TIBERIUS SMITH
pug style. Near our corner stood an old hag holding a blue-eyed, white-haired, splendid boy wrapped in furs. Lord, sir! His hair and eyes showed me at once he was the missionary's kid.
"‘I'll teach him to accept my challenge,' muttered Tib, throwing off his coat, rolling up his shirt-sleeves, and yanking his belt up another notch with a real professional air. 'Why don't he go and get a reputation before meeting the Green Mountain Cannon-Ball?'
"And I stepped into the corner and called the names of the fighters, and the crowd grunted in anticipation of much pleasure. 'Time!' I yelled, my throat getting a bit choky, as I picked up the head of Tib's little hammer, which some elf had broken in driving the stakes. 'Mr. McBurr, welter-weight champion of the Little Seal. Mr. T. Smith, the Vermont Passion Flower, who has licked everything on two legs, no matter how old, between the tropic of Capricorn and Pittsburg. Ready for the first go.'
"This spiel struck Chuck as being good, and he grinned appreciatively, while Tib bowed gravely and limbered up his right arm.
"‘Time.'
"And, say, sir, if you could have seen those two midgets mince towards each other on their tiptoes, Tib walking with a catty, hunching step he'd copied
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