master mechanic, and he won another foot and another and another. A black form wavered before him, he felt an arm reach out and grasp him—then he tottered, swayed, and dropped inert, unconscious.
They got him out, and they got Regan out, and they got the fire out by the time there wasn't much left to burn; and, after a week or two, both men got out of the hospital. That's about all there is to it, except that Gilleen's red head now decorates the swellest cab on the division, and that he never fought for his title after that night—he never had to; though, if you feel like questioning it, you can still get plenty of fight, for all that—any of the boys will accommodate you any time.
Regan isn't an artist as a pugilist, but even so it is unwise to take risks—unscientific men by lucky flukes have handed knockouts to their betters.
"If Gilleen says so that's enough, whether it's so or not, what? "Regan will fling at you. "It's pretty good blood, ain't it, no matter what kind it is? Well then—h'm?"
