CHAPTER XVIII
THE HIGHFIELD
John looked after him, open-mouthed. The events of the evening hadbeen a revelation to him. He had not realized the ramifications of NewYork's underworld. That members of the gangs should appear in gorgeousraiment in the Astor roof-garden was a surprise. "And now," said Smith,"that our friend has so sportingly returned your watch, take a look atit 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 fightingthere to-night sent me tickets a few days ago. In your perusal of_Peaceful Moments_ you may have chanced to see mention of one KidBrady. He is the man. I was intending to go in any case, but an ideahas just struck me that we might combine pleasure with business. Has itoccurred to you that these black-jack specialists may drop in on us atthe office? And, if so, that Comrade Maloney's statement that we arenot in may be insufficient to keep them out? Comrade Brady would be aninvaluable assistant. And as we are his pugilistic sponsors, withoutwhom he would not have got this fight at all, I think we may say thathe will do any little thing we may ask of him."
It was certainly true that, from the moment the paper had taken up hiscause, Kid Brady's star had been in the ascendant. The sporting pagesof the big dailies had begun to notice him, until finally themanagement of the Highfield Club had signed him on for a ten-round boutwith a certain Cyclone Dick Fisher.
"He should," continued Smith, "if equipped in any degree with the finerfeelings, be bubbling over with gratitude toward us. At any rate, it isworth investigating."
* * * * *
Far away from the comfortable glare of Broadway, in a place ofdisheveled houses and insufficient street-lamps, there stands the oldwarehouse which modern enterprise has converted into the HighfieldAthletic and Gymnastic Club. The imagination, stimulated by the title,conjures up picture-covered walls, padded chairs, and seas of whiteshirt front. The Highfield differs in some respects from this fancypicture. Indeed, it would be hard to find a respect in which it doesnot differ. 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 export, and ifyou attended seances at Swifty Bob's you left your gold watch and yourlittle savings at home. But a wave of anti-pugilistic feeling sweptover the New York authorities. Promoters of boxing contests foundthemselves, to their acute disgust, raided by the police. The industrybegan to languish. Persons avoided places where at any moment thefestivities 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 standsalone as an example of American dry humor. At once there were no boxingcontests in New York; Swifty Bob and his fellows would have beenshocked at the idea of such a thing. All that happened now wasexhibition sparring bouts between members of the club. It is true thatnext day the papers very tactlessly reported the friendly exhibitionspar as if it had been quite a serious affair, but that was not thefault 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'sentertainment.
* * * * *
A long journey on the subway took them to the neighborhood, and afterconsiderable wandering they arrived at their destination.
Smith's tickets were for a ring-side box, a species of sheep pen ofunpolished wood, with four hard chairs in it. The interior of theHighfield Athletic and Gymnastic Club was severely free from anythingin the shape of luxury and ornament. Along the four walls were raisedbenches in tiers. On these were seated as tough-looking a collection ofcitizens as one might wish to see. On chairs at the ringside were thereporters 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 gentlemanin shirt-sleeves entered the ring, followed by two slim youths infighting costume and a massive person in a red jersey, blue sergetrousers, and yellow braces, who chewed gum with an abstracted airthroughout the proceedings.
The burly gentleman gave tongue in a voice that cleft the air like acannon ball.
"Ex-hibit-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 apply thedescription to themselves. Possibly they considered the appeal a mereformula. Somewhere in the background a gong sounded, and Patsy, fromthe right, stepped briskly forward to meet Tommy, approaching from theleft.
The contest was short but energetic. At intervals the combatants wouldcling affectionately to one another, and on these occasions thered-jerseyed man, still chewing gum and still wearing the same air ofbeing lost in abstract thought, would split up the mass by the simplemethod of ploughing his way between the pair. Toward the end of thefirst round Thomas, eluding a left swing, put Patrick neatly to thefloor, where the latter remained for the necessary ten seconds.
The remaining preliminaries proved disappointing. So much so that inthe last of the series a soured sportsman on one of the benches nearthe roof began in satirical mood to whistle the "Merry Widow Waltz." Itwas here that the red-jerseyed thinker for the first and last time cameout 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 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 not commenceat once. There were formalities to be gone through, introductions andthe like. The burly gentleman reappeared from nowhere, ushering intothe ring a sheepishly grinning youth in a flannel suit.
"In-ter-_doo_-cin' Young Leary," he bellowed impressively, "a noomember 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. Araucous welcome was accorded to the new member.
Two other notable performers were introduced in a similar manner, andthen the building became suddenly full of noise, for a tall youth in abath robe, attended by a little army of assistants, had entered thering. One of the army carried a bright green bucket, on which werepainted in white letters the words "Cyclone Dick Fisher." A momentlater there was another, though a far less, uproar, as Kid Brady, hispleasant face wearing a self-conscious smirk, ducked under the ropesand 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 areputation from New York to San Francisco. He was generally consideredthe most likely man to give the hitherto invincible Jimmy Garvin a hardbattle 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. Afew of those present had heard of his victories in the West, but thesewere but a small section of the crowd. When the faint applause hadceased, Smith rose to his feet.
"Oh, you Kid!" he observed encouragingly. "I should not like ComradeBrady," he said, reseating himself, "to think that he has no friend buthis poor old mother, as occurred on a previous occasion."
The burly gentleman, followed by the two armies of assistants, droppeddown 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 nevertoo soon to begin behaving like one. He danced round the Kid with anindia-rubber agility. The _Peaceful Moments_ representativeexhibited more stolidity.
Except for the fact that he was in fightingattitude, with one gloved hand moving slowly in the neighborhood of hisstocky chest, and the other pawing the air on a line with his squarejaw, one would have said that he did not realize the position ofaffairs. He wore the friendly smile of the good-natured guest who isled 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 beenstrolling forward, received it under the chin, and continued to strollforward as if nothing of note had happened. He gave the impression ofbeing aware that Mr. Fisher had committed a breach of good taste and ofbeing 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 did noteven quiver, but he continued to move forward. His opponent's leftflashed out again, but this time, instead of ignoring the matter, theKid replied with a heavy right swing, and Mr. Fisher leaping back,found himself against the ropes. By the time he had got out of thatuncongenial position, two more of the Kid's swings had found theirmark. Mr. Fisher, somewhat perturbed, scuttled out into the middle ofthe ring, the Kid following in his self-contained, stolid way.
The Cyclone now became still more cyclonic. He had a left arm whichseemed to open out in joints like a telescope. Several times when theKid appeared well out of distance there was a thud as a brown gloveripped in over his guard and jerked his head back. But always he keptboring in, delivering an occasional right to the body with the pleasedsmile of an infant destroying a Noah's ark with a tack-hammer. Despitethese efforts, however, he was plainly getting all the worst of it.Energetic Mr. Fisher, relying on his long left, was putting in threeblows to his one. When the gong sounded, ending the first round, thehouse was practically solid for the Cyclone. Whoops and yells rose fromeverywhere. 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 doingComrade Brady no good. I should not be surprised at any moment to seehis head bounce off on to the floor."
Rounds two and three were a repetition of round one. The Cyclone ragedalmost unchecked about the ring. In one lightning rally in the third hebrought his right across squarely on to the Kid's jaw. It was a blowwhich should have knocked any boxer out. The Kid merely staggeredslightly, and returned to business still smiling.
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 _PeacefulMoments_ champion now took the hits in his stride, and cameshuffling 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 notein them this time. The gallant sportsmen whose connection with boxingwas confined to watching other men fight and betting on what theyconsidered a certainty, and who would have expired promptly if anyonehad tapped them sharply on their well-filled vests, were beginning tofear that they might lose their money after 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 like alamb. A slight decrease in the pleasantness of the Kid's smile wasnoticeable. His expression began to resemble more nearly the gloomyimportance of the _Peaceful 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. For the Kid, battered,but obviously content, was standing in the middle of the ring, while onthe ropes the Cyclone, drooping like a wet sock, was sliding slowly tothe floor.
"_Peaceful Moments_ wins," said Smith. "An omen, I fancy, ComradeJohn."
Penetrating into the Kid's dressing-room some moments later, theeditorial staff found the winner of the ten-round exhibition boutbetween members of the club seated on a chair having his right legrubbed by a shock-headed man in a sweater, who had been one of hisseconds during the conflict. The Kid beamed as they entered.
"Gents," he said, "come right in. Mighty glad to see you."
"It is a relief to me, Comrade Brady," said Smith, "to find that youcan see us. I had expected to find that Comrade Fisher's purposefulwallops had completely closed your star-likes."
"Sure, I never felt them. He's a good, quick boy, is Dick, but,"continued the Kid with powerful imagery "he couldn't hit a hole in ablock of ice-cream, not if he was to use a coke-hammer."
"And yet at one period in the proceedings," said Smith, "I fancied thatyour head would come unglued at the neck. But the fear was merelytransient. When you began to get going, why, then I felt like somewatcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken, or likestout Cortez when with eagle eyes he stared at the Pacific."
The Kid blinked.
"How's that?" he enquired.
"And why did I feel like that, Comrade Brady? I will tell you. Becausemy faith in you was justified. Because there before me stood the idealfighting editor of _Peaceful Moments_. It is not a post that anyweakling can fill. Mere charm of manner cannot qualify a man for theposition. No one can hold down the job simply by having a kind heart orbeing good at comic songs. No. We want a man of thews and sinews, a manwho would rather be hit on the head with a half-brick than not. Andyou, Comrade Brady, are such a man."
The shock-headed man, who during this conversation had beenconcentrating himself on his subject's left leg now announced that heguessed that would about do, and having advised the Kid not to stop andpick daisies, but to get into his clothes at once before he caught achill, bade the company goodnight and retired.
Smith shut the door.
"Comrade Brady," he said, "you know those articles about the tenementswe've been having in the paper?"
"Sure. I read 'em. They're to the good. It was about time some strongjosher came and put it across 'em."
"So we thought. Comrade Parker, however, totally disagreed with us."
"Parker?"
"That's what I'm coming to," said Smith. "The day before yesterday aman named Parker called at the office and tried to buy us off."
"You gave him the hook, I guess?" queried the interested Kid.
"To such an extent, Comrade Brady," said Smith, "that he left breathingthreatenings and slaughter. And it is for that reason that we haveventured to call upon you. We're pretty sure by this time that ComradeParker has put one of the gangs on to us."
"You don't say!" exclaimed the Kid. "Gee! They're tough propositions,those gangs."
"So we've come along to you. We can look after ourselves out of theoffice, but what we want is someone to help in case they try to rush usthere. In brief, a fighting editor. At all costs we must have privacy.No writer can prune and polish his sentences to his satisfaction if heis compelled constantly to break off in order to eject boisteroustoughs. We therefore offer you the job of sitting in the outer room andintercepting these bravoes before they can reach us. The salary weleave to you. There are doubloons and to spare in the old oak chest.Take what you need and put the rest--if any--back. How does the offerstrike you, Comrade Brady?"
"Gents," said the Kid, "it's this way."
He slipped into his coat, and resumed.
"Now that I've made good by licking Dick, they'll be giving me a chanceof a big fight. Maybe with Jimmy Garvin. Well, if that happens, seewhat I mean? I'll have to be going away somewhere and getting intotraining. I shouldn't be able to come and sit with you. But, if yougents feel like it, I'd be mighty glad to come in till I'm wanted to gointo training camp."
"Great," said Smith. "And touching salary--"
"Shucks!" said the Kid with emphasis. "Nix on the salary thing. Iwouldn't take a dime. If it hadn't 'a' been for you, I'd have beenwaiting still for a chance of lining up in the championship class.That's good enough for me. Any old thing you want me to do, I'll do it,and glad to."
"Comrade Brady,
" said Smith warmly, "you are, if I may say so, thegoods. You are, beyond a doubt, supremely the stuff. We three, then,hand-in-hand, will face the foe, and if the foe has good, sound sense,he will keep right away. You appear to be ready. Shall we meanderforth?"
The building was empty and the lights were out when they emerged fromthe dressing-room. They had to grope their way in darkness. It wasraining when they reached the street, and the only signs of life were amoist policeman and the distant glare of saloon lights down the road.
They turned off to the left, and, after walking some hundred yards,found themselves in a blind alley.
"Hello!" said John. "Where have we come to?"
Smith sighed.
"In my trusting way," he said, "I had imagined that either you orComrade Brady was in charge of this expedition and taking me by a knownroute to the nearest subway station. I did not think to ask. I placedmyself, without hesitation, wholly in your hands."
"I thought the Kid knew the way," said John.
"I was just taggin' along with you gents," protested the light-weight."I thought you was taking me right. This is the first time I been uphere."
"Next time we three go on a little jaunt anywhere," said Smithresignedly, "it would be as well to take a map and a corps of guideswith us. Otherwise we shall start for Broadway and finish up atMinneapolis."
They emerged from the blind alley and stood in the dark street, lookingdoubtfully up and down it.
"Aha!" said Smith suddenly. "I perceive a native. Several natives, infact. Quite a little covey of them. We will put our case before them,concealing nothing, and rely on their advice to take us to our goal."
A little knot of men was approaching from the left. In the darkness itwas impossible to say how many of them were there. Smith steppedforward, the Kid at his side.
"Excuse me, sir," he said to the leader, "but if you can spare me amoment of your valuable time--"
There was a sudden shuffle of feet on the pavement, a quick movement onthe part of the Kid, a chunky sound as of wood striking wood, and theman Smith had been addressing fell to the ground in a heap.
As he fell, something dropped from his hand on to the pavement with abump and a rattle. Stooping swiftly, the Kid picked it up, and handedit to Smith. His fingers closed upon it. It was a short, wicked-lookinglittle bludgeon, the black-jack of the New York tough.
"Get busy," advised the Kid briefly.