was cool and he knew that he had a hard job ahead of him. He was going to fight by the judgment of Lefty, measure his man, not waste his strength. In two things only he had an advantage that he counted on: a longer reach, and a better temper.
The Mexican lost no time. He dropped into an approved crouch, fiddling, breaking ground, feinting, trying to get Stone to open up, his followers jeering as the American stood his ground, shifting slowly but cleverly enough to face his active foe. Suddenly Padilla leaped from a squat, lithe as a great cat, lunging like lightning, getting in a blow to Stone's cheek and another to the ribs and dancing back unscathedy while a roar went up of "El Toro!" Padilla danced back to the limits of the human ring while Stone refused to follow him.
"It is the Gringo who is the bull," cried Padilla in Spanish. "I am the bull-fighter!"
Back of the Mexican, in the rear of the crowd. Stone glimpsed the girl Lola, standing on a table, impassive, leaning forward from the hips. Her eyes met his and she flashed him a smile. Padilla came rushing in again, and out, once, twice, leading for the head. But Stone was beginning to find himself. It was a long time since he had faced a man, never before with bared fists in a timed fight. He was far from sure of his judgment of distance, he felt rusty, reluctant to try the tricks that he had learned. But his body warmed and suppled to the excitement, to the indistinguishable roar all about them, to the mocking face of the evasive Padilla. In the next
