Tom King grunted， but did not reply. He was busythinking of the bull terrier he had kept in his younger daysto which he had fed steaks without end. Burke would havegiven him credit for a thousand steaks—then. But timeshad changed. Tom King was getting old； and old men，fighting before second-rate clubs， couldn’t expect to runbills of any size with the tradesmen.
He had got up in the morning with a longing for a pieceof steak， and the longing had not abated. He had nothad a fair training for this fight. It was a drought year inAustralia， times were hard， and even the most irregularwork was difficult to find. He had had no sparring partner，and his food had not been of the best nor always sufficient.
He had done a few days’ navvy work when he could get it，and he had run around the Domain in the early morningsto get his legs in shape. But it was hard， training withouta partner and with a wife and two kiddies that mustbe fed. Credit with the tradesmen had undergone veryslight expansion when he was matched with Sandel. Thesecretary of the Gayety Club had advanced him threepounds—the loser’s end of the purse—and beyond thathad refused to go. Now and again he had managed toborrow a few shillings from old pals， who would have lentmore only that it was a drought year and they were hardput themselves. No—and there was no use in disguisingthe fact—his training had not been satisfactory. He shouldhave had better food and no worries. Besides， when a manis forty， it is harder to get into condition than when he istwenty.
“What time is it， Lizzie？” he asked.
His wife went across the hall to inquire， and came back.
“Quarter before eight.”
“They’ll be startin’ the first bout in a few minutes，” hesaid. “Only a try-out. Then there’s a four-round spar ’tweenDealer Wells an’ Gridley， an’ a ten-round go ’tween Starlightan’ some sailor bloke. don’t come on for over an hour.”
At the end of another silent ten minutes， he rose to hisfeet.
“Truth is， Lizzie， I ain’t had proper trainin’.”
He reached for his hat and started for the door. He didnot offer to kiss her—he never did on going out—but onthis night she dared to kiss him， throwing her arms aroundhim and compelling him to bend down to her face. Shelooked quite small against the massive bulk of the man.
“Good luck， Tom，” she said. “You gotter do ’im.”
“Ay， I gotter do ’im，” he repeated. “That’s all there is toit. I jus’ gotter do ’im.”
He laughed with an attempt at heartiness， while shepressed more closely against him. Across her shouldershe looked around the bare room. It was all he had in theworld， with the rent overdue， and her and the kiddies.
And he was leaving it to go out into the night to get meatfor his mate and cubs—not like a modern working-mangoing to his machine grind， but in the old， primitive，royal， animal way， by fighting for it. “I gotter do ’im，” herepeated， this time a hint of desperation in his voice. “Ifit’s a win， it’s thirty quid—an’ I can pay all that’s owin’，with a lump o’ money left over. If it’s a lose， I get naught—not even a penny for me to ride home on the tram. Thesecretary’s give all that’s comin’ from a loser’s end. Goodby，old woman. I’ll come straight home if it’s a win.”
“An’ I’ll be waitin’ up，” she called to him along the hall.
It was full two miles to the Gayety， and as he walkedalong he remembered how in his palmy days—he hadonce been the heavyweight champion of New SouthWales—he would have ridden in a cab to the fight， andhow， most likely， some heavy backer would have paid forthe cab and ridden with him. There were Tommy Burnsand that Yankee nigger， Jack Johnson—they rode about inmotor-cars. And he walked！ And， as any man knew， a hardtwo miles was not the best preliminary to a fight. He wasan old un， and the world did not wag well with old uns.
He was good for nothing now except navvy work， andhis broken nose and swollen ear were against him evenin that. He found himself wishing that he had learned atrade. It would have been better in the long run. But noone had told him， and he knew， deep down in his heart，that he would not have listened if they had. It had been soeasy. Big money—sharp， glorious fights—periods of restand loafing in between—a following of eager flatterers， theslaps on the back， the shakes of the hand， the toffs glad tobuy him a drink for the privilege of five minutes’ talk—andthe glory of it， the yelling houses， the whirlwind finish，the referee’s “King wins！” and his name in the sportingcolumns next day.
Those had been times！ But he realized now， in hisslow， ruminating way， that it was the old uns he had beenputting away. He was Youth， rising； and they were Age，sinking. No wonder it had been easy—they with theirswollen veins and battered knuckles and weary in thebones of them from the long battles they had alreadyfought. He remembered the time he put out old StowsherBill， at Rush-Cutters Bay， in the eighteenth round， andhow old Bill had cried afterward in the dressing-roomlike a baby. Perhaps old Bill’s rent had been overdue.
Perhaps he’d had at home a missus an’ a couple of kiddies.
And perhaps Bill， that very day of the fight， had had ahungering for a piece of steak. Bill had fought game andtaken incredible punishment. He could see now， after hehad gone through the mill himself， that Stowsher Bill hadfought for a bigger stake， that night twenty years ago， thanhad young Tom King， who had fought for glory and easymoney. No wonder Stowsher Bill had cried afterward inthe dressing-room.
