THE HIGHFIELD
Far up at the other end of the island, on the banks of the Harlem
River, there stands the old warehouse which modern progress has
converted into the Highfield Athletic and Gymnastic Club. The
imagination, stimulated by the title, conjures up a sort of
National Sporting Club, with pictures on the walls, padding on the
chairs, and a sea of white shirt-fronts from roof to floor. But the
Highfield differs in some respects from this fancy picture.
Indeed, it would be hard to find a respect in which it does not
differ. But these names are so misleading. The title under which
the Highfield used to be known till a few years back was "Swifty
Bob's." It was a good, honest title. You knew what to expect; and
if you attended _séances_ at Swifty Bob's you left your gold watch
and your little savings at home. But a wave of anti-pugilistic
feeling swept over the New York authorities. Promoters of boxing
contests found themselves, to their acute disgust, raided by the
police. The industry began to languish. People avoided places where
at any moment the festivities 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
stands alone as an example of American dry humour. There are now no
boxing contests in New York. Swifty Bob and his fellows would be
shocked at the idea of such a thing. All that happens now is
exhibition sparring bouts between members of the club. It is true
that next day the papers very tactlessly report the friendly
exhibition spar as if it had been quite a serious affair, but that
is not the fault of Swifty Bob.
Kid Brady, the chosen of _Cosy Moments_, was billed for a "ten-round
exhibition contest," to be the main event of the evening's
entertainment. No decisions are permitted at these clubs. Unless a
regrettable accident occurs, and one of the sparrers is knocked
out, the verdict is left to the newspapers next day. It is not
uncommon to find a man win easily in the _World_, draw in the
_American_, and be badly beaten in the _Evening Mail_. The system
leads to a certain amount of confusion, but it has the merit of
offering consolation to a much-smitten warrior.
The best method of getting to the Highfield is by the Subway. To
see the Subway in its most characteristic mood one must travel on
it during the rush-hour, when its patrons are packed into the
carriages in one solid jam by muscular guards and policemen,
shoving in a manner reminiscent of a Rugby football scrum. When
Psmith and Billy entered it on the Friday evening, it was
comparatively empty. All the seats were occupied, but only a few of
the straps and hardly any of the space reserved by law for the
conductor alone.
Conversation on the Subway is impossible. The ingenious gentlemen
who constructed it started with the object of making it noisy. Not
ordinarily noisy, like a ton of coal falling on to a sheet of tin,
but really noisy. So they fashioned the pillars of thin steel, and
the sleepers of thin wood, and loosened all the nuts, and now a
Subway train in motion suggests a prolonged dynamite explosion
blended with the voice of some great cataract.
Psmith, forced into temporary silence by this combination of
noises, started to make up for lost time on arriving in the street
once more.
"A thoroughly unpleasant neighbourhood," he said, critically
surveying the dark streets. "I fear me, Comrade Windsor, that we
have been somewhat rash in venturing as far into the middle west as
this. If ever there was a blighted locality where low-browed
desperadoes might be expected to spring with whoops of joy from
every corner, this blighted locality is that blighted locality.
But we must carry on. In which direction, should you say, does this
arena lie?"
It had begun to rain as they left Billy's lodgings. Psmith turned
up the collar of his Burberry.
"We suffer much in the cause of Literature," he said. "Let us
inquire of this genial soul if he knows where the Highfield is."
The pedestrian referred to proved to be going there himself. They
went on together, Psmith courteously offering views on the weather
and forecasts of the success of Kid Brady in the approaching
contest.
Rattling on, he was alluding to the prominent part _Cosy Moments_ had
played in the affair, when a rough thrust from Windsor's elbow
brought home to him his indiscretion.
He stopped suddenly, wishing he had not said as much. Their
connection with that militant journal was not a thing even to be
suggested to casual acquaintances, especially in such a
particularly ill-lighted neighbourhood as that through which they
were now passing.
Their companion, however, who seemed to be a man of small speech,
made no comment. Psmith deftly turned the conversation back to the
subject of the weather, and was deep in a comparison of the
respective climates of England and the United States, when they
turned a corner and found themselves opposite a gloomy, barn-like
building, over the door of which it was just possible to decipher
in the darkness the words "Highfield Athletic and Gymnastic Club."
The tickets which Billy Windsor had obtained from his newspaper
friend were for one of the boxes. These proved to be sort of
sheep-pens of unpolished wood, each with four hard chairs in it.
The interior of the Highfield Athletic and Gymnastic Club was
severely free from anything in the shape of luxury and ornament.
Along the four walls were raised benches in tiers. On these were
seated as tough-looking a collection of citizens as one might wish
to see. On chairs at the ring-side were the reporters, with tickers
at their sides, by means of which they tapped details of each round
through to their down-town offices, where write-up reporters were
waiting to read off and elaborate the messages. In the centre of
the room, brilliantly lighted by half a dozen electric chandeliers,
was the ring.
There were preliminary bouts before the main event. A burly
gentleman in shirt-sleeves entered the ring, followed by two slim
youths in fighting costume and a massive person in a red jersey,
blue serge trousers, and yellow braces, who chewed gum with an
abstracted air throughout the proceedings.
The burly gentleman gave tongue in a voice that cleft the air like
a cannon-ball.
"Ex-hib-it-i-on four-round bout between Patsy Milligan and Tommy
Goodley, 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
the description to themselves. Possibly they considered the appeal
a mere formula. Somewhere in the background a gong sounded, and
Patsy, from the right, stepped briskly forward to meet Tommy,
approaching from the left.
The contest was short but energetic. At intervals the combatants
would cling affectionately to one another, and on these occasions
the red-jerseyed man, still chewing gum and still wearing the same
air of being lost in abstract thought, would split up the mass by
the simple method of ploughing his way between the pair. Towards
the end of the first round Thomas, eluding a left swing, put
Patrick neatly to the floor, where the latter remained for the
necessary ten seconds.
The remaining preliminaries proved disappointing. So much so that
in the last of the series a soured sportsman on one of the benches
near the roof began in satirical mood to whistle the "Merry Widow
Waltz." It was here that the red-jerseyed thinker for the first and
last time came out 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 than
these boys, he can come right down into the ring."
The whistling ceased.
There was a distinct air of relief when the last preliminary was
finished and preparations for the main bout began. It did not
commence at once. There were formalities to be gone through,
introductions and the like. The burly gentleman reappeared from
nowhere, ushering into the ring a sheepishly-grinning youth in a
flannel suit.
"In-ter-_doo_-cin' Young Leary," he bellowed impressively, "a noo
member 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. A
raucous welcome was accorded to the new member.
Two other notable performers were introduced in a similar manner,
and then the building became suddenly full of noise, for a tall
youth in a bath-robe, attended by a little army of assistants, had
entered the ring. One of the army carried a bright green bucket, on
which were painted in white letters the words "Cyclone Al.
Wolmann." A moment later there was another, though a far lesser,
uproar, as Kid Brady, his pleasant face wearing a self-conscious
smirk, ducked under the ropes and sat down in the opposite corner.
"Ex-hib-it-i-on ten-round bout," thundered the burly gentleman,
"between Cyclone. Al. Wolmann--"
Loud applause. Mr. Wolmann was one of the famous, a fighter with a
reputation from New York to San Francisco. He was generally
considered the most likely man to give the hitherto invincible
Jimmy Garvin a hard battle for the light-weight championship.
"Oh, you Al.!" roared the crowd.
Mr. Wolmann bowed benevolently.
"--and Kid Brady, members of this--"
There was noticeably less applause for the Kid. He was an unknown.
A few of those present had heard of his victories in the West, but
these were but a small section of the crowd. When the faint
applause had ceased, Psmith rose to his feet.
"Oh, you Kid!" he observed encouragingly.
"I should not like Comrade Brady," he said, reseating himself, "to
think that he has no friend but his poor old mother, as, you will
recollect, occurred on a previous occasion."
The burly gentleman, followed by the two armies of assistants,
dropped down from the ring, and the gong sounded.
Mr. Wolmann sprang from his corner as if somebody had touched a
spring. He seemed to be of the opinion that if you are a cyclone, it
is never too soon to begin behaving like one. He danced round the
Kid with an india-rubber agility. The _Cosy Moments_ representative
exhibited more stolidity. Except for the fact that he was in
fighting attitude, with one gloved hand moving slowly in the
neighbourhood of his stocky chest, and the other pawing the air on a
line with his square jaw, one would have said that he did not
realise the position of affairs. He wore the friendly smile of the
good-natured guest who is led forward by his hostess to join in some
round game.
Suddenly his opponent's long left shot out. The Kid, who had been
strolling forward, received it under the chin, and continued to
stroll forward as if nothing of note had happened. He gave the
impression of being aware that Mr. Wolmann had committed a breach
of good taste and of being resolved to pass it off with ready tact.
The Cyclone, having executed a backward leap, a forward leap, and a
feint, landed heavily with both hands. The Kid's genial smile did
not even quiver, but he continued to move forward. His opponent's
left flashed out again, but this time, instead of ignoring the
matter, the Kid replied with a heavy right swing; and Mr. Wolmann,
leaping back, found himself against the ropes. By the time he had
got out of that uncongenial position, two more of the Kid's swings
had found their mark. Mr. Wolmann, somewhat perturbed, scuttered
out into the middle of the ring, the Kid following in his
self-contained, solid way.
The Cyclone now became still more cyclonic. He had a left arm
which seemed to open out in joints like a telescope. Several times
when the Kid appeared well out of distance there was a thud as a
brown glove ripped in over his guard and jerked his head back. But
always he kept boring in, delivering an occasional right to the
body with the pleased smile of an infant destroying a Noah's Ark
with a tack-hammer. Despite these efforts, however, he was plainly
getting all the worst of it. Energetic Mr. Wolmann, relying on his
long left, was putting in three blows to his one. When the gong
sounded, ending the first round, the house was practically solid
for the Cyclone. Whoops and yells rose from everywhere. The
building rang with shouts of, "Oh, you Al.!"
Psmith turned sadly to Billy.
"It seems to me, Comrade Windsor," he said, "that this merry
meeting looks like doing Comrade Brady no good. I should not be
surprised at any moment to see his head bounce off on to the
floor."
"Wait," said Billy. "He'll win yet."
"You think so?"
"Sure. He comes from Wyoming," said Billy with simple confidence.
Rounds two and three were a repetition of round one. The Cyclone
raged almost unchecked about the ring. In one lightning rally in
the third he brought his right across squarely on to the Kid's jaw.
It was a blow which should have knocked any boxer out. The Kid
merely staggered slightly and returned to business, still smiling.
"See!" roared Billy enthusiastically in Psmith's ear, above the
uproar. "He doesn't mind it! He likes it! He comes from Wyoming!"
With the opening of round four there came a subtle change. The
Cyclone's fury was expending itself. That long left shot out less
sharply. Instead of being knocked back by it, the _Cosy Moments_
champion now took the hits in his stride, and came shuffling in
with his damaging body-blows. There were cheers and "Oh, you
Al.'s!" at the sound of the gong, but there was an appealing note
in them this time. The gallant sportsmen whose connection with
boxing was confined to watching other men fight, and betting on
what they considered a certainty, and who would have expired
promptly if any one had tapped them sharply on their well-filled
waistcoats, were beginning to fear that they might lose their money
after all.
In the fifth round the thing became a certainty. Like the month of
March, the Cyclone, who had come in like a lion, was going out like
a lamb. A slight decrease in the pleasantness of the Kid's smile
was noticeable. His expression began to resemble more nearly the
gloomy importance of the _Cosy Moments_ photographs. Yells of agony
from panic-stricken speculators around the ring began to smite the
rafters. The Cyclone, now but a gentle breeze, clutched repeatedly,
hanging on like a leech till removed by the red-jerseyed referee.
Suddenly a grisly silence fell upon the house. It was broken by a
cow-boy yell from Billy Windsor. For the Kid, battered, but
obviously content, was standing in the middle of the ring, while on
the ropes the Cyclone, drooping like a wet sock, was sliding slowly
to the floor.
"_Cosy Moments_ wins," said Psmith. "An omen, I fancy, Comrade
Windsor."