His companion
turned the conversation to the prospects of one of that group of
inefficient middleweights whom Steve so heartily despised, between whom
and another of the same degraded band a ten-round contest had been
arranged and would shortly take place.
Ordinarily this would have been a subject on which Steve would have
found plenty to say, but his mind was occupied with what he had just
heard, and he sat silent while the silver-haired patron of sport
opposite prattled on respecting current form.
Steve felt stunned. It was unthinkable that this thing had really
occurred.
Mr. Keggs, sipping beer, discussed the coming fight. He weighed the
alleged left hook of one principal against the much-advertised right
swing of the other. He spoke with apprehension of a yellow streak which
certain purists claimed to have discovered in the gladiator on whose
chances he proposed to invest his cash.
Steve was not listening to him. A sudden thought had come to him,
filling his mind to the exclusion of all else.
The recollection of his talk with Kirk at the studio had come back to
him. He had advised Kirk, as a solution of his difficulties, to kidnap
the child and take him to Connecticut. Well, Kirk was out of the
running now, but he, Steve, was still in it.
He would do it himself.
The idea thrilled him.
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