"The dime," said I, "was the price of listening to _your_ story."
"Right on the point of the jaw," said he. "Go on."
And then, incredible as it may seem to the lovers in the world who
confide their sorrows only to the night wind and the gibbous moon, I
laid bare my secret to that wreck of all things that you would have
supposed to be in sympathy with love.
I told him of the days and weeks and months that I had spent in
adoring Mildred Telfair. I spoke of my despair, my grievous days
and wakeful nights, my dwindling hopes and distress of mind. I even
pictured to this night-prowler her beauty and dignity, the great sway
she had in society, and the magnificence of her life as the elder
daughter of an ancient race whose pride overbalanced the dollars of
the city's millionaires.
"Why don't you cop the lady out?" asked Mack, bringing me down to
earth and dialect again.
I explained to him that my worth was so small, my income so minute,
and my fears so large that I hadn't the courage to speak to her of
my worship. I told him that in her presence I could only blush and
stammer, and that she looked upon me with a wonderful, maddening smile
of amusement.
"She kind of moves in the professional class, don't she?" asked Mack.
"The Telfair family--" I began, haughtily.
"I mean professional beauty," said my hearer.
"She is greatly and widely admired," I answered, cautiously.
"Any sisters?"
"One."
"You know any more girls?"
"Why, several," I answered. "And a few others."
"Say," said Mack, "tell me one thing--can you hand out the dope
to other girls? Can you chin 'em and make matinée eyes at 'em and
squeeze 'em? You know what I mean. You're just shy when it comes to
this particular dame--the professional beauty--ain't that right?"
"In a way you have outlined the situation with approximate truth," I
admitted.
"I thought so," said Mack, grimly. "Now, that reminds me of my own
case. I'll tell you about it."
I was indignant, but concealed it. What was this loafer's case or
anybody's case compared with mine? Besides, I had given him a dollar
and ten cents.
"Feel my muscle," said my companion, suddenly, flexing his biceps. I
did so mechanically. The fellows in gyms are always asking you to do
that. His arm was as hard as cast-iron.
"Four years ago," said Mack, "I could lick any man in New York outside
of the professional ring. Your case and mine is just the same. I come
from the West Side--between Thirtieth and Fourteenth--I won't give the
number on the door. I was a scrapper when I was ten, and when I was
twenty no amateur in the city could stand up four rounds with me. 'S
a fact. You know Bill McCarty? No? He managed the smokers for some
of them swell clubs. Well, I knocked out everything Bill brought up
before me. I was a middle-weight, but could train down to a welter
when necessary. I boxed all over the West Side at bouts and benefits
and private entertainments, and was never put out once.
"But, say, the first time I put my foot in the ring with a professional
I was no more than a canned lobster. I dunno how it was--I seemed to
lose heart. I guess I got too much imagination. There was a formality
and publicness about it that kind of weakened my nerve. I never won a
fight in the ring. Light-weights and all kinds of scrubs used to sign
up with my manager and then walk up and tap me on the wrist and see me
fall. The minute I seen the crowd and a lot of gents in evening clothes
down in front, and seen a professional come inside the ropes, I got as
weak as ginger-ale.
"Of course, it wasn't long till I couldn't get no backers, and I didn't
have any more chances to fight a professional--or many amateurs,
either. But lemme tell you--I was as good as most men inside the ring
or out. It was just that dumb, dead feeling I had when I was up against
a regular that always done me up.
"Well, sir, after I had got out of the business, I got a mighty grouch
on. I used to go round town licking private citizens and all kinds of
unprofessionals just to please myself. I'd lick cops in dark streets
and car-conductors and cab-drivers and draymen whenever I could start
a row with 'em. It didn't make any difference how big they were, or
how much science they had, I got away with 'em. If I'd only just have
had the confidence in the ring that I had beating up the best men
outside of it, I'd be wearing black pearls and heliotrope silk socks
to-day.
"One evening I was walking along near the Bowery, thinking about
things, when along comes a slumming-party. About six or seven they
was, all in swallowtails, and these silk hats that don't shine. One
of the gang kind of shoves me off the sidewalk. I hadn't had a scrap
in three days, and I just says, 'De-light-ed!' and hits him back of
the ear.
"Well, we had it. That Johnnie put up as decent a little fight as
you'd want to see in the moving pictures. It was on a side street,
and no cops around. The other guy had a lot of science, but it only
took me about six minutes to lay him out.
"Some of the swallowtails dragged him up against some steps and began
to fan him. Another one of 'em comes over to me and says:
"'Young man, do you know what you've done?'
"'Oh, beat it,' says I. 'I've done nothing but a little punching-bag
work. Take Freddy back to Yale and tell him to quit studying
sociology on the wrong side of the sidewalk.'
"'My good fellow,' says he, 'I don't know who you are, but I'd like
to. You've knocked out Reddy Burns, the champion middle-weight of the
world! He came to New York yesterday, to try to get a match on with
Jim Jeffries. If you--'
"But when I come out of my faint I was laying on the floor in a
drug-store saturated with aromatic spirits of ammonia. If I'd known
that was Reddy Burns, I'd have got down in the gutter and crawled past
him instead of handing him one like I did. Why, if I'd ever been in a
ring and seen him climbing over the ropes, I'd have been all to the
sal-volatile.
"So that's what imagination does," concluded Mack. "And, as I said,
your case and mine is simultaneous. You'll never win out. You can't
go up against the professionals. I tell you, it's a park bench for
yours in this romance business."
Mack, the pessimist, laughed harshly.
"I'm afraid I don't see the parallel," I said, coldly. "I have only a
very slight acquaintance with the prize-ring."
The derelict touched my sleeve with his forefinger, for emphasis, as
he explained his parable.
"Every man," said he, with some dignity, "has got his lamps on
something that looks good to him. With you, it's this dame that
you're afraid to say your say to. With me, it was to win out in the
ring. Well, you'll lose just like I did."
"Why do you think I shall lose?" I asked warmly.
"'Cause," said he, "you're afraid to go in the ring. You dassen't
stand up before a professional. Your case and mine is just the same.
You're a amateur; and that means that you'd better keep outside of the
ropes."
"Well, I must be going," I said, rising and looking with elaborate
care at my watch.
When I was twenty feet away the park-bencher called to me.
"Much obliged for the dollar," he said. "And for the dime. But
you'll never get 'er. You're in the amateur class."
"Serves you right," I said to myself, "for hobnobbing with a tramp.
His impudence!"
But, as I walked, his words seemed to repeat themselves over and over
again in my brain. I think I even grew angry at the man.
"I'll show him!" I finally said, aloud. "I'll show him that I can
fight Reddy Burns, too--even knowing who he is."