_Slade Costigan, boxer with a slugger's
punch, had everything--if he could only
fight off his one great weakness._
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Argosy All-Story Weekly, July 20, 1929.]
I first spoke to Slade Costigan in his dressing room, where I had
hurried immediately after his two round knock-out of Battling Monaghan.
The boy was an impressive specimen of manhood, about six feet in
height, slim-waisted and tapering of legs, with remarkably broad
shoulders and heavy arms. Dark-skinned, with narrow, cold gray eyes,
and a shock of black hair falling over a broad forehead, he had the
true fighting face--broad across the cheekbones with thin lips and a
firm jaw. His face was in a battered condition just now, one eye being
partly closed, while his lips were bruised and his cheeks decorated
with several small cuts, owing to the last desperate efforts of
Battling Monaghan.