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28    ABBOTT'S MONTHLY

knocking out his opponent in the shortest possible space of time. He cared little about the general rules of feeling out an opponent. He cared still less about grandstanding. So he took the offensive in the first minute of the first round and kept that offensive in the first minute of the first round and kept that offensive until the match was over.

The doorbell was ringing. Fred went to open the door. When Grant was absent Fred was his own butler.

A man dressed in sweater and cap, came in. He looked like one of those all-around men one is apt to find at any boxing stable.

"Are youse Warren, de light-heavy champ?" he asked.

WHEN Fred replied in the affirmation the man handed him a note. Fred gave the man a wonder glance, then turned his attention to the paper in his hand.

"For God's sake, Fred, come quick to this address. The chap who will give you this will take you. He's all right. Don't wait a minute. Come quick. TOM." 

Fred couldn't imagine what had taken place but it was just the kind of a note his manager would write.

"A fat little guy give it tuh me," the swarthy messenger said.

Fred nodded. It was Tom, all right.

"I'll get my car," Fred said.

"Never mind. I got mine here--it's downstairs."

Fred grabbed his cap and they took the elevator.

Right outside the hotel was parked a most disreputable looking Ford.

"Hop in," the man invited.

"Some nifty automobile you've got," Fred bantered.

"Youse don't call dis here t'ing an auto," the man returned. "It's a Ford."

Fred laughed and then had his teeth nearly shaken out when the animated piece of tin began its bumpy way.

THE driver steered the car through a maze of streets. How could Tom get mixed up in anything over in this direction of the town, Fred wondered. The streets were narrow and bumpy. Groups of children dispersed with amazing agility at the toot of the horn. Finally the driver stopped the machine in front of a two-story brick building. The windows were cobwebby. The bricks themselves had darkened several shades. It was a place ideally situated for second-story men, Fred thought.

"Is this the place Tom told you to bring me?" Fred asked, half incredulous.

The man nodded his greasy face. "Dis is de place. Take a squint at de note I give yuh if yuh t'ink I'm lyin'."

But Fred had destroyed the note. And again, maybe Tom was in trouble! Fred hadn't considered that possibility. A fight before his scheduled fight that night. Fred didn't relish an impromptu preliminary but he would fight to get Grant out of a tight place.

[[image]]
[[caption]] "You are champ now, but you won't be very long. You missed your chance and you are going to pay." The note was unsigned. [[/caption]]

They climbed a flight of darkened stairs. Somehow Fred couldn't shake off a feeling of foreboding, a feeling that something was going to happen soon. The stillness got on Fred's nerves. Was the place uninhabited?
They were on the second floor now. The man went ahead of Fred an pushed open a door. He stepped aside.

"Here it is," he said.

Fred took one last look about him. Nothing could be discerned in the darkness. Darkness and stillness.

Fred brusked pas the man and crossed in the room. Then it seemed as if a cyclone caught him in its midst.

HE was hurled to the floor. Somebody was on top of him. He wondered that he did not lose consciousness. He tired to hit back but couldn't. The he discovered that there were several men on him. One of the assailants had a vise-like grip on his feet. Another was sitting on his head. Two others were struggling with his hands.

Fred kicked and punched as best he could. He squirmed, wriggled, tried to bring his feet up and suddenly jerked them out. Then a pair of handcuff were slipped around his wrists and his struggles ceased.

He was unhurt. He swung himself to a sitting position. There had been four of the subduing him. One of them was the man who had delivered Tom's message to him at his hotel. Two men Fred had never seen before. The fourth man was Morgan.

"Where's Tom?" was Fred's first question. His




for MAY, 1931      29

unruly hair was in his eyes. He couldn't brush it away because of the handcuffs.

Morgan laughed, a mirthless, sardonic laugh.

"Why ask us?" he said sneeringly. "We don't care, and what's more we don't give a damn."

"But wasn't that his note?"

Again that laugh from Morgan. It wasn't really a laugh, but rater a contemptuous noise, grating to Fred's ears.

"You've got as much brains as a two-year-old," said Morgan, who seemed to be the leader of the party. "That wasn't Grant's note at all. It was mine, you nut. See? Mine!"

Fred realized he had been duped. How simple had been the scheme! And how easily he had fallen for it!

BUT what was far worse was the fact that in another hour and a half he must be in the ring against Battler Byrne. It didn't look as though he would get to the arena in time. What with being manacled...

"Don't you know I've got a fight on tonight?" he asked Morgan.

"Sure," Morgan replied. "Oh, don't worry; you'll get there in time."

Fred felt relieved but Morgan' sneering tone wasn't very assuring.

"You needn't worry," Morgan continued in his smooth, silky voice. "You'll get to the fight in time. But first we have a bit of use for you."

Morgan directed the other three men to carry Fred into the adjoining room. Fred offered no struggle. He was saving his strength for the night's battle.

The room that Fred was carried into was not empty like the other room. This room was evidently a small gymnasium. There were horses, a punching bad, Indian clubs, a medicine ball and, in the center of the room a steam cabinet.

It was the latter object which attracted Fred's attention. He had used one several times to get the kinks out of his system. But what one was needed here for, Fred couldn't imagine. They were rather expensive things to operate.

"It is this," Morgan said, pointing at the cabinet, "that we are about to try out. Will you please step inside?" 

Fred was horrified. "Do you realize what this means?" His voice was hoarse.

WITHOUT further delay the three thugs holding Fred pushed him inside the cabinet. They took most of his clothes off. Then they forced him on the stool while they wrapped several Turkish towels around his neck.

All this time Fred was too horrified to speak. They were going to give him a steam bath! He pictured himself coming out of the cabinet--sapped of all the splendid vitality that careful living had given him.

He would be a physical wreck. These steam baths, if the proper pressure were applied, could drain energy.

RETURN

By Beatrice M. Murphy

Birds, when days grow cold and gray,
Wing their way back home.
So will you return some day
When you've ceased to roam.
When you've thrown away your youth
Chasing love's gay ghost,
You'll return to seek, in truth,
One who loved you most.

Yes, you will return some day
Knowing that you'll find
Love you sought for far away,
She you left behind.
But you'll look in vain for me
Waiting there for you.
Empty will the old nest be,--
I'll be roaming too.

The shutters around his neck were adjusted. A moment later he felt a warmth suffusing the inside of the box.

Morgan was standing in front of Fred. The other three had disappeared.

"Feel sweaty?" Morgan asked silkily. "It does get rather uncomfortable at times, I admit. But you will be able to stand it for a half-hour or so."

Fred winced. A half-hour of this! He shifted his position to face away from Morgan.

The maddening voice continued. "It is funny how people will pass up excellent opportunities for the sake of what they call morals. Morals are a hindrance. I know a man who today might be then thousand dollars richer than he is and a champion some day if he had not been blind. Now all he gets for his pains is a sweat bath; and in the bargain he loses the championship. What do you think of such a man, Warren?"

THE voice paused, as though awaiting an answer. Fred kept silent. His were bitter thoughts. Bitter against himself for allowing himself to be trapped so readily, and bitter against Morgan for playing the human snake. A boxer, a former champ at that, debasing him and his profession for revenge.

Morgan's voice kept on incessantly. It was maddening but Fred forced himself to remain quiet. The heat was unbearable. His face was soaked with perspiration. The manacles chafed his writs. There was no doubt that tonight he would lose the fight - and the championship. But even thoughts of losing the championship became secondary. His passion centered itself on getting even with Morgan.

It seemed hours and hours before they turned off the steam and released him from that hell hole. the handcuffs were removed; he was free.

Fred could hardly stand. There was an empty feeling in his legs. He staggered to the door like a drunken man. He faced Morgan. "You'll pay well for this, Morgan," he said huskily.

"Not a soul except you and - me know what happened here this evening. Boys-" turning to the three men standing near- "did any of you witness this-er-performance?" Morgan was bland.

The others grinned.

Fred realized he would have to wait. He could start nothing now. He would not have strength enough to weather tonight's fight. But Morgan would always be in reach, Fred felt sure.

As Fred turned to leave, Morgan's mocking voice came to him. "How much will you take not to win tonight's fight? We have our money on the challenger."

How Fred ever found his way to Fowler's arena he never could clearly recall. There was a hazy recollection in his mind of turning down endless streets; of asking innumerable questions; of striking a familiar