THE FIRST BATTLE
The promptitude and despatch with which the Kid had attended to the
gentleman with the black-jack had not been without its effect on
the followers of the stricken one. Physical courage is not an
outstanding quality of the New York hooligan. His personal
preference is for retreat when it is a question of unpleasantness
with a stranger. And, in any case, even when warring among
themselves, the gangs exhibit a lively distaste for the hard knocks
of hand-to-hand fighting. Their chosen method of battling is to lie
down on the ground and shoot. This is more suited to their
physique, which is rarely great. The gangsman, as a rule, is
stunted and slight of build.
The Kid's rapid work on the present occasion created a good deal of
confusion. There was no doubt that much had been hoped for from
speedy attack. Also, the generalship of the expedition had been in
the hands of the fallen warrior. His removal from the sphere of
active influence had left the party without a head. And, to add to
their discomfiture, they could not account for the Kid. Psmith they
knew, and Billy Windsor they knew, but who was this stranger with
the square shoulders and the upper-cut that landed like a
cannon-ball? Something approaching a panic prevailed among the
gang.
It was not lessened by the behaviour of the intended victims. Billy
Windsor, armed with the big stick which he had bought after the
visit of Mr. Parker, was the first to join issue. He had been a few
paces behind the others during the black-jack incident; but, dark
as it was, he had seen enough to show him that the occasion was, as
Psmith would have said, one for the Shrewd Blow rather than the
Prolonged Parley. With a whoop of the purest Wyoming brand, he
sprang forward into the confused mass of the enemy. A moment later
Psmith and the Kid followed, and there raged over the body of the
fallen leader a battle of Homeric type.
It was not a long affair. The rules and conditions governing the
encounter offended the delicate sensibilities of the gang. Like
artists who feel themselves trammelled by distasteful conventions,
they were damped and could not do themselves justice. Their forte
was long-range fighting with pistols. With that they felt _en
rapport_. But this vulgar brawling in the darkness with muscular
opponents who hit hard and often with sticks and hands was
distasteful to them. They could not develop any enthusiasm for it.
They carried pistols, but it was too dark and the combatants were
too entangled to allow them to use these. Besides, this was not the
dear, homely old Bowery, where a gentleman may fire a pistol
without exciting vulgar comment. It was up-town, where curious
crowds might collect at the first shot.
There was but one thing to be done. Reluctant as they might be to
abandon their fallen leader, they must tear themselves away.
Already they were suffering grievously from the stick, the
black-jack, and the lightning blows of the Kid. For a moment they
hung, wavering; then stampeded in half a dozen different
directions, melting into the night whence they had come.
Billy, full of zeal, pursued one fugitive some fifty yards down the
street, but his quarry, exhibiting a rare turn of speed, easily
outstripped him.
He came back, panting, to find Psmith and the Kid examining the
fallen leader of the departed ones with the aid of a match, which
went out just as Billy arrived.
"It is our friend of the earlier part of the evening, Comrade
Windsor," said Psmith. "The merchant with whom we hob-nobbed on our
way to the Highfield. In a moment of imprudence I mentioned _Cosy
Moments_. I fancy that this was his first intimation that we were in
the offing. His visit to the Highfield was paid, I think, purely
from sport-loving motives. He was not on our trail. He came merely
to see if Comrade Brady was proficient with his hands. Subsequent
events must have justified our fighting editor in his eyes. It seems
to be a moot point whether he will ever recover consciousness."
"Mighty good thing if he doesn't," said Billy uncharitably.
"From one point of view, Comrade Windsor, yes. Such an event would
undoubtedly be an excellent thing for the public good. But from our
point of view, it would be as well if he were to sit up and take
notice. We could ascertain from him who he is and which particular
collection of horny-handeds he represents. Light another match,
Comrade Brady."
The Kid did so. The head of it fell off and dropped upon the
up-turned face. The hooligan stirred, shook himself, sat up, and
began to mutter something in a foggy voice.
"He's still woozy," said the Kid.
"Still--what exactly, Comrade Brady?"
"In the air," explained the Kid. "Bats in the belfry. Dizzy. See
what I mean? It's often like that when a feller puts one in with a
bit of weight behind it just where that one landed. Gum! I
remember when I fought Martin Kelly; I was only starting to learn
the game then. Martin and me was mixing it good and hard all over
the ring, when suddenly he puts over a stiff one right on the
point. What do you think I done? Fall down and take the count? Not
on your life. I just turns round and walks straight out of the
ring to my dressing-room. Willie Harvey, who was seconding me,
comes tearing in after me, and finds me getting into my clothes.
'What's doing, Kid?' he asks. 'I'm going fishin', Willie,' I says.
'It's a lovely day.' 'You've lost the fight,' he says. 'Fight?'
says I. 'What fight?' See what I mean? I hadn't a notion of what
had happened. It was a half an hour and more before I could
remember a thing."
During this reminiscence, the man on the ground had contrived to
clear his mind of the mistiness induced by the Kid's upper-cut. The
first sign he showed of returning intelligence was a sudden dash
for safety up the road. But he had not gone five yards when he sat
down limply.
The Kid was inspired to further reminiscence. "Guess he's feeling
pretty poor," he said. "It's no good him trying to run for a while
after he's put his chin in the way of a real live one. I remember
when Joe Peterson put me out, way back when I was new to the
game--it was the same year I fought Martin Kelly. He had an awful
punch, had old Joe, and he put me down and out in the eighth round.
After the fight they found me on the fire-escape outside my
dressing-room. 'Come in, Kid,' says they. 'It's all right, chaps,'
I says, 'I'm dying.' Like that. 'It's all right, chaps, I'm dying.'
Same with this guy. See what I mean?"
They formed a group about the fallen black-jack expert.
"Pardon us," said Psmith courteously, "for breaking in upon your
reverie; but, if you could spare us a moment of your valuable time,
there are one or two things which we should like to know."
"Sure thing," agreed the Kid.
"In the first place," continued Psmith, "would it be betraying
professional secrets if you told us which particular bevy of
energetic sandbaggers it is to which you are attached?"
"Gent," explained the Kid, "wants to know what's your gang."
The man on the ground muttered something that to Psmith and Billy
was unintelligible.
"It would be a charity," said the former, "if some philanthropist
would give this blighter elocution lessons. Can you interpret,
Comrade Brady?"
"Says it's the Three Points," said the Kid.
"The Three Points? Let me see, is that Dude Dawson, Comrade
Windsor, or the other gentleman?"
"It's Spider Reilly. Dude Dawson runs the Table Hill crowd."
"Perhaps this _is_ Spider Reilly?"
"Nope," said the Kid. "I know the Spider. This ain't him. This is
some other mutt."
"Which other mutt in particular?" asked Psmith. "Try and find out,
Comrade Brady. You seem to be able to understand what he says. To
me, personally, his remarks sound like the output of a gramophone
with a hot potato in its mouth."
"Says he's Jack Repetto," announced the interpreter.
There was another interruption at this moment. The bashful Mr.
Repetto, plainly a man who was not happy in the society of
strangers, made another attempt to withdraw. Reaching out a pair of
lean hands, he pulled the Kid's legs from under him with a swift
jerk, and, wriggling to his feet, started off again down the road.
Once more, however, desire outran performance. He got as far as the
nearest street-lamp, but no farther. The giddiness seemed to
overcome him again, for he grasped the lamp-post, and, sliding
slowly to the ground, sat there motionless.
The Kid, whose fall had jolted and bruised him, was inclined to be
wrathful and vindictive. He was the first of the three to reach
the elusive Mr. Repetto, and if that worthy had happened to be
standing instead of sitting it might have gone hard with him. But
the Kid was not the man to attack a fallen foe. He contented
himself with brushing the dust off his person and addressing a
richly abusive flow of remarks to Mr. Repetto.
Under the rays of the lamp it was possible to discern more closely
the features of the black-jack exponent. There was a subtle but
noticeable resemblance to those of Mr. Bat Jarvis. Apparently the
latter's oiled forelock, worn low over the forehead, was more a
concession to the general fashion prevailing in gang circles than
an expression of personal taste. Mr. Repetto had it, too. In his
case it was almost white, for the fallen warrior was an albino. His
eyes, which were closed, had white lashes and were set as near
together as Nature had been able to manage without actually running
them into one another. His under-lip protruded and drooped. Looking
at him, one felt instinctively that no judging committee of a
beauty contest would hesitate a moment before him.
It soon became apparent that the light of the lamp, though
bestowing the doubtful privilege of a clearer view of Mr. Repetto's
face, held certain disadvantages. Scarcely had the staff of _Cosy
Moments_ reached the faint yellow pool of light, in the centre of
which Mr. Repetto reclined, than, with a suddenness which caused
them to leap into the air, there sounded from the darkness down the
road the _crack-crack-crack_ of a revolver. Instantly from the
opposite direction came other shots. Three bullets flicked grooves
in the roadway almost at Billy's feet. The Kid gave a sudden howl.
Psmith's hat, suddenly imbued with life, sprang into the air and
vanished, whirling into the night.
The thought did not come to them consciously at the moment, there
being little time to think, but it was evident as soon as, diving
out of the circle of light into the sheltering darkness, they
crouched down and waited for the next move, that a somewhat skilful
ambush had been effected. The other members of the gang, who had
fled with such remarkable speed, had by no means been eliminated
altogether from the game. While the questioning of Mr. Repetto had
been in progress, they had crept back, unperceived except by Mr.
Repetto himself. It being too dark for successful shooting, it had
become Mr. Repetto's task to lure his captors into the light, which
he had accomplished with considerable skill.
For some minutes the battle halted. There was dead silence. The
circle of light was empty now. Mr. Repetto had vanished. A
tentative shot from nowhere ripped through the air close to where
Psmith lay flattened on the pavement. And then the pavement began
to vibrate and give out a curious resonant sound. To Psmith it
conveyed nothing, but to the opposing army it meant much. They knew
it for what it was. Somewhere--it might be near or far--a policeman
had heard the shots, and was signalling for help to other policemen
along the line by beating on the flag-stones with his night-stick,
the New York constable's substitute for the London police-whistle.
The noise grew, filling the still air. From somewhere down the road
sounded the ring of running feet.
"De cops!" cried a voice. "Beat it!"
Next moment the night was full of clatter. The gang was "beating
it."
Psmith rose to his feet and dusted his clothes ruefully. For the
first time he realised the horrors of war. His hat had gone for
ever. His trousers could never be the same again after their close
acquaintance with the pavement.
The rescue party was coming up at the gallop.
The New York policeman may lack the quiet dignity of his London
rival, but he is a hustler.
"What's doing?"
"Nothing now," said the disgusted voice of Billy Windsor from the
shadows. "They've beaten it."
The circle of lamplight became as if by mutual consent a general
rendezvous. Three grey-clad policemen, tough, clean-shaven men with
keen eyes and square jaws, stood there, revolver in one hand,
night-stick in the other. Psmith, hatless and dusty, joined them.
Billy Windsor and the Kid, the latter bleeding freely from his left
ear, the lobe of which had been chipped by a bullet, were the last
to arrive.
"What's bin the rough house?" inquired one of the policemen, mildly
interested.
"Do you know a sportsman of the name of Repetto?" inquired Psmith.
"Jack Repetto! Sure."
"He belongs to the Three Points," said another intelligent officer,
as one naming some fashionable club.
"When next you see him," said Psmith, "I should be obliged if you
would use your authority to make him buy me a new hat. I could do
with another pair of trousers, too; but I will not press the
trousers. A new hat, is, however, essential. Mine has a six-inch
hole in it."
"Shot at you, did they?" said one of the policemen, as who should
say, "Dash the lads, they're always up to some of their larks."
"Shot at us!" burst out the ruffled Kid. "What do you think's bin
happening? Think an aeroplane ran into my ear and took half of it
off? Think the noise was somebody opening bottles of pop? Think
those guys that sneaked off down the road was just training for a
Marathon?"
"Comrade Brady," said Psmith, "touches the spot. He--"
"Say, are you Kid Brady?" inquired one of the officers. For the
first time the constabulary had begun to display any real
animation.
"Reckoned I'd seen you somewhere!" said another. "You licked
Cyclone Al. all right, Kid, I hear."
"And who but a bone-head thought he wouldn't?" demanded the third
warmly. "He could whip a dozen Cyclone Al.'s in the same evening
with his eyes shut."
"He's the next champeen," admitted the first speaker.
"If he puts it over Jimmy Garvin," argued the second.
"Jimmy Garvin!" cried the third. "He can whip twenty Jimmy Garvins
with his feet tied. I tell you--"
"I am loath," observed Psmith, "to interrupt this very impressive
brain-barbecue, but, trivial as it may seem to you, to me there is
a certain interest in this other little matter of my ruined hat. I
know that it may strike you as hypersensitive of us to protest
against being riddled with bullets, but--"
"Well, what's bin doin'?" inquired the Force. It was a nuisance,
this perpetual harping on trifles when the deep question of the
light-weight Championship of the World was under discussion, but
the sooner it was attended to, the sooner it would be over.
Billy Windsor undertook to explain.
"The Three Points laid for us," he said. "Jack Repetto was bossing
the crowd. I don't know who the rest were. The Kid put one over on
to Jack Repetto's chin, and we were asking him a few questions when
the rest came back, and started into shooting. Then we got to cover
quick, and you came up and they beat it."
"That," said Psmith, nodding, "is a very fair _précis_ of the
evening's events. We should like you, if you will be so good, to
corral this Comrade Repetto, and see that he buys me a new hat."
"We'll round Jack up," said one of the policemen indulgently.
"Do it nicely," urged Psmith. "Don't go hurting his feelings."
The second policeman gave it as his opinion that Jack was getting
too gay. The third policeman conceded this. Jack, he said, had
shown signs for some time past of asking for it in the neck. It was
an error on Jack's part, he gave his hearers to understand, to
assume that the lid was completely off the great city of New York.
"Too blamed fresh he's gettin'," the trio agreed. They could not
have been more disapproving if they had been prefects at Haileybury
and Mr. Repetto a first-termer who had been detected in the act of
wearing his cap on the back of his head.
They seemed to think it was too bad of Jack.
"The wrath of the Law," said Psmith, "is very terrible. We will
leave the matter, then, in your hands. In the meantime, we should
be glad if you would direct us to the nearest Subway station. Just
at the moment, the cheerful lights of the Great White Way are what
I seem to chiefly need."