CHAPTER XIV
THE HIGHFIELD
Far up at the other end of the island, on the banks of the HarlemRiver, there stands the old warehouse which modern progress hasconverted into the Highfield Athletic and Gymnastic Club. Theimagination, stimulated by the title, conjures up a sort ofNational Sporting Club, with pictures on the walls, padding on thechairs, and a sea of white shirt-fronts from roof to floor. But theHighfield differs in some respects from this fancy picture.Indeed, it would be hard to find a respect in which it does notdiffer. But these names are so misleading. The title under whichthe Highfield used to be known till a few years back was "SwiftyBob's." It was a good, honest title. You knew what to expect; andif you attended _seances_ at Swifty Bob's you left your gold watchand your little savings at home. But a wave of anti-pugilisticfeeling swept over the New York authorities. Promoters of boxingcontests found themselves, to their acute disgust, raided by thepolice. The industry began to languish. People avoided places whereat any moment the festivities might be marred by an inrush of largemen in blue uniforms armed with locust-sticks.
And then some big-brained person suggested the club idea, whichstands alone as an example of American dry humour. There are now noboxing contests in New York. Swifty Bob and his fellows would beshocked at the idea of such a thing. All that happens now isexhibition sparring bouts between members of the club. It is truethat next day the papers very tactlessly report the friendlyexhibition spar as if it had been quite a serious affair, but thatis not the fault of Swifty Bob.
Kid Brady, the chosen of _Cosy Moments_, was billed for a "ten-roundexhibition contest," to be the main event of the evening'sentertainment. No decisions are permitted at these clubs. Unless aregrettable accident occurs, and one of the sparrers is knockedout, the verdict is left to the newspapers next day. It is notuncommon to find a man win easily in the _World_, draw in the_American_, and be badly beaten in the _Evening Mail_. The systemleads to a certain amount of confusion, but it has the merit ofoffering consolation to a much-smitten warrior.
The best method of getting to the Highfield is by the Subway. Tosee the Subway in its most characteristic mood one must travel onit during the rush-hour, when its patrons are packed into thecarriages in one solid jam by muscular guards and policemen,shoving in a manner reminiscent of a Rugby football scrum. WhenPsmith and Billy entered it on the Friday evening, it wascomparatively empty. All the seats were occupied, but only a few ofthe straps and hardly any of the space reserved by law for theconductor alone.
Conversation on the Subway is impossible. The ingenious gentlemenwho constructed it started with the object of making it noisy. Notordinarily noisy, like a ton of coal falling on to a sheet of tin,but really noisy. So they fashioned the pillars of thin steel, andthe sleepers of thin wood, and loosened all the nuts, and now aSubway train in motion suggests a prolonged dynamite explosionblended with the voice of some great cataract.
Psmith, forced into temporary silence by this combination ofnoises, started to make up for lost time on arriving in the streetonce more.
"A thoroughly unpleasant neighbourhood," he said, criticallysurveying the dark streets. "I fear me, Comrade Windsor, that wehave been somewhat rash in venturing as far into the middle west asthis. If ever there was a blighted locality where low-broweddesperadoes might be expected to spring with whoops of joy fromevery corner, this blighted locality is that blighted locality.But we must carry on. In which direction, should you say, does thisarena lie?"
It had begun to rain as they left Billy's lodgings. Psmith turnedup the collar of his Burberry.
"We suffer much in the cause of Literature," he said. "Let usinquire of this genial soul if he knows where the Highfield is."
The pedestrian referred to proved to be going there himself. Theywent on together, Psmith courteously offering views on the weatherand forecasts of the success of Kid Brady in the approachingcontest.
Rattling on, he was alluding to the prominent part _Cosy Moments_ hadplayed in the affair, when a rough thrust from Windsor's elbowbrought home to him his indiscretion.
He stopped suddenly, wishing he had not said as much. Theirconnection with that militant journal was not a thing even to besuggested to casual acquaintances, especially in such aparticularly ill-lighted neighbourhood as that through which theywere now passing.
Their companion, however, who seemed to be a man of small speech,made no comment. Psmith deftly turned the conversation back to thesubject of the weather, and was deep in a comparison of therespective climates of England and the United States, when theyturned a corner and found themselves opposite a gloomy, barn-likebuilding, over the door of which it was just possible to decipherin the darkness the words "Highfield Athletic and Gymnastic Club."
The tickets which Billy Windsor had obtained from his newspaperfriend were for one of the boxes. These proved to be sort ofsheep-pens of unpolished wood, each with four hard chairs in it.The interior of the Highfield Athletic and Gymnastic Club wasseverely free from anything in the shape of luxury and ornament.Along the four walls were raised benches in tiers. On these wereseated as tough-looking a collection of citizens as one might wishto see. On chairs at the ring-side were the reporters, with tickersat their sides, by means of which they tapped details of each roundthrough to their down-town offices, where write-up reporters werewaiting to read off and elaborate the messages. In the centre ofthe room, brilliantly lighted by half a dozen electric chandeliers,was the ring.
There were preliminary bouts before the main event. A burlygentleman in shirt-sleeves entered the ring, followed by two slimyouths in fighting costume and a massive person in a red jersey,blue serge trousers, and yellow braces, who chewed gum with anabstracted air throughout the proceedings.
The burly gentleman gave tongue in a voice that cleft the air likea cannon-ball.
"Ex-hib-it-i-on four-round bout between Patsy Milligan and TommyGoodley, 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 applythe description to themselves. Possibly they considered the appeala mere formula. Somewhere in the background a gong sounded, andPatsy, from the right, stepped briskly forward to meet Tommy,approaching from the left.
The contest was short but energetic. At intervals the combatantswould cling affectionately to one another, and on these occasionsthe red-jerseyed man, still chewing gum and still wearing the sameair of being lost in abstract thought, would split up the mass bythe simple method of ploughing his way between the pair. Towardsthe end of the first round Thomas, eluding a left swing, putPatrick neatly to the floor, where the latter remained for thenecessary ten seconds.
The remaining preliminaries proved disappointing. So much so thatin the last of the series a soured sportsman on one of the benchesnear the roof began in satirical mood to whistle the "Merry WidowWaltz." It was here that the red-jerseyed thinker for the first andlast time came out of his meditative trance. He leaned over theropes, and spoke--without heat, but firmly.
"If that guy whistling back up yonder thinks he can do better thanthese boys, he can come right down into the ring."
The whistling ceased.
There was a distinct air of relief when the last preliminary wasfinished and preparations for the main bout began. It did notcommence at once. There were formalities to be gone through,introductions and the like. The burly gentleman reappeared fromnowhere, ushering into the ring a sheepishly-grinning youth in aflannel suit.
"In-ter-_doo_-cin' Young Leary," he bellowed impressively, "a noomember of this chub, who will box some good boy here in September."
He walked to the other side of the ring and repeated the remark. Araucous 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 tallyouth in a bath-robe, attended by a little army of assistants, hadentered the ring. One of the army carried a bright green bucket, onwhich wer
e painted in white letters the words "Cyclone Al.Wolmann." A moment later there was another, though a far lesser,uproar, as Kid Brady, his pleasant face wearing a self-conscioussmirk, 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. Al. Wolmann--"
Loud applause. Mr. Wolmann was one of the famous, a fighter with areputation from New York to San Francisco. He was generallyconsidered the most likely man to give the hitherto invincibleJimmy Garvin a hard battle for the light-weight championship.
"Oh, you Al.!" roared the crowd.
Mr. Wolmann bowed benevolently.
"--and Kid Brady, members 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, butthese were but a small section of the crowd. When the faintapplause had ceased, Psmith rose to his feet.
"Oh, you Kid!" he observed encouragingly.
"I should not like Comrade Brady," he said, reseating himself, "tothink that he has no friend but his poor old mother, as, you willrecollect, 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. Wolmann sprang from his corner as if somebody had touched aspring. He seemed to be of the opinion that if you are a cyclone, itis never too soon to begin behaving like one. He danced round theKid with an india-rubber agility. The _Cosy Moments_ representativeexhibited more stolidity. Except for the fact that he was infighting attitude, with one gloved hand moving slowly in theneighbourhood of his stocky chest, and the other pawing the air on aline with his square jaw, one would have said that he did notrealise the position of affairs. He wore the friendly smile of thegood-natured guest who is led forward by his hostess to join in someround game.
Suddenly his opponent's long left shot out. The Kid, who had beenstrolling forward, received it under the chin, and continued tostroll forward as if nothing of note had happened. He gave theimpression of being aware that Mr. Wolmann had committed a breachof good taste and of being resolved to pass it off with ready tact.
The Cyclone, having executed a backward leap, a forward leap, and afeint, landed heavily with both hands. The Kid's genial smile didnot even quiver, but he continued to move forward. His opponent'sleft flashed out again, but this time, instead of ignoring thematter, the Kid replied with a heavy right swing; and Mr. Wolmann,leaping back, found himself against the ropes. By the time he hadgot out of that uncongenial position, two more of the Kid's swingshad found their mark. Mr. Wolmann, somewhat perturbed, scutteredout into the middle of the ring, the Kid following in hisself-contained, solid way.
The Cyclone now became still more cyclonic. He had a left armwhich seemed to open out in joints like a telescope. Several timeswhen the Kid appeared well out of distance there was a thud as abrown glove ripped in over his guard and jerked his head back. Butalways he kept boring in, delivering an occasional right to thebody with the pleased smile of an infant destroying a Noah's Arkwith a tack-hammer. Despite these efforts, however, he was plainlygetting all the worst of it. Energetic Mr. Wolmann, relying on hislong left, was putting in three blows to his one. When the gongsounded, ending the first round, the house was practically solidfor the Cyclone. Whoops and yells rose from everywhere. Thebuilding rang with shouts of, "Oh, you Al.!"
Psmith turned sadly to Billy.
"It seems to me, Comrade Windsor," he said, "that this merrymeeting looks like doing Comrade Brady no good. I should not besurprised at any moment to see his head bounce off on to thefloor."
"Wait," said Billy. "He'll win yet."
"You think so?"
"Sure. He comes from Wyoming," said Billy with simple confidence.
Rounds two and three were a repetition of round one. The Cycloneraged almost unchecked about the ring. In one lightning rally inthe 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 Kidmerely staggered slightly and returned to business, still smiling.
"See!" roared Billy enthusiastically in Psmith's ear, above theuproar. "He doesn't mind it! He likes it! He comes from Wyoming!"
With the opening of round four there came a subtle change. TheCyclone's fury was expending itself. That long left shot out lesssharply. Instead of being knocked back by it, the _Cosy Moments_champion now took the hits in his stride, and came shuffling inwith his damaging body-blows. There were cheers and "Oh, youAl.'s!" at the sound of the gong, but there was an appealing notein them this time. The gallant sportsmen whose connection withboxing was confined to watching other men fight, and betting onwhat they considered a certainty, and who would have expiredpromptly if any one had tapped them sharply on their well-filledwaistcoats, were beginning to fear that they might lose their moneyafter all.
In the fifth round the thing became a certainty. Like the month ofMarch, the Cyclone, who had come in like a lion, was going out likea lamb. A slight decrease in the pleasantness of the Kid's smilewas noticeable. His expression began to resemble more nearly thegloomy importance of the _Cosy Moments_ photographs. Yells of agonyfrom panic-stricken speculators around the ring began to smite therafters. The Cyclone, now but a gentle breeze, clutched repeatedly,hanging on like a leech till removed by the red-jerseyed referee.
Suddenly a grisly silence fell upon the house. It was broken by acow-boy yell from Billy Windsor. For the Kid, battered, butobviously content, was standing in the middle of the ring, while onthe ropes the Cyclone, drooping like a wet sock, was sliding slowlyto the floor.
"_Cosy Moments_ wins," said Psmith. "An omen, I fancy, ComradeWindsor."