Fighting Back/Round 6
A few thousand years ago Mr. Roscoe Q. Anonymous snatched a lead pencil from a passin' pedestrian and dashed off the followin' applesauce:
Is relished by the wisest men!
This guy Anonymous has wrote plenty wise cracks and ample stories, but most of his best stuff has only saw the light of day in smokin' rooms and what used to be known as saloons when cracked ice and seltzer had a real mission in life. Now and then one of his snappy little anecdotes about the travelin' salesman or the young honeymooners pops up, but they lack the tang they used to have when served with the old private stock. Or maybe they was just as uncomical then, but we thought them riots after a session with the cup that queers. Anyways, that statement about a occasional dose of nonsense bein' required by the best of us contains more than a few drops of truth. There's a touch of clown in us all, and I bet there's many a dignified Supreme Court judge who would just love to tear off a few little fancy steps on the way to the bench instead of his usual solemn tread. Sometimes givin' in to this silly streak in our natures acts as a useful safety valve to relieve the strain of our cares and worries. Other times it's exceedin'ly disastrous, like in the case of me, Kid Roberts, and Ptomaine Joe, for the example.
After Kid Roberts stopped Bob Young, the heavyweight champ, at the hacienda of Pancho Nogales, we fled that slab and come to New York, not one thin dime richer for our trouble. The thing's a laugh to me now—it wasn't then! How the so ever there was more grief en route for Kid Roberts. Happiness comes in thimbles, trouble in barrels! When we limped into New York, disgusted and all at sea financially, the first thing which greets the disheartened Kid is a legal invitation to attend a divorce trial staged by the charmin' Dolores. Whilst Kid Roberts is tryin' to see her and talk this little incident over, I commenced right in tendin' to business on the principle that whilst it's tough to lose out in love, it's even tougher to lose out on the coffee and cakes! I made the rounds of the sportin' editors, claimin' the world's heavyweight title for the Kid and tellin' 'em about that weird fracas in Mexico which resulted in the champion bein' knocked off by my athalete.
After I had furnished satisfactory proof to the grinnin' newspaper guys that I was by no means addicted to the habit-formin' drugs, they got in touch with Bob Young and Toledo Eddie Hicks. These couple of two-handed liars says I was somethin' to highly interest a young interne in a lunatic asylum, as they never heard tell of no Pancho Nogales in all their upright lives, As for Young bein' flattened by Kid Roberts in Mexico—how do we get that way?
Well, there I was up against a brick wall and without no trowel, what I mean. I hadn't the scantiest bit of evidence on hand to bear out my story of the fight, so the sport writers laughin'ly told me to roll my hoop and positively refused to serve me even a half portion of attention. Fit to be tied, I challenged Young mornin', noon, and night, but this mock turtle asked for so many impossible concessions on our part that it was plain he didn't wish for no more of the Kid's game. Fin'ly, I managed to corner the burglar which handled him in the lobby of his hotel one night, and after listenin' to my pleadin's for a couple or three minutes he offers me a bout with his synthetic champ if we'll personally slip him $150,000, besides what Young can shoplift from the promoters!
I had often heard that Toledo Eddie Hicks once did time for tryin' to steal the city hall at Nightmare, Ala., but I had never put much stock in the tale till he made me that yegg proposition. For a minute I was speechless—a rare thing with me—and then I hauled off and smacked him right in the nose. This kind of treatment seemed to get on Edward's nerves and he hollers that on account of me playin' that prank on him, Kid Roberts will die of old age before he'll ever climb into a ring with his champion. As he dashed wildly for the elevator, holdin' on to his beak like he heard somebody was goin' to take it off him, he swears he wouldn't even let Young meet the Kid at checkers, parcheesi, or marbles!
In the meanwhile Kid Roberts is standin' right on the brink of a nervous breakdown, because of the pushin' around he's gettin' on all sides. His wife won't give him a tumble, he's gettin' fearful answers to his appealin' letters to her, and now he's lost a chance at Young's title which would make him independent financially and let him step down from the ring. After watchin' him pacin' the floor at nights for the worst part of a week, duckin' the dinner gong and leapin' in the air like a Russian dancer at the mere openin' of a door, I dragged him off to a medico. The doc looks the boy over, stares at the ceilin', coughs a couple of times, and then orders a complete rest, recommendin' a trap called Hermit Inn, away up in Mrs. Catskill's Mountains. The pulseclocker says this place is so far from civilization that they still got their first postage stamp to see and it's just the place for Kid Roberts to hide out in and get right.
That was jake with me, but the Kid failed to cuddle up to the prescription. Life in the mountains and bein' busy doin' nothin' thrilled him like it thrills a goldfish to see a glass bowl, Furthermore, bein' a ex-champ, he's satisfied he'll be recognized and his vacation made too hard to take by the curious. At this critical point, Ptomaine Joe crashes into the breach with a typical maniacal scheme.
"C'mon, Kid," says Ptomaine, when we get back to our stalls at the hotel, "let's all shove off for them mountains. 'At doc was nice enough to put the bee on you for a hundred bucks, so the least we can do in return is to folley out his plans. Besides, I know how we can go up there without nobody findin' out who we really are. I just this minute got the idea!"
"If you can prove you ever had a idea in your life, Silly," I sneers, "I can prove I'm the rightful heir to the Siamese throne!"
"People which lives in tin houses shouldn't throw can openers," says Ptomaine. "I don't think you're no master mind yourself!"
Kid Roberts interferes to stop bloodshed and violence.
"What is your idea that will prevent us from being recognized, Ptomaine?" he smiles. For some unknown reason the Kid gets a great kick out of this dizzy banana.
"Why, we can all go up there disguised as somethin' else!" says Ptomaine. "For the example, you make out you're a—a—well, a pote; Joe Murphy can claim he writes, now, plays; and I'll be a artist, get me? There's three things as different from what we are as boardin'-house hash is different from food! We can all act up to these disguises and nobody will get hep 'at we even seen a box fight, let alone been in one. Ain't 'at a rip of a plant?"
Ptomaine has stopped so many right swings with his bullet head that it's made him a little goofy. He don't know what it's all about, what I mean.
"Get back in line, Stupid!" I says. "Where d'ye get that disguise stuff? So you'll pretend you're a artist, hey? Don't make me laugh! Go up there and tell 'em you're a professional idiot and they'll all believe you without question!"
Then I throwed the phone book at this clown, but unfortunately it missed him. In the ring, anybody can hit him with anything.
Kid Roberts laughs his head off for a minute, and then he looks at Ptomaine very thoughtful. "Ptomaine," he says, "your scheme is just crazy enough to attract me in the mood I'm in now. As Joe would say, I'm pretty low and anything that promises even momentary diversion—that will allow me to get my mind off myself and my worries—appeals to me. We shall go up to the Catskills in exactly the manner you suggest!"
And that's just what we done.
We was positively somethin' for the comic supplement when we checked into Hermit Inn a brace of days later. Should you of saw us you'd of laughed yourself into the hystericals, no foolin'! Kid Roberts, the "poet," packs a suit case full of limericks by bozos entitled Shelley, Keats, Burns, Browning, Kipling, and whatnot. He features a flowin' black tie, long hair, and tortoise-shell cheaters, and he acts so timid and shy that a rabbit would of reared up and smacked him in the pan, just to be nasty. Me and Ptomaine, "playwright" and "artist," is likewise dressed like a couple of cake eaters and we're all set to do some actin' which would of made Edwin Booth cut his throat!
We register as Launcelot Eversley (Kid Roberts), Percy Begay (me), and Chauncey Love (Ptomaine Joe). Laugh that off!
Well, speakin' of anchovies, at first peep Hermit Inn seemed to be the last word in what Kid Roberts called "isolation." Outside of the bewhiskered old gil which run the joint and a set of bell hops which looked like they was playin' hooky from a movie comedy, the place was as deserted as the top of Mt. Everest. We got a nice suite, the eats wasn't hard to take, the crisp mountain air put us all in the caperin' stage, and Kid Roberts was tickled silly with the whole layout. In fact, we was seriously considerin' castin' off our disguises and bein' ourselves as long as there was nobody around to kid, when—clunk! The amusement commenced!
We're sittin' at ease in the lonesome lobby one mornin' talkin' about this and speakin' about that, when a stagecoach dashes up to the inn. We had no fault to find with that part of it, but when a loudly chatterin' mob of people poured out of the coach and bounded into our boardin' house it was different! Old Father Time, our jovial host, and the trick attendants rushes out and fusses all over 'em. Caught in the jam, we're introduced to the noisy newcomers by them phony labels we registered under and they're introduced to us as a championship college football team, a flock of male and female students and their lovin' parents.
Well, we tried to duck, but it was like tryin' to duck your landlord. The handsome Kid's get-away was blocked by a flirtin'ly inclined young flapper which could of blocked most of Napoleon's plans, as he would of immediately made others once he seen her. Her name was Eva Littleton, she was about five foot two of thrill, and what she fin'ly done to Kid Roberts, the "poet," was plenty!
That same afternoon the crew of Hermit Inn and most of the newly arrived guests got busy and cleared out the biggest room in the place, waxin' the floor and decoratin' the walls with the colors of their kindergarten, which I think was blue, red, purple, green, brown, and black, with a dash of yellow. They broke out a dance that night after dinner and the fun waxed fast and furious. The beauteous Eva gave Kid Roberts no chance to escape and they killed the bulk of the evenin' together, discussin' the newest and oldest poetry when not glidin' around the floor, with little Eva lookin' up into the Kid's eyes like he was Uncle Tom.
A couple of tasty cuteys sees me and Ptomaine givin' lifelike imitations of wallflowers and they make up their sweet little minds to entertain us. Bein' much and contentedly wed to a damsel which would of kept Gulliver's mind off his travels, I would just as soon of bowed out, but Ptomaine greets the ladies with open delight. This big mug is crazier over the girlies than Henry the Eighth was!
We trip a small dance with the girls and then walk out on the pazzaza to talk matters over.
"Of course you will think me stupid," says the home breaker I'm with, "but I can't seem to recall what plays you have written, Mister Begay. Won't you refresh my memory?"
"Absolutely!" I says, without crackin' a grin. "I dashed off 'Lightnin',' 'Forty-Five Minutes from Broadway,' 'The Bat,' 'Zaza,' 'Camille,' 'Ben Hur,' 'The Follies,' and 'Ten Nights in a Barroom.' Then I likewise had a finger in composin' 'The College Widow,' 'Brown of—'"
"Why—why, Mister Begay!" interrupts my delightful adversary, "those plays were written by Frank Bacon, George M. Cohan, George Ade, Dumas, and—let's see—Mary Roberts Rinehart, and—"
"Aha!" I butt in with a wink, "that's what you think. Them's just the nicknames I use so's to hide my real name if my show's a flop, get me? A man in my position has got to be careful, what I mean. One failure would just about break my heart!"
She gives me a odd look.
"Have you ever used William Shakespeare as a non de plume, Mister Begay?" she asks me.
"Well, you're certainly the smartest girl I ever met in my life!" I says, admirin'ly. "I never thought nobody would find that out! Did you guess it, or was you tipped off?"
"I knew by your conversation," she says, with a innocent smile. "The plays signed William Shakespeare are in blank verse, as you of course know, and you're blank too, aren't you?"
"Pick up the marbles," I says. "You win!"
Ptomaine, the "artist," was the next witness.
"Are you at home in oils, Mister Love?" inquires his fair tête-à-tête.
"Where d'ye get that stuff?" says Ptomaine politely. "I'm a artist, not a sardine!"
The Jane with me giggles, but the other one looks a bit embarrassed. She tries to get the conversation headed right.
"Don't you think, Mister Love, that Raphæl was a far more vivid colorist than Rubens?" she says.
"Eh—well, 'at's what you call a matter of taste," says Ptomaine gamely. He don't know whether them guys was painters or plumbers! "Personally, I prefer Bud Fisher, or the guy which draws Barney Google."
This time his pretty opponent seems a bit steamed. She prob'ly thought she was bein' gave a run around, but Ptomaine was really doin' his best.
"Just what do you paint, Mister Love?" she asks.
"Me?" says Ptomaine, grinnin' like a hyena. "Oh, practically anything! Barns! signs, flagpoles, houses, automobiles, boats, trolley cars, chiffoniers—well, to be frankly with you, kid, they's no holdin' me once I get my hands on a paint pot and brush!"
At that minute a couple of these milk-fed college boys comes over and accuses the girls of havin' dancin' appointments with 'em. The young women couldn't get up quick enough.
Leavin' the cotillon-leadin' Ptomaine to search for fresh victims, I raced around hithers and yon, fin'ly windin' up in the midst of the football players. The very first morsel of conversation I caught glued me to the spot. What they're all enthusiastically talkin' about is the fact that Kid Roberts is daily expected to arrive at Hermit Inn!
At first I was afraid we'd all been recognized, but I fin'ly decided we hadn't when none of the brawny gridiron warriors give me a tumble. Then I remembered that I'd made the original reservations for us at Hermit Inn under our real names and had forgot to explain matters when we registered as poet, playwright, and artist. The ancient jazzbo which operated the resort had most doubtless told the students that the famous ex-champion was comin' to park at his deadfall and the college boys is all excited about the thing. I tried to horn in amongst 'em and get pally, but they immediately put on the ice for me. They was so sore at the supposed "poet" for capturin' Eva Littleton that the three of us was about as popular as gallopin' consumption.
One bird in particular kept glowerin' at the Kid and Eva and mutterin' under his breath in a way which soon got me plenty leary. This boloney was nothin' else than Jim Barnaby, captain and fullback of the football addicts. He was a whale of a man, there was no question about that—somethin' over six foot with his hair brushed back, high cheek-boned, thicknecked, and with shoulders on him like a bull. Oh, this entry was a tough baby, and when I heard that he was Eva's heavy boy friend and knew he hadn't recognized Kid Roberts, I seen nothin' ahead for us that was pleasant!
Well, durin' the next few days Eva Littleton didn't give the Kid a minute's peace. From the way she clung to the boy her name could of been Ivy instead of Eva! Kid Roberts would stroll about with these books of pomes under his arm, duckin' behind trees
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Scene from "Girls Will Be Girls"
when he seen her, but she was a world beater at hide-an-go-seek and always managed to nail him. When Eva asked him what he thought about Kid Roberts, "a common prize fighter," comin' to the inn, the Kid merely smiled and says he ain't enthused, as he dislikes boxin' exceedin'ly much. This made a big hii with Eva, which seemed to look on leather pushers like she'd look on lepers. How the so ever, the college boys, not knowin' the reason for the "poet's" lack of interest in Kid Roberts's arrival, begin openly sneerin' at the alleged rimester and speakin' of him—one of the greatest scrappers which ever laced on a glove—as a mollycoddle. What a scream that was, hey? Jim Barnaby was nastier than the rest of 'em, behind the "poet's" back. That a apparent weak sister had accumulated his girl got the husky football star positively red-headed!
One mornin' after breakfast Kid Roberts and Ptomaine is playin' pinochle in the room and I'm readin' the paper—my favorite book—when a flock of wild cheers disturbs my well-shaped ears. I look out the window and right at the entrance to the inn is a tall, broad-shouldered stranger surrounded by the college girls and boys. The handsome city chap is grinnin' and doffin' his cap to a reception which would of wrung a smile from Cæsar, which they tell me was ravenous when it come to applause.
Well, I thought to myself that medico certainly put over a fast one on us when he sent us up to this hotel, sayin' it would be as empty as a political pledge. As a matter of fact, it was turnin' out to be busier than Forty-second and Broadway at 8 p. m. First a football team and their confederates arrive, then along comes this new sensation which is now downstairs bein' welcomed to death. If Hermit Inn was quiet, then so's a steam drill!
Anyways, as it's a hobby of mine to be curious, I went down and interviewed one of the jolly students.
"What's this guy's racket?" I asks, noddin' to the flurry-creatin' newcomer.
The young man stops hollering "Hurray!" long enough to gaze at me in simple amazement.
"D'ye mean to say you don't know who he is?" he asks me, like how I can be so ignorant and live.
"I can get affidavits to that effect," I says promptly.
"Well," says Mr. Student, "that's Kid Roberts!"
Hot towel!
I stare at the boy closely, but he don't seem to be clownin'—he means what he says, that's a cinch.
"Listen," I says. "What gives you the maniacal idea that this tomato is Kid Roberts? Did he claim he was the Kid?"
"Well—yes and no," says the college boy. "When he arrived, one of the fellows greeted him as Kid Roberts and he acknowledged the salutation—after a momentary embarrassment."
"I can easy understand the momentary embarrassment!" I says, curlin' my lip.
"So can I," says my young friend. "He probably hoped to pass unrecognized here, and our discovery of his identity annoyed him."
"He's goin' to be annoyed some more, young-fellow-me-lad!" I says heartily. "And if you don't think so you're crazy!"
Leavin' the youth to gaze after me in puzzlement, I rushed upstairs and bust in on Kid Roberts and Ptomaine with the spectacular information that below decks we have a gent which is passin' himself off as the Kid. That ruined the pinochle game and Ptomaine says he'll go right down and slap the gay masquerader for a gondola. This procedure seemed to me to be about right, after which we could expose this baby to his new-found admirers. But Kid Roberts, which don't seem able to stop laughin', interferes with our plans. The strange situation appeared to vastly entertain the Kid and he says to leave the impostor alone for the time bein' and we'll get a lot of laughs out of watchin' his capers in tryin' to carry off the part of a ex-heavyweight champion.
There was a lot of laughs, all right, only we didn't get 'em!
When me, the Kid, and Ptomaine went down to lunch, this guy which is pretendin' to be Kid Roberts is carryin' on smartly—a island of self-satisfaction entirely surrounded by a sea of worshipin' faces. He's throwin' out a good-sized chest and puttin' on dog like a Ethiopian field hand with a new pair of yellow shoes. It made me and Ptomaine boil, but all it made Kid Roberts do was smile. As we try to shove past the millin' mob in the lobby, Mr. Liar is tellin' the boys and girls all about his "ring battles" with a gusto and makin' 'em like it! He's dancin' around, throwin' rights and left at the air, whilst the crowd watches in awe.
Both me and Kid Roberts had to hoid Ptomaine which immediately had violent designs on this fellow's health. Some of the college boys sees us and we're pushed in and introduced to "Kid Roberts," and it certainly must of been a peculiar sensation for the Kid to be made acquainted with a jobbie which was posin' as himself!
This big sapolio sneers when Jim Barnaby scornfully tells him we're poet, playwright, and artist. I thought, or rather hoped, he was goin' to choose one of us.
"The idea of a guy as big as you writin' poultry!" he grunts to Kid Roberts. "I suppose you do embroidery too, don't you?"
The college kiddies laughs and Ptomaine's neck muscles begin to swell, but Kid Roberts just smiles pleasantly.
"I have been proficient at lacing!" he says.
I'll say he was. He's laced 'em all!
Well, bein' convinced that this parsnip had no idea just who we really was, the three of us commenced to ask him questions about his alleged box fights, and it was a scream to watch his frantic attempts to keep from bein' trapped. The lunch gong was all that saved him!
For the next two or three days the atmosphere around Hermit Inn was the same as the atmosphere used to be in a front-line trench before the lieutenant looked at his wrist watch, tightened his tin hat, and said: "Well, let's go!" There was a highly nervous tension in the air, what I mean. This large blah which claimed to be Kid Roberts was lookin' the eye-fillin' Eva Littleton over with speculative eyes, Jim Barnaby was plainly double cuckoo over her, Ptomaine was tryin' to promote himself with great unsuccess as usual, whilst Eva was devotin' all her time and attention to the noncommittal Kid. It was certain with that layout that somethin' was goin' to break and, bein' certain, it did!
One day Kid Roberts is out strollin' in the woods around the inn with his pomes and Eva, when Ptomaine busts into my room as excited as a candidate at the ticker on election night. He demands to know where the Kid is, and when I tell him he grabs hold of my arm and insists that we go right after him.
"How come?" I says. "Kid Roberts is safe enough with Eva and if she should get fresh, why, he's a boy which can take care of himself anywheres."
"I ain't worryin' about Eva," says Ptomaine. "Though she sure is a snappy number and I only wish she'd give me a play. It's them football guys which has got me upset. There's goin' to be dirty work at the crossroads, there is for a fact. Them rah-rah boys is framin' to put Kid Roberts over the jumps!"
"Which one of your spies reported that?" I asks, slightly interested. "Or have you been toyin' with that Long Island Scotch again?"
"Listen!" says Ptomaine. "I drop a dime through a crack in the porch and you know I ain't goin' to grin and bear 'at, so I'm down under the boards lookin' for it, get me? Well, a bunch of them football fiends comes out on the porch with this egg which is tellin' everybody he's Kid Roberts. They're right over me and I couldn't miss a word they're sayin' if listenin' called for a twenty-year rap at hard labor. This Jim Barnaby, which is overboard over Eva, is there and he's doped out a scheme to force the Kid to leave here in disgrace. They're goin' to pull it to-day and we got to stop 'em!"
"Stop 'em from what?" I says. "Did you find out what they figured on doin' to the Kid?"
Ptomaine looks sheepish. "To tell you the truth," he says, "just as they got to 'at part of it I thought I seen 'at dime I lost and of course—eh—well, my, now, interest kind of—"
"C'mon, you big dumb-bell!" I says, grabbin' my hat. "And if this turns out to be a false alarm I'll cook you. I'm gettin' sick and tired of lookin', at that funny pan of yours, anyways!"
"If I want to look homely, 'at's my business!" says Ptomaine indignantly. "As far as 'at goes, I ain't never seen nobody mistake you for no Follies beauty!"
Further discussion along these highly interestin' lines is interrupted by a frantic knockin' at the door. Ptomaine flung it open, and then steps back with a gasp of surprise. No wonder! There stands Eva Littleton, out of breath, weepin', and wringin' her hands.
"Oh you must come with me at once!" she pants out. "Your friend the poet—Mister Eversley—has been kidnapped!"
"What did I just tell you?" says Ptomaine to me triumphantly. "I knew them guys would—"
"Shut up!" I cut him off harshly, and turn to Eva: "Tell me all about this and make it snappy!" I commands. "When did this happen?"
"Not ten minutes ago," says Eva tearfully. "We—Mister Eversley and me—were walking in the forest near the inn, when without warning a dozen or more men suddenly sprang out from behind the trees and attacked him. He had no chance at all to fight them off—there were too many for him, and he had been taken by surprise. They didn't harm me—in fact, they paid no attention to me at all—and when they overpowered poor Mister Eversley and carried him off I rushed right back here to tell you!"
"You done right!' I says, pattin' her back. Then I reached in the bureau drawer and took out my gat. It's a army .45 automatic, and you could blow up Boston with it!
"Who was these kidnappers, d'ye know?" I ask Eva, who shudders and covers her pretty face with her little white hands when she sees the gun.
"They were masked," she tells me. "But I—I think I recognized some of them."
"I think you did too!" growls Ptomaine, tightenin' up his belt and flexin' his mighty arms. "But don't let 'em worry you. When we get done with them guys their own lovin' parents won't be able to recognize 'em!"
"C'mon, let's go!" I says. "And all you got to do, Miss Littleton, is tell us exactly where this abduction took place. There's no need of you comin' along with us, because when we meet up with them boloneys it will be no place for a lady!"
"Oh!" she says, kind of frightened. "What are you going to do with that horrible looking revolver?"
"They tell me these woods is full of lions and tigers," I grins. "And I want to be able to cope with 'em."
Well, me and Ptomaine dashed madly out to the spot in the woods where Eva told us Kid Roberts had turned into Kid Napped. Outside of the chirpin' of some irresponsible birds and the swishin' of the wind in the trees, you couldn't hear a sound and I don't care how big your ears are. I took out my gun, seen it was ready to co-operate with me, and Ptomaine reached up and pulled off a limb of a handy tree for aclub. We're all set to ruin them college guys, when—Gazunk! A couple of 200-pound huskies dives at my legs from behind and two more treats Ptomaine to a football tackle too! My cannon and Ptomaine's shillalah is wrenched from our hands by more reinforcements which comes up on the run, and the next thing we know that entire football team is usin' us as divans.
What a fine couple of rescuers we turned out to be!"
After sittin' on us to their hearts' content and payin' exactly no attention to my frantic squawks and Ptomaine's cruel and unusual oaths, the genial university inmates bind our arms behind us and orders us to march on ahead of 'em. Havin' little or no choice, we done like we was told till we come to a clearin' in the woods, and there a sight met our eyes which caused Ptomaine to let out a wild beller, and lowerin' his head, he butted the two cut-ups nearest him flat on their backs. With great presence of mind, I kicked the ones next to me right in the shins and their surprised howls was sweet music to my ears. The next minute them young fiends ties up our legs and rolls us to one side of the way.
What caused us to run amuck was Kid Roberts, blindfolded, gagged, and bound to a tree! He was likewise drippin' wet, and a pond nearby furnished the answer to that! Whilst me and Ptomaine rolls around helplessly on the ground, bustin' with rage but unable to do anything, the pleasin' subject of tarrin' and featherin' Kid Roberts is discussed by the students and fin'ly voted down. Had they ever done that, we would of bumped each and everyone of them babies off if we had to chase 'em all over the world!
From chance remarks I managed to pick up, I found out that this gang of half wits had presented Kid Roberts with what they call a "hazin'" in dear old college. Apparently, their antics had been more humiliatin' than injurious to anything but the Kid's temper. If you think it strange that they was able to manhandle a ex-heavyweight champ, don't forget they all scaled around two-hundred pounds, was built in proportion, in football condition, had took the Kid by surprise and was about twenty against one! Dempsey would of had to bow to that type of a mob!
After these educated ruffians had amused themselves some more at the expense of Kid Roberts, they untied him from the tree, took off the gag and blindfold and led him to the middle of the clearin', still with his arms bound. I squirmed around on the ground to get a look at him, and, boys and girls, there was hot-blooded murder in each of his blazin', steel-gray eyes! Just to say he was burnt up would be a niggardly use of the descriptive. He was fit to enter a bitin' contest with a bear, no kiddin'!
In the clearing they'd rigged up a kind of ring with some of the manila left over from the tyin'-up party, and in it stood this fake Kid Roberts pullin' on a pair o' mitts.
Jim Barnaby looks the real Kid up and down and laughs sneerin'ly, tosses him a pair of gloves, and tells the supposed "poet" that as a climax to the day's sport he's got to fight the world-famous Kid Roberts or sign a confession that he's yellow which they'll show to Eva Littleton. On this cue the mock orange which has been masqueradin' as Kid Roberts steps forward, folds his arms on his chest, and glares at the Kid. I noticed, how the so ever, that this counterfeit seemed a bit nervous as he took in Kid Robert's mighty muscles and the look of the killer in his eyes.
Barnaby points out in the most insultin' language he could think of that the "poet" is every bit as big and burly as "Kid Roberts" and that nothin' in the world should prevent him from takin' a chance, unless he's willin' to admit that he's faint-hearted. One of these college boys told me later that they hadn't the slightest intention of allowin' such a scrap to take place, as they didn't want the "poet" killed. They figured he'd get right down on his knees and plead to be let go, bein' only too glad to flee from Hermit Inn immediately. They was in no way prepared for the stunnin' shock of what happened within the next few minutes, I'll tell the cross-eyed world that!
Ptomaine bellered to be allowed to fight this so-called "Kid Roberts" or any two of the football team, but nobody give him service. The real Kid Roberts was insane with anger at his kidnappin' and hazin' and he was also smokin' hot over his blank cartridge tradin' on his name and reputation at Hermit Inn. He pulled on the gloves and reached the guy claimin' his name in one leap. A swift feint with his lightnin' left, almost too fast for the eye to follow, then—sock! The right which once won him a world's championship crosses to the button and this impostor went down as if shot through the head. He couldn't of got up if he'd of been called to the presidency!
Whilst the dumfounded football players is gazin' in absolute amazement at the mighty "Kid Roberts" flattened by a single punch from the despised "poet," the ragin' Kid whirls around on 'em and invites the entire team to give him a battle, one at a time or all at once, he don't give a whoop which!
With one accord, the gang looks expectantly at big Jim Barnaby, just as Eva Littleton arrives on the scene to stare wide-eyed at the picture which met her frightened gaze. The alleged "Kid Roberts" prostrate on the ground as cold as a loan shark's heart, me and Ptomaine almost beside him and tied hand and foot to boot, her beloved "poet" wilder than his flowin' locks and rarin' to go as he glares homicide at the gay collegians, and Jim Barnaby's bein' pushed forward to do his stuff. Eva's a smart girl and she knows what's goin' to happen.
"Oh, they're going to fight!" she wails, turnin' to the others. "Won't somebody stop them?"
The football players looks uneasily away from her, but there was no answer. Eva was on a busy wire just then! Jim Barnaby glances at her and then at Kid Roberts. He smiles—a confident, sneerin' grin. His pals unloose the gloves from the prostrate mock orange, lace 'em on Barnaby, who's pulled off his sweater and is ready for business.
Without a instant's hesitation, Kid Roberts shot a hard left flush to the chin and Mr. Barnaby went down on his haunches. As his astonished friends gasped a surprised "Oh!" Eva hid behind a tree. His face a mass of amazement, Barnaby rose almost on the bounce and clinched, showin' by that and a few other things which come up later that the art of boxin' was no hidden mystery to him! Plenty heavier and younger than the Kid,—in wonderful condition from his football trainin' and as stout-hearted as I've seen 'em, James was far from a set-up, as he soon proved.
On the break, Kid Roberts, mad and therefore wild, missed a right hook, and Barnaby promptly stepped in with a sizzlin' uppercut which drove the Kid's head back like it was hinged to his neck. The college guys howled, "How d'ye like him, Mister Poet?" and danced around with glee. From the ground I yelled to Kid Roberts to make Barnaby lead to him and then beat him to the punch.
Barnaby tried another uppercut, but it fell short as the Kid danced lightly away. They went into another clinch, durin' which Barnaby tried to use his heavier build to wrestle Kid Roberts to the ground. Some short, stiff chops to the wind, how the so ever, drove that idea out of Jamesy's head, and a terrible right to the heart made him break ground, open-mouthed and gaspin'.
"Let him fall, Kid!" roars Ptomaine, but Barnaby's back was innocent of yellow, I'll say that for him. He side-stepped a left and again uppercut hard with his right, bringin' Kid Roberts up on his toes and startin' the gore flowin' from the ex-champion's nose and mouth. At this stage, either through carelessness or luck, the Kid actually seemed to be a mark for Barnaby's right uppercut and the football star's team mates was crazy with joy.
After steppin' around each other carefully for a full minute, Kid Roberts woke up and jabbed Barnaby four times to the mouth without a return and then cut the collegian's eye with a straight right. A overhand left to the same spot closed the optic tight, and the maddened Barnaby rushed, only to be met with a storm of rights and lefts to the stomach that dropped him to his knees for the second knockdown.
Kid Roberts was cool now and timin' his blows carefully, whilst Barnaby, hurt and enraged by his inability to stop this remarkable "poet," had completely lost his head. James rose from the ground, and the Kid immediately clinched with him, askin' him did he want to call it a day before somebody got badly punished. Barnaby's answer was to grab Kid Roberts about the waist and rough him to the turf, where he fell on top of him, punchin' with both hands to the face as they struggled around there. "Tell 'at big tramp to fight fair, you bunch of yellah dogs!" screams Ptomaine, tuggin' frantically at his bonds. I was blue in the face with rage, but bein' tied hand and foot could do nothin' but yell murder!
The football players rushed over and helped both men up and Kid Roberts is so infuriated at Barnaby's foul fightin' that he ain't fit to be at large! His bare shoulder is cut and scraped from a rock he fell on, he's bleedin' freely from the mouth and blowin' like a porpoise, but if he don't want to fight, then neither does Harry Wills. I wouldn't of been Jim Barnaby right then for Rockefeller's last week's profits!
Barnaby rushed at the Kid, eager to knock him off whilst he's in the distress he so plainly showed. The air is full of advice from his team mates, who figure it's all over. James put a hard left to the Kid's sore mouth that wobbled his head, and the trusty right uppercut, catchin' Kid Roberts off his balance, floored him. He was up in a flash—was fightin' furiously again whilst the boys is still cheerin' Barnaby for the fluke knock-down. The Kid come in crouchin' this time and sent a fearful right and left to the stomach.
Barnaby began to back-pedal, but Kid Roberts followed him like fate! He sent a wicked right to Barnaby's heart, and, the gridiron performer tried to clinch, but the Kid beat him off with crushin' jabs to face and body. Barnaby's face was now a crimson smear and his knees was quiverin' in time with the twitchin' muscles of his broad back. He swung wildly with left and right, but Kid Roberts ducked these desperate efforts with ease, counterin' with straight lefts which was just remodelin' Barnaby's face, that's all! To me and Ptomaine it was only a question of how much Barnaby could take, for the Kid was playin' with him now like a baby plays with a rattle.
Fin'ly the bewildered Barnaby, urged on by his equally bewildered boy friends, started another rush and managed to land a right swing to the Kid's neck. It was a stiff punch, but Kid Roberts merely grinned, measured his man carefully and coolly, and shot a torrid left and right to the jaw. Barnaby staggered back on his heels fully ten feet before he brought up. "There he goes!" bawls Ptomaine—and there he went! Kid Roberts was on top of him with the speed of a frightened deer. One terrific right to the point of the jaw and Mr. James Barnaby fell flat on his face, a total loss. It was close to five minutes before the young man even opened his one good eye!
Kid Roberts pulls off his gloves, gently picks him up and props him carefully against a tree, tellin' the open-mouthed bunch to hustle some throwin' water from the pond and some drinkin' water from the creek. Eva's beaded bag produced much-needed smellin' salts. White-faced and tremblin', that young lady seemed to be speechless. The Kid workin' over Barnaby, remarked that he was thoroughly ashamed of himself for what he called a "beastly display of temper!" Chili sauce—look what they done to him!
When Barnaby fin'ly comes to life, Kid Roberts tells him who he really is and just why he pretended to be a poet at Hermit Inn. He likewise adds that Barnaby's a good, game fighter, and the still dazed Barnaby weakly shakes his hand.
I now look for Eva to throw her arms around the handsome neck of the victorious Kid Roberts, and so would you, now wouldn't you? She was more than addicted to him when he was a despised "poet" and now that he's turned out to be a standard size 576, lot 749, 68-carat Hero, why, the clinch seems positive. We all expect it—it's on the cards!
Never again will I expect no women to run to the chart. They don't, and that's all there is to it! When little Eva heard that Kid Roberts was simply a prize fighter and not no composer of passionate pomes, she drew away from him like he had smallpox, runs to the dejected and muchly battered Jim Barnaby and—kisses him! Can you tie that?
The Kid views 'em and laughs, then he unties me and Ptomaine. We immediately look around for the false alarm which posed as Kid Roberts, but that gent has went away from there! We never saw him since, and who wants to?
Ptomaine stretches his cramped arms and watches Eva and Barnaby with a gloomy frown on his homely pan.
"Any of you guys feel like steppin'?" he snarls to the football players. "I don't figure you tramps has paid off yet for what you done to Kid Roberts, get me? I'll take you four at a time to make it a little even. C'mon, chums, let's go!"
"We've had enough fighting!" butts in Kid Roberts sternly. "I consider accounts settled, and that ends the incident. Let's get back to the inn and forget it!"
Kid Roberts is Ptomaine's god, and this big sap would jump off the city hall flagpole into a cigar box if the Kid asked him. I often wish he would! Anyways, Ptomaine is about to walk sullenly away, when he happens to see five or six of these college boys standin' in a line watchin' their fallen captain and still tryin' to figure out how it all happened. Ptomaine's face brightens.
"Hey, you guys!" he calls sharply.
They all wheeled around, and, seein' Ptomaine, give him a loud laugh.
Ptomaine glared. Then he suddenly drew back his gigantic right arm and let go at the fellow nearest him, landin' with a dull sock on his jaw. His prey went down, fallin' against the guy in back of him and the second victim stumbled against the next one in tryin' to hold his balance. That throwed a third guy off his feet and the whole bunch goes down like ninepins in a busy bowlin' alley. They couldn't of done it no funnier should they have rehearsed it for a week! Ptomaine looks down at 'em with a satisfied sneer.
"See can you laugh that off, you big stiffs!" he snarls, and walks away, happy.