cause of that mole on his shoulder—which I think is nothing but a wart myself—and you come from the luckiest family in the world!"
"What d'ye mean, lucky?" says Mike listlessly.
"What was your father?" I ask him.
"A blacksmith," says Mike.
"Fine!" I says. "Now what does a blacksmith—what did your father work with all day long?"
Mike frowns thoughtfully for an instant. Then his battered little face brightens in one big smile.
"I got you, kid!" he yells joyfully.
To the consternation of Silent Sam, Mike laughs loud and wildly. His shoulders straighten and with firmly set jaw he glares across the ring at the jubilant O'Cohen, who saw the world's championship within his grasp. The bell clanged suddenly for the second round, and honestly Mike shot from his stool like a bullet from an automatic! He was in the startled O'Cohen's corner before that gentleman had taken a step forward. Bang! Biff! Slam! Sock! Before a now maniacal crowd, Half-Round O'Cohen crashed to the canvas, face down, from four perfectly timed and perfectly murderous punches! The referee counted up to seven, took another searching look at the body and then held up Mike's glove to the hysterical mob. So that was all settled!
Michael shoved away his lunatical admirers who
