'd been born into dirt, the filth of the East Side. When he was nine life had taught him how to fight life-- with every weapon on hand, fists, feet brains and even clawing fingernails-- after a gang of street toughs broke his nose. with a blackjack, stole his clothes, and left him naked in the gutter. At eleven he had discovered he had an ally, an ungovernable temper which shot dynamite into hist hard fists and coated pain with a dulling redness. The magnet of money had lured him into the ring and fans such as these had poured more into his pockets. They booed him, they hated him, but they came to see him fight. Because when he got mad he forgot the rules, forgot he was fighting a foe with padded gloves and was battling in the streets again for his life. Sure, he'd been kicked out of rings. Plenty. In California he was barred for life. But he was a good fighter, almost a great fighter. For the past year he had stood as the insurmountable obstacle between all comers and the title. The champion of the champion, always the challenger but never the champ. But now he was through as a dirty fighter.

He smacked his wine red gloves together in grim determination, glared at the crowd. Just this one last good clean fight against Mike Travis tonight; he'd prove he could fight clean..