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 gangsman. 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.
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. Smith they knew, and John was to be
accounted for, but who was this stranger with the square shoulders and
the uppercut that landed like a cannon ball? Something approaching a
panic prevailed among the gang.
It was not lessened by the behavior of the intended victims. John 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 Smith would have said, one for
the shrewd blow rather than the prolonged parley. With a shout, he made
a football rush into the confused mass of the enemy. A moment later
Smith 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 trammeled 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 the clenched fist 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.
There was but one thing to be done. Reluctant as they might be to
abandon their fallen leader, it must be done. Already they were
suffering grievously from John, 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.
John, 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 Smith and the Kid examining the fallen
leader of the departed ones with the aid of a match, which went out
just as John arrived.
The Kid struck another. The head of it fell off and dropped upon the
up-turned face. The victim 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. Gee! 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 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 Smith 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 would like to know."
"Sure thing," agreed the Kid.
"In the first place," continued Smith, "would it be betraying
professional secrets if you told us which particular bevy of energetic
cutthroats 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 Smith and John was
unintelligible.
"It would be a charity," said the former, "if some philanthropist would
give this fellow elocution lessons. Can you interpret, Comrade Brady?"
"Says it's the Three Points," said the Kid.
"The Three Points? That's Spider Reilly's lot. 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 Smith. "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 further. 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
underlip 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 _Peaceful
Moments_ reached the faint yellow pool of light, in the center 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 cut grooves in the roadway almost at
John's feet. The Kid gave a sudden howl. Smith'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 Smith lay flattened on
the pavement. And then the pavement began to vibrate and give out a
curious resonant sound. Somewhere--it might be near or far--a policeman
had heard the shots, and was signaling for help to other policemen
along the line by beating on the flagstones with his night stick. 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."
Smith rose to his feet and felt his wet and muddy clothes ruefully.
The rescue party was coming up at the gallop.
"What's doing?" asked a voice.
"Nothing now," said the disgusted voice of the Kid from the shadows.
"They've beaten it."
The circle of lamplight became as if by mutual consent a general
rendezvous. Three gray-clad policemen, tough, clean-shaven men with
keen eyes and square jaws, stood there, revolvers in one hand, night
sticks in the other. Smith, hatless and muddy, joined them. John 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 been the rough-house?" inquired one of the policemen, mildly
interested.
"Do you know a sport of the name of Repetto?" enquired Smith.
"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 Smith, "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,
"Tut, tut!"
"Shot at us!" burst out the ruffled Kid. "What do you think's been
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 Smith, "touches the spot. He--"
"Say, are you Kid Brady?" enquired one of the officers. For the first
time the constabulary had begun to display real animation.
"Reckoned I'd seen you somewhere!" said another. "You licked Cyclone
Dick 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 Dicks in the same evening with
his eyes shut."
"He's the next champeen," admitted the first speaker.
"If he juts 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 Smith, "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 been 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.
John undertook to explain.
"The Three Points laid for us," he said. "This man, Jack Repetto, was
bossing the crowd. 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
shooting. Then we got to cover quick, and you came up and they beat
it."
"That," said Smith, nodding, "is a very fair _precis_ 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 Smith. "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 seemed to think
it was too bad of Jack.
"The wrath of the Law," said Smith, "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 chiefly to
need."
* * * * *
So ended the opening engagement of the campaign, in a satisfactory but
far from decisive victory for the _Peaceful Moments_' army.
"The victory," said Smith, "was not bloodless. Comrade Brady's ear, my
hat--these are not slight casualties. On the other hand, the
elimination of Comrade Repetto is pleasant. I know few men whom I would
not rather meet on a lonely road than Comrade Repetto. He is one of
nature's black-jackers. Probably the thing crept upon him slowly. He
started, possibly, in a merely tentative way by slugging one of the
family circle. His aunt, let us say, or his small brother. But, once
started, he is unable to resist the craving. The thing grips him like
dram-drinking. He black-jacks now not because he really wants to, but
because he cannot help himself. There's something singularly consoling
in the thought that Comrade Repetto will no longer be among those
present."
"There are others," said John.
"As you justly remark," said Smith, "there are others. I am glad we
have secured Comrade Brady's services. We may need them."