Fillmore heaved a sigh of relief and began to sidle from the room. Itwas a large room, half barn, half gymnasium. Athletic appliances ofvarious kinds hung on the walls and in the middle there was a wideroped-off space, around which a small crowd had distributed itself withan air of expectancy. This is a commercial age, and the days when aprominent pugilist's training activities used to be hidden from thepublic gaze are over. To-day, if the public can lay its hands on fiftycents, it may come and gaze its fill. This afternoon, plutocrats to thenumber of about forty had assembled, though not all of these, to theregret of Mr. Lester Burrowes, the manager of the eminent Bugs Butler,had parted with solid coin. Many of those present were newspaperrepresentatives and on the free list--writers who would polish up Mr.Butler's somewhat crude prognostications as to what he proposed to doto Mr. Lew Lucas, and would report him as saying, "I am in really superbcondition and feel little apprehension of the issue," and artists whowould depict him in a state of semi-nudity with feet several sizes toolarge for any man.
The reason for Fillmore's relief was that Mr. Burrowes, who was a greattalker and had buttonholed him a quarter of an hour ago, had at last hadhis attention distracted elsewhere, and had gone off to investigate somematter that called for his personal handling, leaving Fillmore free toslide away to the hotel and get a bite to eat, which he sorely needed.The zeal which had brought him to the training-camp to inspect the finalday of Mr. Butler's preparation--for the fight was to take place on themorrow--had been so great that he had omitted to lunch before leavingNew York.
So Fillmore made thankfully for the door. And it was at the door that heencountered Sally. He was looking over his shoulder at the moment, andwas not aware of her presence till she spoke.
"Hallo, Fillmore!"
Sally had spoken softly, but a dynamite explosion could not haveshattered her brother's composure with more completeness. In the leapingtwist which brought him facing her, he rose a clear three inches fromthe floor. He had a confused sensation, as though his nervous system hadbeen stirred up with a pole. He struggled for breath and moistened hislips with the tip of his tongue, staring at her continuously during theprocess.
Great men, in their moments of weakness, are to be pitied rather thanscorned. If ever a man had an excuse for leaping like a young ram,Fillmore had it. He had left Sally not much more than a week ago inEngland, in Shropshire, at Monk's Crofton. She had said nothing of anyintention on her part of leaving the country, the county, or the house.Yet here she was, in Bugs Butler's training-camp at White Plains, in theState of New York, speaking softly in his ear without even goingthrough the preliminary of tapping him on the shoulder to advertise herpresence. No wonder that Fillmore was startled. And no wonder that, ashe adjusted his faculties to the situation, there crept upon him a chillapprehension.
For Fillmore had not been blind to the significance of that invitationto Monk's Crofton. Nowadays your wooer does not formally approach agirl's nearest relative and ask permission to pay his addresses; but,when he invites her and that nearest relative to his country home andcollects all the rest of the family to meet her, the thing may besaid to have advanced beyond the realms of mere speculation. ShrewdlyFillmore had deduced that Bruce Carmyle was in love with Sally, andmentally he had joined their hands and given them a brother's blessing.And now it was only too plain that disaster must have occurred. If theinvitation could mean only one thing, so also could Sally's presence atWhite Plains mean only one thing.
"Sally!" A croaking whisper was the best he could achieve. "What...what...?"
"Did I startle you? I'm sorry."
"What are you doing here? Why aren't you at Monk's Crofton?"
Sally glanced past him at the ring and the crowd around it.
"I decided I wanted to get back to America. Circumstances arose whichmade it pleasanter to leave Monk's Crofton."
"Do you mean to say...?"
"Yes. Don't let's talk about it."
"Do you mean to say," persisted Fillmore, "that Carmyle proposed to youand you turned him down?"
Sally flushed.
"I don't think it's particularly nice to talk about that sort of thing,but--yes."
A feeling of desolation overcame Fillmore. That conviction, whichsaddens us at all times, of the wilful bone-headedness of our fellowsswept coldly upon him. Everything had been so perfect, the wholearrangement so ideal, that it had never occurred to him as a possibilitythat Sally might take it into her head to spoil it by declining to playthe part allotted to her. The match was so obviously the best thing thatcould happen. It was not merely the suitor's impressive wealth that madehim hold this opinion, though it would be idle to deny that the prospectof having a brother-in-lawful claim on the Carmyle bank-balance had casta rosy glamour over the future as he had envisaged it. He honestlyliked and respected the man. He appreciated his quiet and aristocraticreserve. A well-bred fellow, sensible withal, just the sort of husbanda girl like Sally needed. And now she had ruined everything. With thecapricious perversity which so characterizes her otherwise delightfulsex, she had spilled the beans.
"But why?"
"Oh, Fill!" Sally had expected that realization of the facts wouldproduce these symptoms in him, but now that they had presentedthemselves she was finding them rasping to the nerves. "I should havethought the reason was obvious."
"You mean you don't like him?"
"I don't know whether I do or not. I certainly don't like him enough tomarry him."
"He's a darned good fellow."
"Is he? You say so. I don't know."
The imperious desire for bodily sustenance began to compete successfullyfor Fillmore's notice with his spiritual anguish.
"Let's go to the hotel and talk it over. We'll go to the hotel and I'llgive you something to eat."
"I don't want anything to eat, thanks."
"You don't want anything to eat?" said Fillmore incredulously. Hesupposed in a vague sort of way that there were eccentric people ofthis sort, but it was hard to realize that he had met one of them. "I'mstarving."
"Well, run along then."
"Yes, but I want to talk..."
He was not the only person who wanted to talk. At the moment a smallman of sporting exterior hurried up. He wore what his tailor'sadvertisements would have called a "nobbly" suit of checked tweedand--in defiance of popular prejudice--a brown bowler hat. Mr. LesterBurrowes, having dealt with the business which had interrupted theirconversation a few minutes before, was anxious to resume his remarkson the subject of the supreme excellence in every respect of his youngcharge.
"Say, Mr. Nicholas, you ain't going'? Bugs is just getting ready tospar."
He glanced inquiringly at Sally.
"My sister--Mr. Burrowes," said Fillmore faintly. "Mr. Burrowes is BugsButler's manager."
"How do you do?" said Sally.
"Pleased to meecher," said Mr. Burrowes. "Say..."
"I was just going to the hotel to get something to eat," said Fillmore.
Mr. Burrowes clutched at his coat-button with a swoop, and held him witha glittering eye.
"Yes, but, say, before-you-go-lemme-tell-ya-somef'n. You've never seenthis boy of mine, not when he was feeling right. Believe me, he's there!He's a wizard. He's a Hindoo! Say, he's been practising up a left shiftthat..."
Fillmore's eye met Sally's wanly, and she pitied him. Presently shewould require him to explain to her how he had dared to dismiss Gingerfrom his employment--and make that explanation a good one: but in themeantime she remembered that he was her brother and was suffering.
"He's the cleverest lightweight," proceeded Mr. Burrowes fervently,"since Joe Gans. I'm telling you and I know! He..."
"Can he make a hundred and thirty-five ringside without being weak?"asked Sally.
The effect of this simple question on Mr. Burrowes was stupendous. Hedropped away from Fillmore's coat-button like an exhausted bivalve,and his small mouth opened feebly. It was as if a child had suddenlypropounded to an eminent mathematician some abstruse problem
in thehigher algebra. Females who took an interest in boxing had come intoMr. Burrowes' life before---in his younger days, when he was a famousfeatherweight, the first of his three wives had been accustomed to sitat the ringside during his contests and urge him in language of theseverest technicality to knock opponents' blocks off--but somehow he hadnot supposed from her appearance and manner that Sally was one of theelect. He gaped at her, and the relieved Fillmore sidled off like a birdhopping from the compelling gaze of a snake. He was not quite sure thathe was acting correctly in allowing his sister to roam at large amongthe somewhat Bohemian surroundings of a training-camp, but the instinctof self-preservation turned the scale. He had breakfasted early, and ifhe did not eat right speedily it seemed to him that dissolution wouldset in.
"Whazzat?" said Mr. Burrowes feebly.
"It took him fifteen rounds to get a referee's decision over CycloneMullins," said Sally severely, "and K-leg Binns..."
Mr. Burrowes rallies.
"You ain't got it right" he protested. "Say, you mustn't believe whatyou see in the papers. The referee was dead against us, and Cyclone wasdown once for all of half a minute and they wouldn't count him out. Gee!You got to kill a guy in some towns before they'll give you a decision.At that, they couldn't do nothing so raw as make it anything but a winfor my boy, after him leading by a mile all the way. Have you ever seenBugs, ma'am?"
Sally had to admit that she had not had that privilege. Mr. Burroweswith growing excitement felt in his breast-pocket and produced apicture-postcard, which he thrust into her hand.
"That's Bugs," he said. "Take a slant at that and then tell me if hedon't look the goods."
The photograph represented a young man in the irreducible minimum ofclothing who crouched painfully, as though stricken with one of theacuter forms of gastritis.
"I'll call him over and have him sign it for you," said Mr. Burrowes,before Sally had had time to grasp the fact that this work of art was agift and no mere loan. "Here, Bugs--wantcher."
A youth enveloped in a bath-robe, who had been talking to a group ofadmirers near the ring, turned, started languidly towards them, then,seeing Sally, quickened his pace. He was an admirer of the sex.
Mr. Burrowes did the honours.
"Bugs, this is Miss Nicholas, come to see you work out. I have beentelling her she's going to have a treat." And to Sally. "Shake handswith Bugs Butler, ma'am, the coming lightweight champion of the world."
Mr. Butler's photograph, Sally considered, had flattered him. He was, inthe flesh, a singularly repellent young man. There was a mean and cruelcurve to his lips and a cold arrogance in his eye; a something dangerousand sinister in the atmosphere he radiated. Moreover, she did not likethe way he smirked at her.
However, she exerted herself to be amiable.
"I hope you are going to win, Mr. Butler," she said.
The smile which she forced as she spoke the words removed the comingchampion's doubts, though they had never been serious. He was convincednow that he had made a hit. He always did, he reflected, with the girls.It was something about him. His chest swelled complacently beneath thebath-robe.
"You betcher," he asserted briefly.
Mr. Burrows looked at his watch.
"Time you were starting, Bugs."
The coming champion removed his gaze from Sally's face, into which hehad been peering in a conquering manner, and cast a disparaging glanceat the audience. It was far from being as large as he could havewished, and at least a third of it was composed of non-payers from thenewspapers.
"All right," he said, bored.
His languor left him, as his gaze fell on Sally again, and his spiritsrevived somewhat. After all, small though the numbers of spectatorsmight be, bright eyes would watch and admire him.
"I'll go a couple of rounds with Reddy for a starter," he said. "Seenhim anywheres? He's never around when he's wanted."
"I'll fetch him," said Mr. Burrowes. "He's back there somewheres."
"I'm going to show that guy up this afternoon," said Mr. Butler coldly."He's been getting too fresh."
The manager bustled off, and Bugs Butler, with a final smirk, left Sallyand dived under the ropes. There was a stir of interest in the audience,though the newspaper men, blase through familiarity, exhibited noemotion. Presently Mr. Burrowes reappeared, shepherding a young manwhose face was hidden by the sweater which he was pulling over his head.He was a sturdily built young man. The sweater, moving from his body,revealed a good pair of shoulders.
A last tug, and the sweater was off. Red hair flashed into view, tousledand disordered: and, as she saw it, Sally uttered an involuntary gaspof astonishment which caused many eyes to turn towards her. And thered-headed young man, who had been stooping to pick up his gloves,straightened himself with a jerk and stood staring at her blankly andincredulously, his face slowly crimsoning.
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