THE HIGHFIELD
John looked after him, open-mouthed. The events of the evening had
been a revelation to him. He had not realized the ramifications of New
York's underworld. That members of the gangs should appear in gorgeous
raiment in the Astor roof-garden was a surprise. "And now," said Smith,
"that our friend has so sportingly returned your watch, take a look at
it and see the time. Nine? Excellent. We shall do it comfortably."
"What's that?" asked John.
"Our visit to the Highfield. A young friend of mine who is fighting
there to-night sent me tickets a few days ago. In your perusal of
_Peaceful Moments_ you may have chanced to see mention of one Kid
Brady. He is the man. I was intending to go in any case, but an idea
has just struck me that we might combine pleasure with business. Has it
occurred to you that these black-jack specialists may drop in on us at
the office? And, if so, that Comrade Maloney's statement that we are
not in may be insufficient to keep them out? Comrade Brady would be an
invaluable assistant. And as we are his pugilistic sponsors, without
whom he would not have got this fight at all, I think we may say that
he will do any little thing we may ask of him."
It was certainly true that, from the moment the paper had taken up his
cause, Kid Brady's star had been in the ascendant. The sporting pages
of the big dailies had begun to notice him, until finally the
management of the Highfield Club had signed him on for a ten-round bout
with a certain Cyclone Dick Fisher.
"He should," continued Smith, "if equipped in any degree with the finer
feelings, be bubbling over with gratitude toward us. At any rate, it is
worth investigating."
* * * * *
Far away from the comfortable glare of Broadway, in a place of
disheveled houses and insufficient street-lamps, there stands the old
warehouse which modern enterprise has converted into the Highfield
Athletic and Gymnastic Club. The imagination, stimulated by the title,
conjures up picture-covered walls, padded chairs, and seas of white
shirt front. 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 export, and if
you attended seances 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. Persons 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 humor. At once there were no boxing
contests in New York; Swifty Bob and his fellows would have been
shocked at the idea of such a thing. All that happened now was
exhibition sparring bouts between members of the club. It is true that
next day the papers very tactlessly reported the friendly exhibition
spar as if it had been quite a serious affair, but that was not the
fault of Swifty Bob.
Kid Brady, the chosen of _Peaceful Moments_, was billed for a
"ten-round exhibition contest," to be the main event of the evening's
entertainment.
* * * * *
A long journey on the subway took them to the neighborhood, and after
considerable wandering they arrived at their destination.
Smith's tickets were for a ring-side box, a species of sheep pen of
unpolished wood, 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 ringside were the
reporters with tickers at their sides. In the center of the room,
brilliantly lighted by half-a-dozen electric chandeliers, was the ring.
There were preliminary bouts before the main event. A burly 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-hibit-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. Toward 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 Dick Fisher." A moment
later there was another, though a far less, 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 Dick Fisher--"
Loud applause. Mr. Fisher 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 Dick!" roared the crowd.
Mr. Fisher bowed benevolently.
"--and Kid Brady, member of this--"
There was noticeably less applause for the Kid. He was an unknown. 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, Smith 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 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. Fisher sprang from his corner as if somebody had touched a spring.
He seemed to be of the opinion that if you are a cyclone, it is never
too soon to begin behaving like one. He danced round the Kid with an
india-rubber agility. The _Peaceful Moments_ representative
exhibited more stolidity. Except for the fact that he was in fighting
attitude, with one gloved hand moving slowly in the neighborhood 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 realize 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 game to amuse the children.
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. Fisher 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. Fisher 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. Fisher, somewhat perturbed, scuttled out into the middle of
the ring, the Kid following in his self-contained, stolid 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. Fisher, 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 Dick!"
Smith turned sadly to John.
"It seems to me," 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."
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.
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 _Peaceful
Moments_ champion now took the hits in his stride, and came
shuffling in with his damaging body-blows. There were cheers and "Oh,
you Dick's!" at the sound of the gong, but there was an appealing 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 anyone
had tapped them sharply on their well-filled vests, 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 _Peaceful 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. 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.
"_Peaceful Moments_ wins," said Smith. "An omen, I fancy, Comrade
John."
Penetrating into the Kid's dressing-room some moments later, the
editorial staff found the winner of the ten-round exhibition bout
between members of the club seated on a chair having his right leg
rubbed by a shock-headed man in a sweater, who had been one of his
seconds during the conflict. The Kid beamed as they entered.
"Gents," he said, "come right in. Mighty glad to see you."
"It is a relief to me, Comrade Brady," said Smith, "to find that you
can see us. I had expected to find that Comrade Fisher's purposeful
wallops had completely closed your star-likes."
"Sure, I never felt them. He's a good, quick boy, is Dick, but,"
continued the Kid with powerful imagery "he couldn't hit a hole in a
block of ice-cream, not if he was to use a coke-hammer."
"And yet at one period in the proceedings," said Smith, "I fancied that
your head would come unglued at the neck. But the fear was merely
transient. When you began to get going, why, then I felt like some
watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken, or like
stout Cortez when with eagle eyes he stared at the Pacific."
The Kid blinked.
"How's that?" he enquired.
"And why did I feel like that, Comrade Brady? I will tell you. Because
my faith in you was justified. Because there before me stood the ideal
fighting editor of _Peaceful Moments_. It is not a post that any
weakling can fill. Mere charm of manner cannot qualify a man for the
position. No one can hold down the job simply by having a kind heart or
being good at comic songs. No. We want a man of thews and sinews, a man
who would rather be hit on the head with a half-brick than not. And
you, Comrade Brady, are such a man."
The shock-headed man, who during this conversation had been
concentrating himself on his subject's left leg now announced that he
guessed that would about do, and having advised the Kid not to stop and
pick daisies, but to get into his clothes at once before he caught a
chill, bade the company goodnight and retired.
Smith shut the door.
"Comrade Brady," he said, "you know those articles about the tenements
we've been having in the paper?"
"Sure. I read 'em. They're to the good. It was about time some strong
josher came and put it across 'em."
"So we thought. Comrade Parker, however, totally disagreed with us."
"Parker?"
"That's what I'm coming to," said Smith. "The day before yesterday a
man named Parker called at the office and tried to buy us off."
"You gave him the hook, I guess?" queried the interested Kid.
"To such an extent, Comrade Brady," said Smith, "that he left breathing
threatenings and slaughter. And it is for that reason that we have
ventured to call upon you. We're pretty sure by this time that Comrade
Parker has put one of the gangs on to us."
"You don't say!" exclaimed the Kid. "Gee! They're tough propositions,
those gangs."
"So we've come along to you. We can look after ourselves out of the
office, but what we want is someone to help in case they try to rush us
there. In brief, a fighting editor. At all costs we must have privacy.
No writer can prune and polish his sentences to his satisfaction if he
is compelled constantly to break off in order to eject boisterous
toughs. We therefore offer you the job of sitting in the outer room and
intercepting these bravoes before they can reach us. The salary we
leave to you. There are doubloons and to spare in the old oak chest.
Take what you need and put the rest--if any--back. How does the offer
strike you, Comrade Brady?"
"Gents," said the Kid, "it's this way."
He slipped into his coat, and resumed.
"Now that I've made good by licking Dick, they'll be giving me a chance
of a big fight. Maybe with Jimmy Garvin. Well, if that happens, see
what I mean? I'll have to be going away somewhere and getting into
training. I shouldn't be able to come and sit with you. But, if you
gents feel like it, I'd be mighty glad to come in till I'm wanted to go
into training camp."
"Great," said Smith. "And touching salary--"
"Shucks!" said the Kid with emphasis. "Nix on the salary thing. I
wouldn't take a dime. If it hadn't 'a' been for you, I'd have been
waiting still for a chance of lining up in the championship class.
That's good enough for me. Any old thing you want me to do, I'll do it,
and glad to."
"Comrade Brady," said Smith warmly, "you are, if I may say so, the
goods. You are, beyond a doubt, supremely the stuff. We three, then,
hand-in-hand, will face the foe, and if the foe has good, sound sense,
he will keep right away. You appear to be ready. Shall we meander
forth?"
The building was empty and the lights were out when they emerged from
the dressing-room. They had to grope their way in darkness. It was
raining when they reached the street, and the only signs of life were a
moist policeman and the distant glare of saloon lights down the road.
They turned off to the left, and, after walking some hundred yards,
found themselves in a blind alley.
"Hello!" said John. "Where have we come to?"
Smith sighed.
"In my trusting way," he said, "I had imagined that either you or
Comrade Brady was in charge of this expedition and taking me by a known
route to the nearest subway station. I did not think to ask. I placed
myself, without hesitation, wholly in your hands."
"I thought the Kid knew the way," said John.
"I was just taggin' along with you gents," protested the light-weight.
"I thought you was taking me right. This is the first time I been up
here."
"Next time we three go on a little jaunt anywhere," said Smith
resignedly, "it would be as well to take a map and a corps of guides
with us. Otherwise we shall start for Broadway and finish up at
Minneapolis."
They emerged from the blind alley and stood in the dark street, looking
doubtfully up and down it.
"Aha!" said Smith suddenly. "I perceive a native. Several natives, in
fact. Quite a little covey of them. We will put our case before them,
concealing nothing, and rely on their advice to take us to our goal."
A little knot of men was approaching from the left. In the darkness it
was impossible to say how many of them were there. Smith stepped
forward, the Kid at his side.
"Excuse me, sir," he said to the leader, "but if you can spare me a
moment of your valuable time--"
There was a sudden shuffle of feet on the pavement, a quick movement on
the part of the Kid, a chunky sound as of wood striking wood, and the
man Smith had been addressing fell to the ground in a heap.
As he fell, something dropped from his hand on to the pavement with a
bump and a rattle. Stooping swiftly, the Kid picked it up, and handed
it to Smith. His fingers closed upon it. It was a short, wicked-looking
little bludgeon, the black-jack of the New York tough.
"Get busy," advised the Kid briefly.