Fighting Back/Round 11
Mr. Colley Cibber, a wise-crackin' English actor which tore off his last nifty about a hundred and sixty years ago, was once overheard to make the followin' bald statement:
"Oh, how many torments lie in the small circle of a wedding ring!"
"Well, boys and girls, I never had the pleasure of seein' Colley act, as in 1764 a.d. I was far too young to be allowed in a theatre, but the above remark convinces me that Hon. Cibber knew what it was all about! Bein' a manager of box fighters, rings is my speciality and I'm satisfied there's twice and a half as many battles fought in the ever popular weddin' ring as there is in the prize ring in a given year. Ask the man who owns one! Don't get the idea that I'm against the matrimonial racket, because that would be doin' me a injustice and I hate to be done a injustice, don't you? In the contrary, I'm a full-blooded groom myself and even if me and my cute little sparrin' partner does disturb the neighbors now and then, I'm one of wedlock's most inveterate fans and I don't hesitate to predict a great success for it!
However, there's no gettin' away from the fact that the muffled "I do!" drags difficulties into a man's life which he never had before. The course of true love is no Lincoln Highway and if you think it is you're crazy! You can't expect little wifie to "Yes" you forever and a day—I wouldn't give two counterfeit marks for one which did. But there comes a time in every bride's life when she should stand by her hubby, no matter whether the dizzy old ball and chain is right or not! She should put her own feelin's in her beaded bag for the moment and throw in with the boy for better or worse, as per her contract. Most of 'em do—wives is a great race of people—but some of 'em don't and it's one of these I'm goin' to tell you about, as it's too late to go anywheres now.
A few months after we come back to Gotham from that exhibition-bout tour of the country, I signed Kid Roberts to defend his crown against Guardsman Blue, the European title-holder. This English heavy was somethin' entirely different from the average champ which comes over here from the old country to display his wares. The jolly old Guardsman had one trick alone which made him a first-class curiosity amongst the foreign title-holders—he had conquered the dread habit of kissin' the canvas, with which the bulk of them babies is afflicted. In his first start over here, Monsieur Blue dumfounded the skeptical sport writers by stoppin' Bob Young, the ex-champion, in six rounds. Two months later he rocked Battlin' Miller to sleep in four hectic frames, and, Miller, which had been picked as the next logical opponent for Kid Roberts, was nobody's fool!
In both these pettin' parties, the Guardsman showed enough stuff to make the experts sit erect and pay flatterin' attention. Two of the said experts was me and Kid Roberts, which viewed the Briton's melee with Battlin' Miller. In that brawl, Guardsman Blue showed everything! He was a sweet puncher, a pretty boxer and as tough as a epidemic of smallpox. The clout which put a end to Battlin' Miller's championship hopes was a murderous right uppercut to the chin which crashed through the unfortunate Battler's guard and etherized him for a good ten minutes! Both me and the Kid was very thankful when we filed out of the abattoir that excitin' night. We knew positively that we had the scrap of our lives starin' us in the pan and that Kid Roberts would have to be right when he climbed through the ropes to defend his title against Guardsman Blue! The Kid begin trainin' like he never had before in his career, we accumulated the best sparrin' partners, handlers, trainers and advisers which money could buy and with many of the boxin' sharps givin' Blue better than a even chance with the champion, public interest in the comin' International glove contest was at the well known fever heat.
A couple of weeks after Kid Roberts started in on the old conditionin' grind, I got a rather peculiar message at the camp which was pitched only a stone's throw—for David—from New York City. The mornin' mail brung me the followin', marked "Personal!" and wrote on heavy, monogrammed paper, which smelled like the inside of a overstocked florist's:
My Dear Joe:
It is of the utmost importance that I see you at once and confidentially on a matter of mutual interest. I will be at home tomorrow at three and will expect you. Please don't fail me!
Well, here was somethin' which couldn't be laughed off, much as I would of loved to of done so. I knew what that young lady wanted to see me about, as well as if she'd of come right out with it in her note!
Election Day happened to fall on the same date as the Kid Roberts-Guardsman Blue entertainment and Dolores was satisfied that this odd coincidence would bring her nothin' but grief at the polls. She was bankin' heavy on the votes of her high society friends to return her a winner and she figured that the notoriety of the Kid's pugilistic endeavors would annoy them babies and cause 'em to leave the day's ballotin' in the hands of the workin' man, where it belongs. Dolores had long ago counted the votes of the rough and raucous precincts as somethin' she'd never get, thinkin' that them jazzbos was greatly against the speaker sex in politics. That was a good thought, they was, until—but I'll get around to that later, as the guy on the carousel says.
Personally, Kid Roberts hoped and prayed that his kind of balky helpmeet wouldn't click at the polls and thus dispense with her political ambitions which had widened the gap between 'em. It was the Kid's firm intention to throw away his boxin' gloves and call it a day after the Guardsman Blue muss and one other we had scheduled should he manage to slap down the hard-hittin' Englishman. These two bouts figured to net Kid Roberts more than half a million and with five hundred grand in his kick he'd certainly be sittin' pretty to start life anew with Dolores.
Well, anyways, I dashed into Manhattan the day after I got that note from Dolores and taxied to her glitterin' palace on Fifth Avenue, arrivin' there promptly at three. I hadn't cracked nothin' to Kid Roberts about this conference, on the account his spouse had ordered secrecy, but I don't mind tellin' you that I didn't enjoy my position! A friend of 'em both, the best I could look for was the worst of it, like anybody else which steps into a family quarrel either by request or on their own hook. It's a hobby of mine to lay off them affairs, for a man which gets himself mixed up in somebody else's domestica! troubles is a lunatic of the first water!
As usual, Dolores looks more like a million dollars than four $250,000 bills when a frozen-faced butler buttles me in to her in the parlor. Although she's a face card in the society deck, she's never high-hatted me. She tells me I'm lookin' well. I admit the charge and accuse her of shapin' up a bit keen herself. Then she says:
"How is Kane?"
"Perfect!" I says, truthfully. "He was out studyin' fishin' when I left him and he's in the condition of his life. He'll knock off Mister Guardsman Blue in a couple of rounds! That gil's name will be Black & Blue after"
"Joe—I want you to do me a favor," interrupted Dolores, seriously.
A slight chill capered up my spine and it was a warm day!
"Eh—sure!" I says, lifelessly. "What is it?"
"I want you to postpone Kane's bout with the English champion until after Election Day!" she says, still unsmilin'.
Frigid cat! What a modest little request—like askin' for the loan of my right lung!
"Why—why, honest to Coolidge, Mrs. Halliday, I couldn't do that if I wanted to and I can't say I want to and tell the truth!" I stammers. "You might as well ask me for the bottlin' rights to Niagara Falls. You know there's nothin' I wouldn't do for the Kid or yourself, but that's out! Just what's the big idea?"
"The big idea, Joe, is that if Kane engages in a prize fight on Election Day, I will be defeated for the senate!" says Dolores. "I have worked day and night—sometimes all night—campaigned the state in all kinds of weather for months, as you know, given up everything, spent thousands of dollars and even neglected my health to win this election. You know what it means to me and so does Kane. Do you want to be responsible for my having done all that for nothing?"
I ain't a particle comfortable, that's a fact, but I can't cuddle up to the idea of a woman—especially a young good looker—mixin' in politics. Maybe I'm all wrong, but I think it's too rotten a game for 'em to cope with, what I mean!
"Eh—well, that's a kind of tough way to put it," I says, stallin' for time. "I—I'll toss my vote in for you, if that'll help any, but"
"What difference can it possibly make if the contest is held Election Day or the day after?" butts in Dolores, impatiently.
"Plenty difference!" I says, promptly, now on a subject which I could talk about freely. "This fight's had a million dollars worth of advertisin' for that date, I got a twenty-five-thousand-buck appearance forfeit posted, over fifty thousand tickets has been sold and New York is already crammed with train loads of wild-eyed out-of-town fans. Some of them eggs has come from as far as California and Cuba to see this scrap and there'd be a race riot if it was called off now—Say, you'd hear 'em squawkin' in Russia! I know you put a lot into tryin' to make the state senate, Mrs. Halliday, but think what the Kid has at stake. He's battled his way to the top again in the toughest pastime in the wide, wide world! He's had to take set-backs and discouragements which would of licked anybody else long ago, but bein' Kid Roberts—or Kane Halliday, if you like that better—why, he won through. This fight means as much to him as them votes does to you, if not more! Let me ask you your own question—do you want to be responsible for the Kid havin' done all he's done for nothin'?"
That was cold turkey for your life and Dolores' answer is silence, as she paces the floor, nervously bitin' her pretty lips. I would of gave a bootlegger's ransom to of been back in the camp and away from there. Two things I practically loathe is creamed carrots and arguments with women!
"As the matter of fact, I don't think the fight will make any difference, as far as the election's concerned," I says, fin'ly, in a soothin' voice. "In the first place"
Dolores started and looked at me like she'd been in a trance. Then she held up a lily white hand and on goes the Ritz.
"Very well, Joe," she says with a fixed smile and icicles dangled from each word, "I'm sorry to have bothered you. I suppose you are anxious to get back to your—er—headquarters, aren't you? I have nothing further to say about the matter!"
Seein' I was about as popular as scarlet fever just then, I took the air like a seagull. But she did have somethin' more to say about the matter, don't think she didn't! She sent for Kid Roberts and begged him to call the setto off till they locked up the ballot boxes. Whilst tickled silly to view his lovely, but kind of unreasonable wife again, the Kid says he can do nothin' of the kind. He gently but firmly presents her with my own arguments and a few he'd cooked up himself, with the results that in a very few minutes they are at it hot and heavy. When he fin'ly tore himself away, they was on the same kind of terms as Germany and France and Kid Roberts come back gloomy, nervous and highly unstrung. This not only burnt me up, but it worried me sick, as I'm afraid it will affect the Kid's work when he steps in the ring with Guardsman Blue.
Well, when I returned to the camp the day I seen Dolores, my ears is annoyed by the followin' ballad, sang in a voice which would be a decided asset to a train-caller:
"Oh, if the ocean was whiskey and I was a mallard, I said mallard, I mean duck. If the ocean was whiskey and I was a mallard duck. I'd dive to the bottom and I never would come up!"
That, ladies and gentlemen, for no good reason was issuin' from the boisterous throat of Mr. Ptomaine Joe, who was carded to swap wallops with a gent who made a clean breast of bein' "Rough House" Williams, colored heavyweight champion of Mt, McKinley, in the semi-windup to the Kid Roberts-Guardsman Blue affray. When I come up to him, Ptomaine's got both his ham-like hands buried to the hilt in the brine bucket, toughenin' 'em up for his comin' hippodrome. This little incident kind of startled me, as all the trainin' I ever saw Ptomaine do for a fight before was to get his neck shaved.
"Howdy!" he greets me. "Hey, listen—they's a guy over in the village which sells hooch at three bucks the quart. Lay off it! I knocked over a vial of it this mornin' and from now on I'm aboard the sprinkler. Warm puppy! Talk about bein' potent—'at stuff eat all the gold fillin's out of my fangs!"
"See if I care!" I growls. "I don't want to hear nothin' about your adventures, Tomato, but if you bring any more moon into this camp I'll run you ragged and make you love it! Where's the Kid?"
"Oh, he's acin' around somewheres," answers this scofflaw, carelessly. "He claimed he was goin' fishin', but I think he must be teachin' some of them young trouts how to swim, I ain't cast a eye on him since daybreak!"
"Get in that kitchen and ham and egg me!" I says, and added, "make that two!" as Kid Roberts breezed into sight.
But Kid Roberts had a million rainbows on the end of his string and the ham and eggs was out. Wam! Them fishes went down elegant with slices of crisp bacon on top of 'em—which only goes to show that the fish is a very useful animal, indeed.
The very next day, Jack Haines, a good boy and one of the Kid's ablest sparrin' partners, accidentally butted Kid Roberts and reopened a old cut over the eye which had caused us trouble for years. So I took him to a medico in town. Ptomaine went with us, as he'll never let Kid Roberts out of his sight.
In the doctor's office, Ptomaine met his Fate again for the three thousandth time. This panic was a big blonde—a easy to witness, strappin', Swedish nurse which passed me and Kid Roberts up and after a good gaze at Ptomaine's huge bulk, throwed that ape a long, lingerin' smile. She got immediate action—give Ptomaine a inch and you're crazy!
"Good mornin', Good-lookin'!" says Ptomaine, returnin' her smile with a grin which would of terrorized a kindergarten. "Is the quack in?"
"The doctor's busy just now," says Miss Nurse, still smilin'. Me and Kid Roberts could of been in Afghanistan, for all the attention we drawed. "Have you an appointment?" she adds.
"No," says Ptomaine, "I got a cold in the head, but the champ here wants some hem-stitchin' done on his glim. What time do you knock off for the day?"
That's speed, hey?
"Why—why I leave at five o'clock," says this large heart-breaker, blushin' coyly. It was one o'clock then.
"Good!" says Ptomaine, floppin' in a chair, "I'll wait!"
Kid Roberts breaks out a healthy laugh and the nurse looks at him curiously.
"Are you really the heavyweight champion?" she asks him.
Nobody else can talk when Ptomaine's present!
"You tell 'em!" butts in this boy scout, before the Kid can answer. "There stands the champeen of champeens—the greatest puncher since Cain! And what d'ye think keeps him in the pink of condition? What gives him the stren'th to knock 'em all for a loop?"
"Oh!" says friend nurse, lookin' fearfully disappointed. "You don't mean to say you're selling a patent medicine, do you?"
"Be yourself—I'm laughin' from you!" snorts Ptomaine. Me and the Kid is in convulsions, no foolin'! "The only thing I'm sellin' is myself. I'il tell you what put Kid Roberts over—my cookin'!"
"You're a cook?" asks the nurse, not sure whether she's bein' kidded or not.
That's like askin' Babe Ruth has he ever saw a ball game!
"Not a cook—Cook himself!" whinnies Ptomaine, loudly, "I was born in a kitchen and dragged up in Table de Hôte, France. When I was a young infant I played with fryin' pans instead of rattles! I never seen no milk when I was a baby, they raised me on batter and grease. I studied at restaurants instead of at school and I fin'ly graduated with the rare degree of G. C. O. E.—Greatest Chef on Earth! I'm good and I know it. Believe me, Sweetness, I broil a cruel steak!"
Nursie wipes her Alice-blue eyes.
"I'll have to try one of your steaks sometime," she says.
"Do that!" says Ptomaine, lookin' at her like a castaway would look at the Leviathan. "I'm a son-of-a-gun on wheels with a skillet!"
Then we went in to the doctor. Intermission.
Well, as the oil driller remarks, that was the start of Ptomaine's weekly romance. The nurse's name turned out to be Hilda Dahlstrom and she seemed to be sold on this cuckoo, though she give no other evidences of insanity. She was also a boxin' fan and Ptomaine used that weakness to build her up, which he done to the Queen's taste! There was scarcely a night when they wasn't steppin' out somewheres, and, Ptomaine, now the heavy boy friend, was in hock to everybody in the camp from takin' his sweetie to theatres, dinners, cabarets and whatnot. He spent the few hours he was absent from Hilda's side concoctin' warm love letters to her in penmanship which would of befuddled all the handwritin' experts in the world. You could take one of Ptomaine's letters to a Chinese laundry and get a package of collars with it, any time! In a maniacal outburst of generosity, he also give her a couple of ringside seats for the big fight, assurin' her he would take the greatest of pleasure in assassinatin' Rough House Williams for her amusement.
In the meanwhile, Election Day and the championship battle was swiftly drawin' near. Dolores was makin' a whirlwind stump-speakin' tour of New York in a last-minute appeal for votes and one day Kid Roberts startled me by announcin' his intentions of goin' into town to hear one of his wife's speeches. He says it was somethin' more than mere curiosity which interested him and arguments against it proved useless, With the Guardsman Blue pogrom only a week off, I most certainly didn't want to take no risks with my champion and I was afraid a accident might happen if he left the guarded confines of our camp. Kid Roberts laughed at my childish fears, but a accident did happen, nevers the less!
Me and Ptomaine escorted Kid Roberts into the city and we took up positions on the outskirts of a mob which was listenin' to Dolores do her stuff from a big auto at Tenth Avenue and Forty-Eighth Streets. Besides bein' as attractive as sin, Dolores was plenty talker—she could do with the English language what Willie Hoppe can do with a billiard ball, what I mean! Everything was runnin' along smooth and even me and Ptomaine was interested in her chatter, when some guerillas in the audience begin to heckle the girl. In one minute flat, Kid Roberts gets red-headed and in two minutes we're mixed up in one of the snappiest free-for-alls I ever been in in my life and I been in more than several! For awhile, it was a better fight than the one at Verdun from the spectators' standpoint. None of these guys was cake-eaters by no means and it soon became a typical case of nothin' barred and the man which goes down loses! In the excitement, Dolores sped away in her car and I don't know if she even seen us or knew we was in there tryin.' Anyways, when the reserves come to our assistance—not that we particularly needed them bulls—we throwed a bevy of brickbats at the last few runners and checked up on our casualties, I had a set of skinned kunckles, my nose was inclined to be a bit gory and the majority of Ptomaine's bulky ears had been badly cut by a iron hoop which one of our charmin' tête-à-têtes skillfully wielded. But the worst break we got happened to Kid Roberts. His right hand—the money paw—was a ugly, inflamed red and all swelled up like a new judge!
Well, on account of the prominence of Kid Roberts and Dolores, the newspapers played up that scrimmage and what caused it like it was a airplane wreck in the subway. It was splashed all over the front pages with their photos and this simply poisoned Dolores, which was satisfied how she'd get trimmed at the polls on the account of the incessant couplin' of her name with the heavyweight champion's. As if that ain't enough, Kid Roberts accepts a invitation to speak over the radio about his comin' brawl with Guardsman Blue. We ain't no more than stepped into the broadcastin' room, when we bump right into Dolores, which was there to spill a campaign talk!
"Eh—how do you do!" stammers Kid Roberts.
All he got was a cold little bow.
That was apparently embarrassin' enough for Dolores, but the Kid made it more so by forgettin' alt about his speech on the fight and launchin' into a long and enthusiastic appeal for votes for his wife! That made more newspaper stories the followin' day and further infuriated the already maddened Dolores. Broilin' canine, but she was sore!
The Kid's right hand, injured in that untoward gang fight, was keepin' me from oversleepin' durin' the next few nights. It was terrible slow in respondin' to scientific treatment and as tender as a schoolgirl's heart—grammar school. I went to all the extremes to keep this fact a dark secret from the public and the newspaper guys, but somehow or other it got out and the odds shifted to six to five, with Guardsman Blue the favorite. At this tasty price, Kid Roberts, Ptomaine, myself and the Kid's entire camp went down hook, line and sinker on the champion to win by a knockout. In the case of Ptomaine and the handlers, they bet all the sugar they got for helpin' Kid Roberts train, figurin' the Guardsman a spread for the champ, burn hand or not!
Election Day, the day of the combat, dawned bright and clear, forecastin' the record crowd which was to see one of the greatest glove contests ever fought for a world's championship. Even the most calloused, case-hardened fan was breathless, hoarse and tremblin' when he milled his way out of the arena that afternoon, I'll inform the globe!
As usual, Ptomaine tried his best to gum matters up and nearly succeeded. Early in the mornin' he vanished from the camp and the next I heard from him was by the via of a phone call around noon. The call come from a police station. I rushed down and found this half-wit in a cell, battered and gloomy. He looked like a total loss!
"How come?" I asked him angrily.
"Creepin' mackerel, what a break I got!" says Ptomaine, gingerly feelin' a bump on his bean, "I had a heavy date with Hilda this mornin' and wishin' to put on a little dog I took her for a taxi ride. 'At went over fine, but when the fatal time to pay off comes rollin' around, I find I ain't got a thin dime on me—I left my dough in my other coat, get me? Well, I asked Hilda to stake me to twenty bucks; the bill was nineteen ninety and I naturally wished to tip the chauffeur—a fool and his money is soon parted! But Hilda ain't puttin' nothin' out. She tells me to cut myself a piece of cake and immediately takes the air! A nice girl what?"
"How did you get into this jam?" I hollers, angrily. "Never mind your love affairs!"
"A dose of patience woulddo you the world of good," says Ptomaine. "Well, the chauffeur starts gettin' rosey with me and I get steamed myself when in the midst of his barkin' and meowin' he claims I'm a big bum! They ain't nobody goin' to push me around like 'at, which I told him. The big false alarm goes crazy and chooses me and then the fun began! I'm sprayin' him with left hooks and givin' him a proper cuffin', when a couple of coppers comes poundin' up. I told 'em I was Ptomaine Joe, the heavyweight sensation, and they told me I was both a liar and pinched! Well, I'm cop-proof. I knocked them two bulls and the taxi yegg stiff, but then all the cops in the world held a reunion over my body. They was too frequent for me and here I am. Check me out of this trap, will you? I want to go places!"
How would you like to be pilot for a jobbie like that?
Disgusted, I went out to the desk sergeant and asked him to let me lamp what the blotter had to state about Mons. Ptomaine Joe.
"There you are!" snarls the sarg, pushin' the blotter towards me. "Read it and weep!"
As near as I can remember, the blotter read like thus: Ptomaine Joe, prize fighter; assault and battery, disorderly conduct, disturbing the peace, suspicion of larceny, attempted homicide, resisting arrest, assaulting an officer, vagrancy. Arresting officers: McCue, Cohen, Ruzzatti, Olson, Brown, Schmidt, Johnson, Le Fevre.
"For cryin' out loud!" I says, when I had read that novel, "This guy'll go to the chair, won't he?"
"They'll probably start with that!" growls the sergeant.
But it turned out that me and the desk sergeant was lodge members and his name happened to be Murphy, the same as mine is. So I fin'ly managed to bail Ptomaine out and take him to a medico, which treated this cop-killer's again badly damaged ears and stuffed 'em with cotton packs. The doctor remarks that after what Ptomaine had just been through he's crazy to enter a prize ring that afternoon and Ptomaine says he's commencin' to think he's crazy to enter a prize ring any afternoon!
Well we come down from the camp right after lunch so's we could cast our votes for the beautiful Dolores, before enterin' the arena. The lady herself happens to be in the pollin' place when we blowed in and the delighted crowd outside quickly recognized both her and Kid Roberts. Dolores drawed a polite cheer, but the Kid, which was to defend his championship within a few hours, got a ovation which brung hundreds on the run! A newspaper photographer wouldn't have it no other way but that they pose for a picture together and as in front of that mob of hero-worshippers there was no escape, Dolores gave a resigned sign and consented. She forced a pleasant smile and a lovin' expression, but she was double furious at what she thought was the final blow to her political hopes.
The scene then shifted to the ring, where Ptomaine Joe was all set to go on with Rough House Williams in the semi-final bout. As his elephant's ears is stuffed with cotton, Ptomaine couldn't hear a earthquake, let alone the bell, and he's arranged with his goofy handlers to raise their arms as a signal when the gong rings, so's he'll know when it's the end of a round and stop fightin'. He's goin' to watch his seconds for this highly important signal at every opportunity durin' the quarrel.
Whilst awaitin' the word to start this gymkana, Ptomaine peers eagerly through the haze of tobacco smoke for a glimpse of the fair Hilda Dahlstrom, the nurse which had given him the run-around. Suddenly, he releases a oath which would of made a army mule skinner blush and look askance—I ain't got the faintest idea what askance means, but it's a high class word, now ain't it? I followed Ptomaine's infuriated gaze and then I laughed myself ill! Jammed right up against the ropes in the costly seats Ptomaine had to pay for, is Hilda Dahlstrom and some big Swede which give Ptomaine a silly grin. Then the bell rung!
The enraged Ptomaine shot off his stool like somebody had lit a fire under it and smacked Rough House Williams on the button with a ruinous right before the burly colored boy knew what it was all about. The crowd yelled as Rough House sagged a bit at the knees and another horrible right to the jaw sent the dark-skinned gent crashin' into the ropes. The customers madly beseeched Ptomaine to finish his man and Ptomaine tried hard to fill their order. Rough House, who'd been busy doin' nothin', rallied and managed to land a weak left to the pan, but the barrage of rights and lefts from the heart-broken Ptomaine soon had the Ethiopian in a bad way.
Well, it looked like a miracle was about to happen before our eyes—Ptomaine Joe was goin' to leave a ring under his own power and leave it a winner to boot! Our dare-devil cook seemed to realize this himself and he steadied, timin' his punches nicely. Fearful of losin' on a foul what seemed a certain win, he even remembered to keep watchin' his corner for the upraised arms of his handlers—the signal that the bell had clanged, endin' the first frame. In response to the mob's howl for more speed, Ptomaine stepped on it and wowed 'em by floorin' Rough House with a beautiful right to the body. The dazed colored boy staggered to his feet, beatin' the count by a eyelash and Ptomaine eagerly rushed in to finish him. The house was in a uproar and so was Williams, when to the stunned amazement of the crowd and the wonderin' joy of Rough House, Ptomaine drops his gloves! He'd glanced hastily at his corner and seein' a forest of upraised arms, he thought the bell had rung.
Mr. Rough House Williams squandered a paltry second on a dumfounded stare at the defenceless Ptomaine. Then he let go a wide grin and a right swing from the regions of his heel. The crowd groans in unison, but Ptomaine didn't—that punch caught him under the chin and sprawled him on the canvas, as cold as a step-mother's caress!
As our noble athalete's frenzied seconds drag his limp carcass to his corner and the attendance is behavin' like mental defectives, the bell rings!
What had happened was this; 64-Round McHook and the other brainless wonders handlin' Ptomaine hadn't signalled him at all, or at least, they hadn't meant to. In the general confusion they'd forgot all about the agreed upon signal and that Ptomaine couldn't hear with that cotton in his ears. So in their amazement at seein' him winnin' a fight, they'd throwed up their arms in delight! Ptomaine seen nothin' but arms in the air when he looked at 'em and thought the round was over. Well, it was, as far as he was concerned!
With the comedy part of the bill out of the way, the nervous, impatient crowd buzzed like the drone of two million bees with excitement over the dramatic part of the program—Kid Roberts of the United States vs. Guardsman Blue of the United Kingdom, for the heavyweight championship of the world! And what a two-man Gettysburg that was, with the result in doubt almost till the last punch!
The election returns was bein' announced from the ring between rounds and the very first thing we heard was that Dolores was bein' snowed under in the blueblooded districts by votes for the bozo she was runnin' against. A reporter motions for me to bend down over the ropes and when I do he tells me that the Kid's wife has arranged to get the fight returns at her home, along with the results of the ballotin'. Well, up till the third round, Dolores was hearin' of her hubby receivin' as steady a beatin' in the ring as she was gettin' at the polls. That sore right hand proved a decided handicap, and, takin' a desperate chance with it in the second round, the Kid broke it, renderin' it practically useless from then on!
The first round went to the cool and clever Guardsman by a good margin. Kid Roberts was nervous and cold. He couldn't seem to untrack himself, whilst the Englishman piled up points with a stiff straight left which didn't seem able to miss the Kid's face. The champion tried sayin' it with left hooks, but Guardsman Blue smothered his efforts with apparent ease, frequently crossin' his own right with damagin' effect. Blue was a pretty boxer and no mistake! Towards the end of the round, the Guardsman hit Kid Roberts on the back of the neck with a rabbit punch in a clinch. The crowd hissed and the referee warned Blue, which politely touched gloves in apology with the Kid, causin' the feverish crowd to cheer him. Crowds is funny, what?
The bell found the men sparrin' cautiously in mid-ring and the patrons of the manly art bellerin' for a little more manslaughter and a little less dancin'. The Kid run to his corner breathin' as regular as a sleepin' baby, but he hadn't landed four clean blows on the shifty Englishman. I give him a light spongin' and told him to keep in close, as it was a cinch even that early in the tussle that Kid Roberts had no chance outboxin' Mons, Blue at long range.
The Briton come out for round two a photograph of confidence. He tore in with that deadly left and connected four times without a return. Then the Kid tried his own left, but was short, immediately clinchin' and poundin' the Guardsman about the body with his only good hand—the left. On the break, each missed lefts, but Blue then jabbed the champion hard to the face and head. Still cool and calculatin,' the Guardsman continued to hook and jab Kid Roberts, till in desperation the Kid decided to obey the irritated crowd's squawk to "Take a chance!"
The champ rushed the Englishman to the ropes and landed a straight left to the head. It was a stiff punch and shook the Guardsman up so much that he was unable to block another one to the same place. Kid Roberts then set his teeth and hooked the sore right hand to the jaw. The blow had plenty behind it and caught Blue on the side of the head as he frantically ducked. Instantly, the Kid's face twisted in pain, and, clinchin', he looked at me over the Guardsman's shoulder and shook his head. The referee broke 'em and Blue woke the crowd up by connectin' several times with hard drives to the head and body. A hot left hook to the Kid's jaw slowed him to a walk and he missed a left uppercut at the bell.
A hasty examination of the champion's right hand when he slumped on his stool showed it was busted, as I feared. Whilst the announcer is megaphonin' the election returns to the mob durin' the rest, I
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Scene from "Swingbad the Sailor"
shoved half a orange in the Kid's mouth and showered instructions on him with the water. The votin' disclosed that Dolores was makin' a trifle better showin' and this seemed to interest the Kid more than the fact that he was now defendin' his world's championship with one hand!
"Pay attention to me, now, Kid!" I whisper in his ear. "Keep in close and pound this mug's heart with your left. I don't think he likes 'em down below! Are you listenin'?" I adds, slappin' him sharply on the shoulder.
He starts like he'd been asleep.
"By Gad!" he mutters, dreamily, "I think she'll be elected, after all!"
Then he skipped out for the third round.
Up to this innin', the showin' of Kid Roberts had been a severe disappointment to his admirers, which knew nothin' about his cracked right hand. The speedy Englishman seemed to be hittin' the champ at will and the Kid's famous right hook, or "Iron Mike", as the sport writers had christened it, could of been checked at the box office for all the use it was to him. They screamed at him to start somethin' as he met Blue in the center of the ring and start somethin' he did!
Guardsman Blue had evidently got the word from his seconds to throw caution to the winds and cut loose with everything he had in a try for a knock out. The Britisher's handlers was hep to the Kid's broken right hand and they joyfully figured they had the new world's champion in their corner. The Guardsman charged and swung a heavy right to the Kid's head which was cleverly blocked to his great surprise and half the roarin' mob's delight. Kid Roberts then stung Blue with two lightnin' lefts to the mouth and drove the same glove flush to the heart. These three clean wallops made the Guardsman pensive and he worked into a clinch to think matters over. The referee warned him for holdin' and fin'ly had to tear him away from the Kid. Both then prettily blocked each other's leads and the champion suddenly set himself and shot his right to the jaw. The blow caught Blue off balance and he plunged to his knees for the first knockdown, bringin' the crowd to its feet with a mighty cheer. Blue took a count of five, slyly rubbin' his gloves in the rosin as he did so. I seen that, but I guess the busy referee didn't. When Blue arose, he proceeded to rub them gloves against the Kid's face at every opportunity, the caked rosin soon makin' the champ's face raw. The gong found 'em clinched in Blue's corner, with the Kid sinkin' his left to the wrist in the pantin' Englishman's stomach, again and again and again!
Durin' the one-minute intermission, I maraged to get the referee to wipe the rosin off Blue's gloves and then come the fourth and last frame—the thriller of thrillers!
Kid Roberts grimly walked right into the Guardsman in spite of a volley of left jabs and right hooks which drove the house crazy. The champion clipped Blue on the chin with a wicked left and then started the gore in a stream with another one to the nose. Blue covered up and wanted to clinch, but the Kid boxed him off, left-handin' him all over the ring and usin' the broken right for defensive purposes only. Blue managed to slip over a couple of body punches, but he looked tired and the blows seemed to lack force. On the other hand, Kid Roberts was as strong as a bull. Actin' on the hysterical advice from his corner, the Englishman bored in and found the champion more than willin' to mix. Nobody sat down as they stood up to each other and exchanged lefts and rights to head and body. A savage right uppercut got past the champion's guard and he dropped to the canvas. By this time, the roar of the mob would of drowned out a broadside from a dreadnaught! Kid Roberts got to one knee and signalled me he wasn't hurt, but he took the full count to get his bearin's, nevers the less. When he arose as the referee bawls "Nine!", he was all business!
The eager Guardsman missed a left lead and the champ promptly crossed his right to the jaw, quickly followin' with a sizzlin' left to the stomach which seemed to cave the British boxer in. Swift as a flash of light, Kid Roberts stepped in and hooked his right to the jaw again and Blue fell in'a heap, the claret gushin' freely from his nose and mouth. The Kid was usin' that swollen and agonizin' right like there was nothin' the matter with it at all, but I winced with him every time he landed it! The Guardsman was down for a count of seven. He tried to dance away when he got up, but the Kid was now too fast for him. He drove a crashin' left to Blue's ribs and the punch made the Briton change feet and look anxiously to his corner for counsel. They yelled to him to clinch, but the champion pushed him away and shot both right and left to the stomach as Blue weakly pawed at him. The Guardsman sank to his knees, complainin' to the referee that he'd been fouled. That was the tip-off that Mr. Blue was through! His squawk was ridiculous—Kid Roberts never fouled anybody in his life, in the ring or out of it. The referee shook his head at Blue and counted to eight, at which point Blue scrambled to his feet in a daze. About all he had left was his trunks and Kid Roberts made a choppin' block out of him with his left. The delirious crowd begged for a knockout and the Kid waded in, intent on doin' just that!
A right hand uppercut to the tip of the chin floored Blue for the third knockdown and when he got up a terrific left to the stomach sent him sprawlin' again. How he ever regained his footin' after that blow is a mystery, but he did, swayin' on his feet like a souse and soused he was from punishment. The referee looked meanin'ly at the Englishman's corner and there was some yells of "Stop it!" With victory a certainty, Kid Roberts stalled, a troubled look in his eyes. He was afraid another hard punch might be fatal to the groggy Guardsman—licked to a fare-thee-well, but game as they make 'em! Whilst the champion hesitates and the crowd's in a frenzy, a bloody towel comes hurtlin' into the ring from Blue's corner, followed by the old sponge. At the same minute, Blue sank to the floor without bein' hit and it was all over!
Unmindful of the thunderous applause, Kid Roberts collapsed in his corner from the agony of that busted hand, whisperin' to me that his career in the ring was about ended, in spite of the fact that he was still champion. There was plenty young huskies comin' up, whilst the years was beginnin' to punish the Kid severely. The Guardsman had hit him hard and often, even floored him, before goin' out cold. His hands was commencin' to get brittle, his timin' and judgment was poor—old Mother Nature was startin' the count over him, what I mean!
Well, whilst we're all rejoicin' in the dressin' room over the result of the battle and the Kid's hand is bein' set by a openly admirin' sawbones, the sensational news comes that Dolores has been elected to the state senate! It seems that a landslide of votes at the last minute from the rough and tough neighborhoods had swung the tide in her favor. There's no question but that these citizens was for Dolores simply because she was the wife of their idol—Kid Roberts. The voters which put her over was mostly fighters, seconds, promoters, managers, boxin' fans and the etc. So the very thing which made Dolores leave the Kid and which she feared would defeat her ambitions, was responsible for her victory at the end!
But I guess in the first flush of winnin', Dolores didn't realize all that. Back in our hotel that night, with the mountainous Ptomaine outside the door to keep away the mobs which wanted to see the champion, I'm lookin' over a pile of newspaper extras filled with accounts of the big fight and likewise the election returns. All at once I let out a howl and handed a paper to the questionin' Kid.
"It was nothin' in the world but the leatherpushers and their friends which put your wife in the senate and now look what she does!" I groaned.
Kid Roberts gazes at the newspaper, gasps—and then bursts out in hysterical laughter. On the first page was this, in big black type:
Kid Roberts Stops Blue in Fourth!
Right next to that is this:
Heavyweight Champion's Wife Elected to Senate to Urge Anti-boxing Legislation!