With the last morsel of bread Tom King wiped his plateclean of the last particle of flour gravy and chewed theresulting mouthful in a slow and meditative way. Whenhe arose from the table， he was oppressed by the feelingthat he was distinctly hungry. Yet he alone had eaten. Thetwo children in the other room had been sent early to bedin order that in sleep they might forget they had gonesupperless. His wife had touched nothing， and had satsilently and watched him with solicitous eyes. She was athin， worn woman of the working-class， though signs of anearlier prettiness were not wanting in her face. The flourfor the gravy she had borrowed from the neighbor acrossthe hall. The last two ha’pennies had gone to buy thebread.
He sat down by the window on a rickety chair thatprotested under his weight， and quite mechanically heput his pipe in his mouth and dipped into the side pocketof his coat. The absence of any tobacco made him awareof his action， and， with a scowl for his forgetfulness， heput the pipe away. His movements were slow， almosthulking， as though he were burdened by the heavy weightof his muscles. He was a solid-bodied， stolid-lookingman， and his appearance did not suffer from beingoverprepossessing. His rough clothes were old and slouchy.
The uppers of his shoes were too weak to carry the heavyresoling that was itself of no recent date. And his cottonshirt， a cheap， two-shilling affair， showed a frayed collarand ineradicable paint stains.
But it was Tom King’s face that advertised himunmistakably for what he was. It was the face of a typicalprize-fighter； of one who had put in long years of servicein the squared ring and， by that means， developed andemphasized all the marks of the fighting beast. It wasdistinctly a lowering countenance， and， that no feature ofit might escape notice， it was clean-shaven. The lips wereshapeless， and constituted a mouth harsh to excess， thatwas like a gash in his face. The jaw was aggressive， brutal，heavy. The eyes， slow of movement and heavy-lidded， werealmost expressionless under the shaggy， indrawn brows.
Sheer animal that he was， the eyes were the most animallikefeature about him. They were sleepy， lion-like—theeyes of a fighting animal. The forehead slanted quicklyback to the hair， which， clipped close， showed every bumpof a villainous-looking head. A nose， twice broken andmoulded variously by countless blows， and a cauliflowerear， permanently swollen and distorted to twice its size，completed his adornment， while the beard， fresh-shavenas it was， sprouted in the skin and gave the face a blueblackstain.
All together， it was the face of a man to be afraid of ina dark alley or lonely place. And yet Tom King was not acriminal， nor had he ever done anything criminal. Outsideof brawls， common to his walk in life， he had harmed noone. Nor had he ever been known to pick a quarrel. Hewas a professional， and all the fighting brutishness of himwas reserved for his professional appearances. Outside thering he was slow-going， easy-natured， and， in his youngerdays， when money was flush， too open-handed for hisown good. He bore no grudges and had few enemies.
Fighting was a business with him. In the ring he struckto hurt， struck to maim， struck to destroy； but therewas no animus in it. It was a plain business proposition.
Audiences assembled and paid for the spectacle of menknocking each other out. The winner took the big end ofthe purse. When Tom King faced the WoolloomoollooGouger， twenty years before， he knew that the Gouger’sjaw was only four months healed after having been brokenin a Newcastle bout. And he had played for that jaw andbroken it again in the ninth round， not because he borethe Gouger any ill-will， but because that was the surestway to put the Gouger out and win the big end of thepurse. Nor had the Gouger borne him any ill-will for it. Itwas the game， and both knew the game and played it.
Tom King had never been a talker， and he sat by thewindow， morosely silent， staring at his hands. The veinsstood out on the backs of the hands， large and swollen；and the knuckles， smashed and battered and malformed，testified to the use to which they had been put. He hadnever heard that a man’s life was the life of his arteries，but well he knew the meaning of those big， upstandingveins. His heart had pumped too much blood throughthem at top pressure. They no longer did the work. Hehad stretched the elasticity out of them， and with theirdistention had passed his endurance. He tired easily now.
No longer could he do a fast twenty rounds， hammer andtongs， fight， fight， fight， from gong to gong， with fiercerally on top of fierce rally， beaten to the ropes and in turnbeating his opponent to the ropes， and rallying fiercestand fastest of all in that last， twentieth round， with thehouse on its feet and yelling， himself rushing， striking，ducking， raining showers of blows upon showers of blowsand receiving showers of blows in return， and all the timethe heart faithfully pumping the surging blood throughthe adequate veins. The veins， swollen at the time， hadalways shrunk down again， though not quite—each time，imperceptibly at first， remaining just a trifle larger thanbefore. He stared at them and at his battered knuckles，and， for the moment， caught a vision of the youthfulexcellence of those hands before the first knuckle hadbeen smashed on the head of Benny Jones， otherwiseknown as the Welsh Terror.
The impression of his hunger came back on him.
“Blimey， but couldn’t I go a piece of steak！” he mutteredaloud， clenching his huge fists and spitting out a smotheredoath.
“I tried both Burke’s an’ Sawley’s，” his wife said halfapologetically.
“An’ they wouldn’t？” he demanded.
“Not a ha’penny. Burke said—” She faltered.
“G’wan！ Wot’d he say？”
“As how ’e was thinkin’ Sandel ud do ye to-night， an’ ashow yer score was comfortable big as it was.”
