Well， a man had only so many fights in him， to beginwith. It was the iron law of the game. One man might havea hundred hard fights in him， another man only twenty；each， according to the make of him and the quality of hisfibre， had a definite number， and， when he had foughtthem， he was done. Yes， he had had more fights in himthan most of them， and he had had far more than his shareof the hard， gruelling fights—the kind that worked theheart and lungs to bursting， that took the elastic out ofthe arteries and made hard knots of muscle out of Youth’ssleek suppleness， that wore out nerve and stamina andmade brain and bones weary from excess of effort andendurance overwrought. Yes， he had done better than allof them. There was none of his old fighting partners left.
He was the last of the old guard. He had seen them allfinished， and he had had a hand in finishing some of them.
They had tried him out against the old uns， and oneafter another he had put them away—laughing when， likeold Stowsher Bill， they cried in the dressing-room. Andnow he was an old un， and they tried out the youngsterson him. There was that bloke， Sandel. He had come overfrom New Zealand with a record behind him. But nobodyin Australia knew anything about him， so they put himup against old Tom King. If Sandel made a showing， hewould be given better men to fight， with bigger purses towin； so it was to be depended upon that he would put upa fierce battle. He had everything to win by it—moneyand glory and career； and Tom King was the grizzled oldchopping-block that guarded the highway to fame andfortune. And he had nothing to win except thirty quid， topay to the landlord and the tradesmen. And， as Tom Kingthus ruminated， there came to his stolid vision the formof Youth， glorious Youth， rising exultant and invincible，supple of muscle and silken of skin， with heart and lungsthat had never been tired and torn and that laughedat limitation of effort. Yes， Youth was the Nemesis. Itdestroyed the old uns and recked not that， in so doing， itdestroyed itself. It enlarged its arteries and smashed itsknuckles， and was in turn destroyed by Youth. For Youthwas ever youthful. It was only Age that grew old.
At Castlereagh Street he turned to the left， and threeblocks along came to the Gayety. A crowd of younglarrikins hanging outside the door made respectful way forhim， and he heard one say to another： “That’s ’im！ That’sTom King！”
Inside， on the way to his dressing-room， he encounteredthe secretary， a keen-eyed， shrewd-faced young man， whoshook his hand.
“How are you feelin’， Tom？” he asked.
“Fit as a fiddle，” King answered， though he knew that helied， and that if he had a quid， he would give it right therefor a good piece of steak.
When he emerged from the dressing-room， his secondsbehind him， and came down the aisle to the squared ringin the centre of the hall， a burst of greeting and applausewent up from the waiting crowd. He acknowledgedsalutations right and left， though few of the faces did heknow. Most of them were the faces of kiddies unbornwhen he was winning his first laurels in the squared ring.
He leaped lightly to the raised platform and duckedthrough the ropes to his corner， where he sat down on afolding stool. Jack Ball， the referee， came over and shookhis hand. Ball was a broken-down pugilist who for overten years had not entered the ring as a principal. King wasglad that he had him for referee. They were both old uns.
If he should rough it with Sandel a bit beyond the rules，he knew Ball could be depended upon to pass it by.
Aspiring young heavyweights， one after another， wereclimbing into the ring and being presented to the audienceby the referee. Also， he issued their challenges for them.
“Young Pronto，” Bill announced， “from North Sydney，challenges the winner for fifty pounds side bet.”
The audience applauded， and applauded again as Sandelhimself sprang through the ropes and sat down in hiscorner. Tom King looked across the ring at him curiously，for in a few minutes they would be locked together inmerciless combat， each trying with all the force of him toknock the other into unconsciousness. But little could hesee， for Sandel， like himself， had trousers and sweater onover his ring costume. His face was strongly handsome，crowned with a curly mop of yellow hair， while his thick，muscular neck hinted at bodily magnificence.
Young Pronto went to one corner and then the other，shaking hands with the principals and dropping down outof the ring. The challenges went on. Ever Youth climbedthrough the ropes—Youth unknown， but insatiable—crying out to mankind that with strength and skill itwould match issues with the winner. A few years before，in his own heyday of invincibleness， Tom King would havebeen amused and bored by these preliminaries. But nowhe sat fascinated， unable to shake the vision of Youth fromhis eyes. Always were these youngsters rising up in theboxing game， springing through the ropes and shoutingtheir defiance； and always were the old uns going downbefore them. They climbed to success over the bodiesof the old uns. And ever they came， more and moreyoungsters—Youth unquenchable and irresistible—andever they put the old uns away， themselves becoming olduns and travelling the same downward path， while behindthem， ever pressing on them， was Youth eternal—the newbabies， grown lusty and dragging their elders down， withbehind them more babies to the end of time—Youth thatmust have its will and that will never die.
King glanced over to the press box and nodded toMorgan， of the Sportsman， and Corbett， of the Referee.
Then he held out his hands， while Sid Sullivan and CharleyBates， his seconds， slipped on his gloves and laced themtight， closely watched by one of Sandel’s seconds， who firstexamined critically the tapes on King’s knuckles. A secondof his own was in Sandel’s corner， performing a like office.
