NO BUSINESS
MR. PATRICK TIERNEY, alone in his art gallery on the sunrise side of San Francisco Bay, swabbed ap a few drops of beer left upon the bar by the last customer and hummed a snatch of a sentimental ballad.
Sentiment would have seemed out of place in Mr. Tierney 's establishment, for the walls were plastered thick with photographs and halftones of gentlemen with cauliflower ears and ingrow ing noses. All the personages thus represented were more or less known to the sort of fame that blossoms large upon the pink pages of great religious dailies, and Mr. Tierney himself was a walking encyclopedia of information re garding these battered gladiators a sort of a Who Whipped Who in Point Richmond.
He could trace a champion at any weight to his obscure beginnings and brighten his history with anecdote and personal reminiscence. He had an uncanny faculty for picking winners and comers, and to leave it to Tierney was to get the last word on anything connected with the ring or its followers.
It was Tierney who pulled Young Kilroy off
[147]
