"Some of those tenement houses are fierce," he said thoughtfully. Like
Betty, he found himself with a singularly clear recollection of his one
visit to Broster Street. "But you can't do anything."
"Why not?" cried Betty. "Oh, why not? Surely you couldn't have a better
subject for your series? It's wicked. People only want to be told about
them to make them better. Why can't we draw attention to them?"
"It's been done already. Not about Broster Street, but about other
tenements. Tenements as a subject are played out. The public isn't
interested in them. Besides, it wouldn't be any use. You can't tree the
man who is really responsible, unless you can spend thousands scaring
up evidence. The land belongs in the first place to some corporation or
other. They lease it to a lessee. When there's a fuss, they say they
aren't responsible, it's up to the lessee. And he, bright boy, lies so
low you can't find out who it is."
"But we could try," urged Betty.
Smith looked at her curiously. The cause was plainly one that lay near
to her heart. Her face was flushed and eager. He wavered, and, having
wavered, he did what no practical man should do. He allowed sentiment
to interfere with business. He knew that a series of articles on
Broster Street would probably be so much dead weight on the paper,
something to be skipped by the average reader, but he put the thought
aside.
"Very well," he said. "If you care to turn in a few crisp remarks on
the subject, I'll print them."
Betty's first instalment was ready on the following morning. It was a
curious composition. A critic might have classed it with Kid Brady's
reminiscences, for there was a complete absence of literary style. It
was just a wail of pity, and a cry of indignation, straight from the
heart and split up into paragraphs.
Smith read it with interest, and sent it off to the printer unaltered.
"Have another ready for next week, Comrade Brown," he said. "It's a
long shot, but this might turn out to be just what we need."
And when, two days after the publication of the number containing the
article, Mr. Martin Parker called at the office, he felt that the long
shot had won out.
He was holding forth on life in general to Betty shortly before the
luncheon hour when Pugsy Maloney entered bearing a card.
"Martin Parker?" said Smith, taking it. "I don't know him. We make new
friends daily."
"He's a guy wit' a tall-shaped hat," volunteered Master Maloney, "an'
he's wearing a dude suit an' shiny shoes."
"Comrade Parker," said Smith approvingly, "has evidently not been blind
to the importance of a visit to _Peaceful Moments_. He has dressed
himself in his best. He has felt, rightly, that this is no occasion for
the flannel suit and the old straw hat. I would not have it otherwise.
It is the right spirit. Show the guy in. We will give him audience."
Pugsy withdrew.
Mr. Martin Parker proved to be a man who might have been any age
between thirty-five and forty-five. He had a dark face and a black
mustache. As Pugsy had stated, in effect, he wore a morning coat,
trousers with a crease which brought a smile of kindly approval to
Smith's face, and patent-leather shoes of pronounced shininess.
"I want to see the editor," he said.
"Will you take a seat?" said Smith.
He pushed a chair toward the visitor, who seated himself with the care
inspired by a perfect trouser crease. There was a momentary silence
while he selected a spot on the table on which to place his hat.
"I have come about a private matter," he said, looking meaningly at
Betty, who got up and began to move toward the door. Smith nodded to
her, and she went out.
"Say," said Mr. Parker, "hasn't something happened to this paper these
last few weeks? It used not to take such an interest in things, used
it?"
"You are very right," responded Smith. "Comrade Renshaw's methods were
good in their way. I have no quarrel with Comrade Renshaw. But he did
not lead public thought. He catered exclusively to children with water
on the brain and men and women with solid ivory skulls. I feel that
there are other and larger publics. I cannot content myself with
ladling out a weekly dole of predigested mental breakfast food. I - "
"Then you, I guess," said Mr. Parker, "are responsible for this Broster
Street thing?"
"At any rate, I approve of it and put it in the paper. If any husky
guy, as Comrade Maloney would put it, is anxious to aim a swift kick at
the author of that article, he can aim it at me."
"I see," said Mr. Parker. He paused. "It said 'Number one' in the
paper. Does that mean there are going to be more of them?"
"There is no flaw in your reasoning. There are to be several more."
Mr. Parker looked at the door. It was closed. He bent forward.
"See here," he said, "I'm going to talk straight, if you'll let me."
"Assuredly, Comrade Parker. There must be no secrets, no restraint
between us. I would not have you go away and say to yourself, 'Did I
make my meaning clear? Was I too elusive?'"
Mr. Parker scratched the floor with the point of a gleaming shoe. He
seemed to be searching for words.
"Say on," urged Smith. "Have you come to point out some flaw in that
article? Does it fall short in any way of your standard for such work?"
Mr. Parker came to the point.
"If I were you," he said, "I should quit it. I shouldn't go on with
those articles."
"Why?" enquired Smith.
"Because," said Mr. Parker.
He looked at Smith, and smiled slowly, an ingratiating smile. Smith did
not respond.
"I do not completely gather your meaning," he said. "I fear I must ask
you to hand it to me with still more breezy frankness. Do you speak
from purely friendly motives? Are you advising me to discontinue the
series because you fear that it will damage the literary reputation of
the paper? Do you speak solely as a literary connoisseur? Or are there
other reasons?"
Mr. Parker leaned forward.
"The gentleman whom I represent - "
"Then this is no matter of your own personal taste? There is another?"
"See here, I'm representing a gentleman who shall be nameless, and I've
come on his behalf to tip you off to quit this game. These articles of
yours are liable to cause him inconvenience."
"Financial? Do you mean that he may possibly have to spend some of his
spare doubloons in making Broster Street fit to live in?"
"It's not so much the money. It's the publicity. There are reasons why
he would prefer not to have it made too public that he's the owner of
the tenements down there."
"Well, he knows what to do. If he makes Broster Street fit for a
not-too-fastidious pig to live in - "
Mr. Parker coughed. A tentative cough, suggesting that the situation
was now about to enter upon a more delicate phase.
"Now, see here, sir," he said, "I'm going to be frank. I'm going to put
my cards on the table, and see if we can't fix something up. Now, see
here. We don't want any unpleasantness. You aren't in this business for
your health, eh? You've got your living to make, same as everybody
else, I guess. Well, this is how it stands. To a certain extent, I
don't mind owning, since we're being frank with one another, you've got
us - that's to say, this gentleman I'm speaking of - in a cleft stick.
Frankly, that Broster Street story of yours has attracted attention - I
saw it myself in two Sunday papers - and if there's going to be any more
of them - Well, now, here's a square proposition. How much do you want
to stop those articles? That's straight. I've been frank with you, and
I want you to be frank with me. What's your figure? Name it, and if you
don't want the earth I guess we needn't quarrel."
He looked expectantly at Smith. Smith, gazing sadly at him through his
monocle, spoke quietly, with the restrained dignity of some old Roman
senator dealing with the enemies of the Republic.
"Comrade Parker," he said, "I fear that you have allowed your
intercourse with this worldly city to undermine your moral sense. It is
useless to dangle rich bribes before the editorial eyes. _Peaceful
Moments_ cannot be muzzled. You doubtless mean well, according to
your somewhat murky lights, but we are not for sale, except at fifteen
cents weekly. From the hills of Maine to the Everglades of Florida,
from Portland, Oregon, to Melonsquashville, Tennessee, one sentence is
in every man's mouth. And what is that sentence? I give you three
guesses. You give it up? It is this: '_Peaceful Moments_ cannot be
muzzled!'"
Mr. Parker rose.
"Nothing doing, then?" he said.
"Nothing."
Mr. Parker picked up his hat.
"See here," he said, a grating note in his voice, hitherto smooth and
conciliatory, "I've no time to fool away talking to you. I've given you
your chance. Those stories are going to be stopped. And if you've any
sense in you at all, you'll stop them yourself before you get hurt.
That's all I've got to say, and that goes."
He went out, closing the door behind him with a bang that added
emphasis to his words.
"All very painful and disturbing," murmured Smith. "Comrade Brown!" he
called.
Betty came in.
"Did our late visitor bite a piece out of you on his way out? He was in
the mood to do something of the sort."
"He seemed angry," said Betty.
"He _was_ angry," said Smith. "Do you know what has happened,
Comrade Brown? With your very first contribution to the paper you have
hit the bull's-eye. You have done the state some service. Friend Parker
came as the representative of the owner of those Broster Street houses.
He wanted to buy us off. We've got them scared, or he wouldn't have
shown his hand with such refreshing candor. Have you any engagements at
present?"
"I was just going out to lunch, if you could spare me."
"Not alone. This lunch is on the office. As editor of this journal I
will entertain you, if you will allow me, to a magnificent banquet.
_Peaceful Moments_ is grateful to you. _Peaceful Moments,"_
he added, with the contented look the Far West editor must have worn as
the bullet came through the window, "is, owing to you, going some now."
* * * * *
When they returned from lunch, and reentered the outer office, Pugsy
Maloney, raising his eyes for a moment from his book, met them with the
information that another caller had arrived and was waiting in the
inner room.
"Dere's a guy in dere waitin' to see youse," he said, jerking his head
towards the door.
"Yet another guy? This is our busy day. Did he give a name?"
"Says his name's Maude," said Master Maloney, turning a page.
"Maude!" cried Betty, falling back.
Smith beamed.
"Old John Maude!" he said. "Great! I've been wondering what on earth
he's been doing with himself all this time. Good-old John! You'll like
him," he said, turning, and stopped abruptly, for he was speaking to
the empty air. Betty had disappeared.
"Where's Miss Brown, Pugsy?" he said. "Where did she go?"
Pugsy vouchsafed another jerk of the head, in the direction of the
outer door.
"She's beaten it," he said. "I seen her make a break for de stairs.
Guess she's forgotten to remember somet'ing," he added indifferently,
turning once more to his romance of prairie life. "Goils is
bone-heads."
CHAPTER XVII
THE MAN AT THE ASTOR
Refraining from discussing with Master Maloney the alleged
bone-headedness of girls, Smith went through into the inner room, and
found John sitting in the editorial chair, glancing through the latest
number of _Peaceful Moments_.
"Why, John, friend of my youth," he said, "where have you been hiding
all this time? I called you up at your office weeks ago, and an acid
voice informed me that you were no longer there. Have you been fired?"
"Yes," said John. "Why aren't you on the _News_ any more? Nobody
seemed to know where you were, till I met Faraday this morning, who
told me you were here."
Smith was conscious of an impression that in some subtle way John had
changed since their last meeting. For a moment he could not have said
what had given him this impression. Then it flashed upon him. Before,
John had always been, like Mrs. Fezziwig in "The Christmas Carol," one
vast substantial smile. He had beamed cheerfully on what to him was
evidently the best of all possible worlds. Now, however, it would seem
that doubts had occurred to him as to the universal perfection of
things. His face was graver. His eyes and his mouth alike gave evidence
of disturbing happenings.
In the matter of confidences, Smith was not a believer in spade-work.
If they were offered to him, he was invariably sympathetic, but he
never dug for them. That John had something on his mind was obvious,
but he intended to allow him, if he wished to reveal it, to select his
own time for the revelation.
John, for his part, had no intention of sharing this particular trouble
even with Smith. It was too new and intimate for discussion.
It was only since his return to New York that the futility of his quest
had really come home to him. In the belief of having at last escaped
from Mervo he had been inclined to overlook obstacles. It had seemed to
him, while he waited for his late subjects to dismiss him, that, once
he could move, all would be simple. New York had dispelled that idea.
Logically, he saw with perfect clearness, there was no reason why he
and Betty should ever meet again.
To retain a spark of hope beneath this knowledge was not easy and John,
having been in New York now for nearly three weeks without any
encouragement from the fates, was near the breaking point. A gray
apathy had succeeded the frenzied restlessness of the first few days.
The necessity for some kind of work that would to some extent occupy
his mind was borne in upon him, and the thought of Smith had followed
naturally. If anybody could supply distraction, it would be Smith.
Faraday, another of the temporary exiles from the _News_, whom he
had met by chance in Washington Square, had informed him of Smith's new
position and of the renaissance of _Peaceful Moments_, and he had
hurried to the office to present himself as an unskilled but willing
volunteer to the cause. Inspection of the current number of the paper
had convinced him that the _Peaceful Moments_ atmosphere, if it
could not cure, would at least relieve.
"Faraday told me all about what you had done to this paper," he said.
"I came to see if you would let me in on it. I want work."
"Excellent!" said Smith. "Consider yourself one of us."
"I've never done any newspaper work, of course, but - "
"Never!" cried Smith. "Is it so long since the deaf old college days
that you forget the _Gridiron?"_
In their last year at Harvard, Smith and John, assisted by others of a
congenial spirit, had published a small but lively magazine devoted to
college topics, with such success - from one point of view - that on the
appearance of the third number it was suppressed by the authorities.
"You were the life and soul of the _Gridiron,"_ went on Smith.
"You shall be the life and soul of _Peaceful Moments_. You have
special qualifications for the post. A young man once called at the
office of a certain newspaper, and asked for a job. 'Have you any
specialty?' enquired the editor. 'Yes,' replied the bright boy, 'I am
rather good at invective.' 'Any particular kind of invective?' queried
the man up top. 'No,' replied our hero, 'just general invective.' Such
is your case, my son. You have a genius for general invective. You are
the man _Peaceful Moments_ has been waiting for."
"If you think so - "
"I do think so. Let us consider it settled. And now, tell me, what do
you think of our little journal?"
"Well - aren't you asking for trouble? Isn't the proprietor - ?"
Smith waved his hand airily.
"Dismiss him from your mind," he said. "He is a gentleman of the name
of Benjamin Scobell, who - "
"Benjamin Scobell!"
"Who lives in Europe and never sees the paper. I happen to know that he
is anxious to get rid of it. His solicitors have instructions to accept
any reasonable offer. If only I could close in on a small roll, I would
buy it myself, for by the time we have finished our improvements, it
will be a sound investment for the young speculator. Have you read the
Broster Street story? It has hit somebody already. Already some unknown
individual is grasping the lemon in his unwilling fingers. And - to
remove any diffidence you may still have about lending your sympathetic
aid - that was written by no hardened professional, but by our
stenographer. She'll be in soon, and I'll introduce you. You'll like
her. I do not despair, later on, of securing an epoch-making
contribution from Comrade Maloney."
As he spoke, that bulwark of the paper entered in person, bearing an
envelope.
"Ah, Comrade Maloney," said Smith. "Is that your contribution? What is
the subject? 'Mustangs I have Met?'"
"A kid brought dis," said Pugsy. "Dere ain't no answer."
Smith read the letter with raised eyebrows.
"We shall have to get another stenographer," he said. "The gifted
author of our Broster Street series has quit."
"Oh!" said John, not interested.
"Quit at a moment's notice and without explanation. I can't understand
it."
"I guess she had some reason," said John, absently. He was inclined to
be absent during these days. His mind was always stealing away to
occupy itself with the problem of the discovery of Betty. The motives
that might have led a stenographer to resign her position had no
interest for him.
Smith shrugged his shoulders.
"Oh, Woman, Woman!" he said resignedly.
"She says she will send in some more Broster Street stuff, though,
which is a comfort. But I'm sorry she's quit. You would have liked
her."
"Yes?" said John.
At this moment there came from the outer office a piercing squeal. It
penetrated into the editorial sanctum, losing only a small part of its
strength on the way. Smith looked up with patient sadness.
"If Comrade Maloney," he said, "is going to take to singing during
business hours, I fear this journal must put up its shutters.
Concentrated thought will be out of the question."
He moved to the door and flung it open as a second squeal rent the air,
and found Master Maloney writhing in the grip of a tough-looking person
in patched trousers and a stained sweater. His left ear was firmly
grasped between the stranger's finger and thumb.
The tough person released Pugsy, and, having eyed Smith keenly for a
moment, made a dash for the stairs, leaving the guardian of the gate
rubbing his ear resentfully.
"He blows in," said Master Maloney, aggrieved, "an' asks is de editor
in. I tells him no, an' he nips me by the ear when I tries to stop him
buttin' t'roo."
"Comrade Maloney," said Smith, "you are a martyr. What would Horatius
have done if somebody had nipped him by the ear when he was holding the
bridge? It might have made all the difference. Did the gentleman state
his business?"
"Nope. Just tried to butt t'roo."
"One of these strong, silent men. The world is full of us. These are
the perils of the journalistic life. You will be safer and happier when
you are a cowboy, Comrade Maloney."
Smith was thoughtful as he returned to the inner room.
"Things are warming up, John," he said. "The sport who has just left
evidently came just to get a sight of me. Otherwise, why should he tear
himself away without stopping for a chat. I suppose he was sent to mark
me down for whichever gang Comrade Parker is employing."
"What do you mean?" said John. "All this gets past me. Who is Parker?"
Smith related the events leading up to Mr. Parker's visit, and
described what had happened on that occasion.
"So, before you throw in your lot with this journal," he concluded, "it
would be well to think the matter over. You must weigh the pros and
cons. Is your passion for literature such that you do not mind being
put out of business with a black-jack for the cause? Will the knowledge
that a low-browed gentleman is waiting round the corner for you
stimulate or hinder you in your work? There's no doubt now that we are
up against a tough crowd."
"By Jove!" said John. "I hadn't a notion it was like that."
"You feel, then, that on the whole - "
"I feel that on the whole this is just the business I've been hunting
for. You couldn't keep me out of it now with an ax."
Smith looked at him curiously, but refrained from enquiries. That there
must be something at the back of this craving for adventure and
excitement, he knew. The easy-going John he had known of old would
certainly not have deserted the danger zone, but he would not have
welcomed entry to it so keenly. It was plain that he was hungry for
work that would keep him from thought. Smith was eminently a patient
young man, and though the problem of what upheaval had happened to
change John to such an extent interested him greatly, he was prepared
to wait for explanations.
Of the imminence of the danger he was perfectly aware. He had known
from the first that Mr. Parker's concluding words were not an empty
threat. His experience as a reporter had given him the knowledge that
is only given in its entirety to police and newspaper men: that there
are two New Yorks - one, a modern, well-policed city, through which one
may walk from end to end without encountering adventure; the other, a
city as full of sinister intrigue, of whisperings and conspiracies, of
battle, murder, and sudden death in dark byways, as any town of
mediaeval Italy. Given certain conditions, anything may happen in New
York. And Smith realized that these conditions now prevailed in his own
case. He had come into conflict with New York's underworld.
Circumstances had placed him below the surface, where only his wits
could help him.
He would have been prepared to see the thing through by himself, but
there was no doubt that John as an ally would be a distinct comfort.
Nevertheless, he felt compelled to give his friend a last chance of
withdrawing.
"You know," he said, "there is really no reason why you should - "
"But I'm going to," interrupted John. "That's all there is to it.
What's going to happen, anyway? I don't know anything about these
gangs. I thought they spent all their time shooting each other up."
"Not all, unfortunately, Comrade John. They are always charmed to take
on a small job like this on the side."
"And what does it come to? Do we have an entire gang camping on our
trail in a solid mass, or only one or two toughs?"
"Merely a section, I should imagine. Comrade Parker would go to the
main boss of the gang - Bat Jarvis, if it was the Groome Street gang, or
Spider Reilly and Dude Dawson if he wanted the Three Points or the
Table Hill lot. The boss would chat over the matter with his own
special partners, and they would fix it up among themselves. The rest
of the gang would probably know nothing about it. The fewer in the
game, you see, the fewer to divide the Parker dollars. So what we have
to do is to keep a lookout for a dozen or so aristocrats of that
dignified deportment which comes from constant association with the
main boss, and, if we can elude these, all will be well."
* * * * *
It was by Smith's suggestion that the editorial staff of _Peaceful
Moments_ dined that night at the Astor roof-garden.
"The tired brain," he said, "needs to recuperate. To feed on such a
night as this in some low-down hostelry on the level of the street,
with German waiters breathing heavily down the back of one's neck and
two fiddles and a piano hitting up ragtime about three feet from one's
tympanum, would be false economy. Here, fanned by cool breezes and
surrounded by passably fair women and brave men, one may do a certain
amount of tissue-restoring. Moreover, there is little danger up here of
being slugged by our moth-eaten acquaintance of this afternoon. We
shall probably find him waiting for us at the main entrance with a
black-jack, but till then - "
He turned with gentle grace to his soup. It was a warm night, and the
roof-garden was full. From where they sat they could see the million
twinkling lights of the city. John, watching them, as he smoked a
cigarette at the conclusion of the meal, had fallen into a dream. He
came to himself with a start, to find Smith in conversation with a
waiter.
"Yes, my name is Smith," he was saying.
The waiter retired to one of the tables and spoke to a young man
sitting there. John, recollected having seen this solitary diner
looking in their direction once or twice during dinner, but the fact
had not impressed him.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"The man at that table sent over to ask if my name was Smith. It was.
He is now coming along to chat in person. I wonder why. I don't know
him from Adam."
The stranger was threading his way between the tables.
"Can I have a word with you, Mr. Smith?" he said. The waiter brought a
chair and he seated himself.
"By the way," said Smith, "my friend, Mr. Maude. Your own name will
doubtless come up in the course of general chitchat over the
coffee-cups."
"Not on your tintype it won't," said the stranger decidedly. "It won't
be needed. Is Mr. Maude on your paper? That's all right, then. I can go
ahead."
He turned to Smith.
"It's about that Broster Street thing."
"More fame!" murmured Smith. "We certainly are making a hit with the
great public over Broster Street."
"Well, you understand certain parties have got it in against you?"
"A charming conversationalist, one Comrade Parker, hinted at something
of the sort in a recent conversation. We shall endeavor, however, to
look after ourselves."
"You'll need to. The man behind is a big bug."
"Who is he?"
The stranger shrugged his shoulders.
"Search me. You wouldn't expect him to give that away."
"Then on what system have you estimated the size of the gentleman's
bug-hood? What makes you think that he's a big bug?"
"By the number of dollars he was ready to put up to have you put
through."
Smith's eyes gleamed for an instant, but he spoke as coolly as ever.
"Oh!" he said. "And which gang has he hired?"
"I couldn't say. He - his agent, that is - came to Bat Jarvis. Bat for
some reason turned the job down."
"He did? Why?"
"Search me. Nobody knows. But just as soon as he heard who it was he
was being asked to lay for, he turned it down cold. Said none of his
fellows was going to put a finger on anyone who had anything to do with
your paper. I don't know what you've been doing to Bat, but he sure is
the long-lost brother to you."
"A powerful argument in favor of kindness to animals!" said Smith. "One
of his celebrated stud of cats came into the possession of our
stenographer. What did she do? Instead of having the animal made into a
nourishing soup, she restored it to its bereaved owner. Observe the
sequel. We are very much obliged to Comrade Jarvis."
"He sent me along," went on the stranger, "to tell you to watch out,
because one of the other gangs was dead sure to take on the job. And he
said you were to know that he wasn't mixed up in it. Well, that's all.
I'll be pushing along. I've a date. Glad to have met you, Mr. Maude.
Good-night."
For a few moments after he had gone, Smith and John sat smoking in
silence.
"What's the time?" asked Smith suddenly. "If it's not too late - Hello,
here comes our friend once more."
The stranger came up to the table, a light overcoat over his dress
clothes. From the pocket of this he produced a watch.
"Force of habit," he said apologetically, handing it to John. "You'll
pardon me. Good-night again."
CHAPTER XVIII
THE HIGHFIELD
John looked after him, open-mouthed. The events of the evening had
been a revelation to him. He had not realized the ramifications of New
York's underworld. That members of the gangs should appear in gorgeous
raiment in the Astor roof-garden was a surprise. "And now," said Smith,
"that our friend has so sportingly returned your watch, take a look at
it and see the time. Nine? Excellent. We shall do it comfortably."
"What's that?" asked John.
"Our visit to the Highfield. A young friend of mine who is fighting
there to-night sent me tickets a few days ago. In your perusal of
_Peaceful Moments_ you may have chanced to see mention of one Kid
Brady. He is the man. I was intending to go in any case, but an idea
has just struck me that we might combine pleasure with business. Has it
occurred to you that these black-jack specialists may drop in on us at
the office? And, if so, that Comrade Maloney's statement that we are
not in may be insufficient to keep them out? Comrade Brady would be an
invaluable assistant. And as we are his pugilistic sponsors, without
whom he would not have got this fight at all, I think we may say that
he will do any little thing we may ask of him."
It was certainly true that, from the moment the paper had taken up his
cause, Kid Brady's star had been in the ascendant. The sporting pages
of the big dailies had begun to notice him, until finally the
management of the Highfield Club had signed him on for a ten-round bout
with a certain Cyclone Dick Fisher.
"He should," continued Smith, "if equipped in any degree with the finer
feelings, be bubbling over with gratitude toward us. At any rate, it is
worth investigating."
* * * * *
Far away from the comfortable glare of Broadway, in a place of
disheveled houses and insufficient street-lamps, there stands the old
warehouse which modern enterprise has converted into the Highfield
Athletic and Gymnastic Club. The imagination, stimulated by the title,
conjures up picture-covered walls, padded chairs, and seas of white
shirt front. The Highfield differs in some respects from this fancy
picture. Indeed, it would be hard to find a respect in which it does
not differ. But these names are so misleading! The title under which
the Highfield used to be known till a few years back was "Swifty
Bob's." It was a good, honest title. You knew what to export, and if
you attended seances at Swifty Bob's you left your gold watch and your
little savings at home. But a wave of anti-pugilistic feeling swept
over the New York authorities. Promoters of boxing contests found
themselves, to their acute disgust, raided by the police. The industry
began to languish. Persons avoided places where at any moment the
festivities might be marred by an inrush of large men in blue uniforms,
armed with locust sticks.
And then some big-brained person suggested the club idea, which stands
alone as an example of American dry humor. At once there were no boxing
contests in New York; Swifty Bob and his fellows would have been
shocked at the idea of such a thing. All that happened now was
exhibition sparring bouts between members of the club. It is true that
next day the papers very tactlessly reported the friendly exhibition
spar as if it had been quite a serious affair, but that was not the
fault of Swifty Bob.
Kid Brady, the chosen of _Peaceful Moments_, was billed for a
"ten-round exhibition contest," to be the main event of the evening's
entertainment.
* * * * *
A long journey on the subway took them to the neighborhood, and after
considerable wandering they arrived at their destination.
Smith's tickets were for a ring-side box, a species of sheep pen of
unpolished wood, with four hard chairs in it. The interior of the
Highfield Athletic and Gymnastic Club was severely free from anything
in the shape of luxury and ornament. Along the four walls were raised
benches in tiers. On these were seated as tough-looking a collection of
citizens as one might wish to see. On chairs at the ringside were the
reporters with tickers at their sides. In the center of the room,
brilliantly lighted by half-a-dozen electric chandeliers, was the ring.
There were preliminary bouts before the main event. A burly gentleman
in shirt-sleeves entered the ring, followed by two slim youths in
fighting costume and a massive person in a red jersey, blue serge
trousers, and yellow braces, who chewed gum with an abstracted air
throughout the proceedings.
The burly gentleman gave tongue in a voice that cleft the air like a
cannon ball.
"Ex-hibit-i-on four-round bout between Patsy Milligan and Tommy
Goodley, members of this club. Patsy on my right, Tommy on my left.
Gentlemen will kindly stop smokin'."
The audience did nothing of the sort. Possibly they did not apply the
description to themselves. Possibly they considered the appeal a mere
formula. Somewhere in the background a gong sounded, and Patsy, from
the right, stepped briskly forward to meet Tommy, approaching from the
left.
The contest was short but energetic. At intervals the combatants would
cling affectionately to one another, and on these occasions the
red-jerseyed man, still chewing gum and still wearing the same air of
being lost in abstract thought, would split up the mass by the simple
method of ploughing his way between the pair. Toward the end of the
first round Thomas, eluding a left swing, put Patrick neatly to the
floor, where the latter remained for the necessary ten seconds.
The remaining preliminaries proved disappointing. So much so that in
the last of the series a soured sportsman on one of the benches near
the roof began in satirical mood to whistle the "Merry Widow Waltz." It
was here that the red-jerseyed thinker for the first and last time came
out of his meditative trance. He leaned over the ropes, and spoke,
without heat, but firmly:
"If that guy whistling back up yonder thinks he can do better than
these boys, he can come right down into the ring."
The whistling ceased.
There was a distinct air of relief when the last preliminary was
finished and preparations for the main bout began. It did not commence
at once. There were formalities to be gone through, introductions and
the like. The burly gentleman reappeared from nowhere, ushering into
the ring a sheepishly grinning youth in a flannel suit.
"In-ter-_doo_-cin' Young Leary," he bellowed impressively, "a noo
member of this club, who will box some good boy here in September."
He walked to the other side of the ring and repeated the remark. A
raucous welcome was accorded to the new member.
Two other notable performers were introduced in a similar manner, and
then the building became suddenly full of noise, for a tall youth in a
bath robe, attended by a little army of assistants, had entered the
ring. One of the army carried a bright green bucket, on which were
painted in white letters the words "Cyclone Dick Fisher." A moment
later there was another, though a far less, uproar, as Kid Brady, his
pleasant face wearing a self-conscious smirk, ducked under the ropes
and sat down in the opposite corner.
"Ex-hib-it-i-on ten-round bout," thundered the burly gentleman,
"between Cyclone Dick Fisher - "
Loud applause. Mr. Fisher was one of the famous, a fighter with a
reputation from New York to San Francisco. He was generally considered
the most likely man to give the hitherto invincible Jimmy Garvin a hard
battle for the light-weight championship.
"Oh, you Dick!" roared the crowd.
Mr. Fisher bowed benevolently.
" - and Kid Brady, member of this - "
There was noticeably less applause for the Kid. He was an unknown. A
few of those present had heard of his victories in the West, but these
were but a small section of the crowd. When the faint applause had
ceased, Smith rose to his feet.
"Oh, you Kid!" he observed encouragingly. "I should not like Comrade
Brady," he said, reseating himself, "to think that he has no friend but
his poor old mother, as occurred on a previous occasion."
The burly gentleman, followed by the two armies of assistants, dropped
down from the ring, and the gong sounded.
Mr. Fisher sprang from his corner as if somebody had touched a spring.
He seemed to be of the opinion that if you are a cyclone, it is never
too soon to begin behaving like one. He danced round the Kid with an
india-rubber agility. The _Peaceful Moments_ representative
exhibited more stolidity. Except for the fact that he was in fighting
attitude, with one gloved hand moving slowly in the neighborhood of his
stocky chest, and the other pawing the air on a line with his square
jaw, one would have said that he did not realize the position of
affairs. He wore the friendly smile of the good-natured guest who is
led forward by his hostess to join in some game to amuse the children.
Suddenly his opponent's long left shot out. The Kid, who had been
strolling forward, received it under the chin, and continued to stroll
forward as if nothing of note had happened. He gave the impression of
being aware that Mr. Fisher had committed a breach of good taste and of
being resolved to pass it off with ready tact.
The Cyclone, having executed a backward leap, a forward leap, and a
feint, landed heavily with both hands. The Kid's genial smile did not
even quiver, but he continued to move forward. His opponent's left
flashed out again, but this time, instead of ignoring the matter, the
Kid replied with a heavy right swing, and Mr. Fisher leaping back,
found himself against the ropes. By the time he had got out of that
uncongenial position, two more of the Kid's swings had found their
mark. Mr. Fisher, somewhat perturbed, scuttled out into the middle of
the ring, the Kid following in his self-contained, stolid way.
The Cyclone now became still more cyclonic. He had a left arm which
seemed to open out in joints like a telescope. Several times when the
Kid appeared well out of distance there was a thud as a brown glove
ripped in over his guard and jerked his head back. But always he kept
boring in, delivering an occasional right to the body with the pleased
smile of an infant destroying a Noah's ark with a tack-hammer. Despite
these efforts, however, he was plainly getting all the worst of it.
Energetic Mr. Fisher, relying on his long left, was putting in three
blows to his one. When the gong sounded, ending the first round, the
house was practically solid for the Cyclone. Whoops and yells rose from
everywhere. The building rang with shouts of, "Oh, you Dick!"
Smith turned sadly to John.
"It seems to me," he said, "that this merry meeting looks like doing
Comrade Brady no good. I should not be surprised at any moment to see
his head bounce off on to the floor."
Rounds two and three were a repetition of round one. The Cyclone raged
almost unchecked about the ring. In one lightning rally in the third he
brought his right across squarely on to the Kid's jaw. It was a blow
which should have knocked any boxer out. The Kid merely staggered
slightly, and returned to business still smiling.
With the opening of round four there came a subtle change. The
Cyclone's fury was expending itself. That long left shot out less
sharply. Instead of being knocked back by it, the _Peaceful
Moments_ champion now took the hits in his stride, and came
shuffling in with his damaging body-blows. There were cheers and "Oh,
you Dick's!" at the sound of the gong, but there was an appealing note
in them this time. The gallant sportsmen whose connection with boxing
was confined to watching other men fight and betting on what they
considered a certainty, and who would have expired promptly if anyone
had tapped them sharply on their well-filled vests, were beginning to