nice-looking girl from the East to New York, for instance, and nine
times out of ten there is sure to be something doing. Most of the
doings, to be sure, are under the rose, but every once in a while some
hint bobs to the surface and the news is wafted about by every breeze
of a whisper.
In his very handsomely appointed suite of apartments on the upper
West Side is a young fellow who has good enough blood in his veins
to be game and take his medicine, and with sense enough to keep his
mouth shut. Across the bridge of his nose are three knife cuts made
by a blade that was very keen, which was held by a hand that knew its
business. His doctor tells him that it is not at all serious, even
though inconvenient--you know how doctors talk when there is a good fat
fee at the other end of the line. He also says that there is nothing
in the world that will prevent and eradicate those three disfiguring
scars, even after the wound has been thoroughly healed and every
possible surgical precaution taken.
And there’s the rub.
Through all the rest of his life this man, upon whom the world has been
smiling since his birth, will be marked with the signs of his folly.
So much for the present.
Now for the recent past.
[Illustration: Put her in tights and she would have been an Oriental
sensation]
The woman was a Syrian beauty with sloe eyes and an olive skin that was
like a piece of copper-hued satin, so soft and smooth and free from
blemish was it. There was a faint flush of red in her cheeks, too, as
if the hot blood was trying to break through the tender skin. Her lips
were red and full, and because of all that riot of color her teeth
showed whiter than they really were. She had, besides, small feet and
slim, trim ankles.
Any wise man will appreciate that and understand why they are brought
into this story. Up to the age of twenty-five the male animal looks at
the female face and is satisfied. After that no such casual scrutiny
satisfies him. First face, hair and general contour, then ankles, and
often it is the last view which does the work or turns the trick, which
is the same thing, only it is expressed differently. This is with
the assumption, of course, that the man has enough discrimination to
want quality, not quantity. Quantity is unwieldy and unsatisfactory
from every viewpoint except from that of the gentleman who is in the
butcher business, and who wants a standing advertisement for his shop.
_Embonpoint_ is all right in sausages but not in women, excepting--and
that is understood--those on dime museum platforms.
The first name of the lady was Dekka, the rest was unpronounceable and
we’ll let it go at that. She was a seller of Oriental goods, not from
a Tenderloin standpoint, but real merchandise such as is recognized
by the law--laces, draperies, bits of cunningly embroidered silks,
and even rugs, which she called carpets, with the accent on the first
syllable. Her stock was carried in a dress suit case which was handled
by her “brother,” who was also a Syrian, and he only resembled her
because he, too, had black eyes, an olive skin and dark crispy hair, to
say nothing of his small feet.
Day after day they went in and out of houses, flats and apartments,
visiting none but the best, and calling an express wagon into service
when a rug display was necessary. She was the brains of the combination
and did all the selling. His job was done when he put the satchel down
by her side. Then he effaced himself and was invisible until she was
ready to exit, when he made a mysterious reappearance from somewhere.
And that’s the soup of the story; the roast follows.
The Jap valet to the young man of means and leisure announced to him
one afternoon that a dark lady--makes you think of the queen of spades,
doesn’t it?--wanted to see him and wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“Bring her in,” said Jimmy, who was feeling in just the right kind of a
humor to see anyone, even a man to whom he owed money, and in a moment
she had slipped into the room as lightly as a cat walking on wet grass.
There was the sound of her French heels hitting the bare spots on the
polished floor that was music to him, and he wondered what there was in
the meeting of leather and wood that was so attractive and just a bit
different from anything he had ever heard before.
She courtesied in a friendly, intimate sort of a way, and then spoke:
“Good day; the lady? Can I show her some laces? Very fine.”
There was just the faintest touch of an accent in her voice, but it was
rather pleasant than otherwise, and it seemed to have a very soothing
effect on him.
“There is no lady here,” he laughed, “that is, not yet.”
“Ah, too bad, and such a nice place, too. It is so beautiful.”
She half turned as if to go, and he stepped toward her.
“What have you got to sell? I might buy something.”
“You are so kind; I have them here,” and she motioned to the next room.
“My brother bring them, then he go ’way. It is very heavy to carry all
the time.”
“Yama,” called he, “bring it in, whatever it is,” and in a moment the
Jap came lugging the leather case.
Jimmy noted how deftly the shapely brown fingers unfastened the brass
catches, and as she leaned over he found himself studying her with the
eye of a man who has seen and known a great many women of all kinds and
all nationalities with one or two exceptions, and one of the exceptions
was Syrian. A faint perfume, the odor of which he failed to recognize,
seemed to fill the room, and he knew it came from her, and he became
suddenly aware that he was taking more interest in the saleswoman than
he was in the goods she was about to offer him.
When the bag had been opened and the contents tumbled out
promiscuously, without any attempt at order or display, she sat down
on the rug beside them. She picked out a lace scarf and carefully
smoothing out its folds held it before him.
“Very fine,” she said; “all made by hand, see?” and she pointed to the
heavy embroidery.
“It’s all right,” he answered, but he wasn’t looking at the silk, he
was looking straight in her eyes and wondering why it was he had never
met a woman with eyes as black as those before.
“You are not looking,” she said.
“I am,” he replied.
“At the scarf, I mean.”
“No, there is something better.”
“But I am only selling the scarf to you,” and she began to fold it up
while her cheeks became more red.
“What’s the price?” asked Jimmy.
“Only $6, and very cheap.”
“All right, I’ll take it; let me see what else you’ve got there.”
And presently they were both sitting on the rug, he on one side of
the bag and she on the other. In a half hour he had spent one hundred
dollars, but to save his life he couldn’t have told what it was he had
bought and, what was more, he didn’t care.
He laid the crisp new bill on her knee, and as she began to fold up the
remnant of her stock he asked questions.
“You said your brother went around with you. Is he really your brother
or something else?”
“My own brother; why should I tell you a lie?”
“I don’t know except that there are a great many brothers and cousins
in this world who are not brothers or cousins at all, except as a
matter of convenience. You know, I think you are a nice little girl and
I fancy I’m getting just a bit gone on you. I don’t mind buying things
from you, but I should like it if you and I could be friends.”
By this time they were standing up; the suit case had been closed and
it was still between them, as if it was a sort of a guardian.
“Couldn’t you stay here and have a little lunch with me? We’ll have it
right away and you’ll be away in an hour. Where’s your brother?”
“Oh, he always waits somewhere--outside, maybe.”
“In the other room?”
“Oh, no; sometimes in the hall and sometimes in the street; sometimes
he goes away and comes back again.”
“Well, this time he can wait a little longer. Yama,” calling to the
Jap, “get some lunch and hurry up.”
He picked up the barrier of a dress suit case and put it one side, then
he walked over to her and putting his arm around her waist, pulled her
toward him and kissed her squarely on the mouth.
“Oh,” she cried, “what are you doing?”
“Kissing you. I’ve bought your silks and now I’m ready to invest in
kisses, and I find,” he remarked, as he kissed her again, “that your
kisses are the best.”
The blood leaped to his brain, and he held her so tightly that it
seemed as if he would crush her.
“You’ve made me fall in love with you,” he said, and that strange
Oriental perfume which came to him from her seemed to make him mad. “I
want you to go away with me; will you? We’ll go wherever you like, and
you will not have to sell those things any more. You can have all the
money to spend that you want and you will be a lady.”
Here was a picture strong enough to turn the head of any woman, much
less a Syrian straight from peasant stock, brought into the world by
accident, with a face like a Madonna and with a supple, pliant figure
that made men turn around and look after her. A girl who had known
what privation and hardship was, and who came of a race where women
were born to be servants and made to wait on men, the masters. Her
beauty had brought her nothing and now it had suddenly become an asset,
a stock in trade of so great value that for the rest of her life she
would know neither work, nor care, nor trouble. The blood rushing
through her veins made her dizzy and her head fell forward as her eyes
half closed. One brown arm crept up and around the neck of this strong,
broad-shouldered American, and it kept her from falling to the floor
in the excess of her emotion. He felt her going, and picking her up,
carried her to the big armchair over in the corner, where she cuddled
up like a rabbit. She was clasping and unclasping her fingers nervously
as he stood looking at her and her half-closed eyes never once met his.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, bending over. “Can I do anything for
you?”
“No,” she whispered; “I was only thinking of my brother.”
“You don’t want to mind him; he’s all right wherever he is.”
“Not that, but he might not want--he might not like you to--to love
me,” and she looked up at him.
“We’ll take care of your brother all right. Because he is your brother
I will do what I can for him. Why, I will----”
The voice of the Jap came from the other room just as Jimmy was
settling himself on the edge of the big chair, and had his arm around
the Syrian’s neck.
“No,” it said, “you wait; I see.”
There was an angry voice raised in expostulation, and then before the
man could move the brother came bounding through the parted curtains.
He paused for just one brief moment and then shrieked:
“Dekka.” He said something else, too, but it was in his own language
and only the woman understood, but whatever it was it made her shrink
still lower in her seat and cover her face with her hands. He was on
Jimmy like a cat, and three times, even though the frightened Jap was
trying to pull him off, he cut, and each cut was across the bridge of
the nose, and the knife blade went as true and sure to the mark as
though it was in the hands of a surgeon on a patient who was under
ether. Then with one firm grip on the wrist of the girl he dragged
her to the door and out, while the faithful Yama was using the silk
scarfs--the ones which had just been bought--trying to staunch the flow
of blood.
And that’s the story.
And the moral of it is that every man should stick to his own race and
his own blood, Caucasian to Caucasian and Oriental to Oriental, for
there are some things in this world that don’t mix any more than oil
and water.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: The first pair are in the ring, the talk ceases, and the
show is on]
THE REJUVENATION OF PATSY
We’ll just take in a fight to-night for a change. I’ve had you Down the
Line, over on the East Side, in the wine joints, behind the scenes,
and in half a dozen of the so-called swell restaurants, and all the
time there have been all kinds of punching matches going on in a dozen
different halls, “Clubs,” they are called, just to sidestep the stern
arm of the law, but what difference does it make to a good sport so
long as the men are well matched and they are willing to mix it at all
times?
Three rounds are the limit, but there is a lot doing between bell and
bell--enough to make even the most seasoned ringster sit up and look
around as if to say:
“Now here is some punching that does a man’s heart good--it seems like
old times, when----.” You know the rest about the days of long ago, and
if you listen to him he will hand you a line of talk that will put you
away for the count.
You may talk as you like about all the sports you know, but after all
there is nothing like a good go with the gloves between a pair who know
their business, and there are few men who have any red blood in their
veins who will not go a long ways to see a slugfest. Of course you’ll
always find up against some bar a bunch of dead ones who will stretch
their arms and say:
“Not for mine; I’ve seen all I want to see, and I wouldn’t go around
the corner to get a ringside seat at a go between Roosevelt and Kaiser
Wilhelm.”
There’s a screw loose somewhere in these fellows, or else they are
drying of dry rot and don’t know it. Nine out of ten of them are bigger
around the waist than they are around the chest, and they invariably
talk loud.
There’s a little club that I know of where you can get a great run for
your money, and we will go there.
It’s a case of come early and avoid the rush, for when the gong rings
for the first bout there is only standing room left and that is at a
premium because the prices are low. The manager doesn’t have to bother
his head about making matches because the “talent” comes to him, and
it often happens that the men who furnish the preliminaries are picked
from out of the audience. These three-round affairs have done a lot to
bring out a bunch of new ones; any young fellow who knows any part of
the game can go on and get a try-out. He earns a few dollars and if he
proves to be good, he is boosted along the line.
There is a mixed crowd on hand to-night, and you can expect a good
card. In one of the ringside seats is the district attorney, a man who
loves a fair fight in or out of the ring. Further up are a few brokers
who have thought it worth while to come down here for one night,
anyhow. It is safe to say that every class in life is represented, the
man who is worth a million rubs elbows with the ten-dollar-a-week clerk
and they fraternize as freely as though they were chums.
“This Abe Attell is a clever boy, but they say he hasn’t the punch,”
ventures the clerk.
“Yes, I saw him recently and he made that big fellow look like a cart
horse,” returns the man of money.
The fellow who paid one-tenth of his weekly stipend to join the club
for that one night, which, by the way, is the system employed to evade
the law on the subject, pulls out a cigarette, and asks:
“Can I trouble you for a light?”
“No trouble at all,” comes the cheerful answer, and a glowing perfecto,
which cost not less than thirty-five cents, is handed over.
That miscellaneous crowd is welded into one solid mass by the masonry
of sport, even though individual opinions are retained, and the opinion
of a seasoned ring-goer is set hard and deep as the rock of Gibraltar.
The smoke is wafted back and forth like the tidal currents of the sea
and the exertions of a hundred devotees of nicotine are adding to it
every moment. An interminable buzz of voices fills the big room, and
there is fight in the very air.
“I tell you the old man could lick O’Brien any day he wanted to; he’s
got the punch and he can stand the gaff, ain’t that enough?” This in a
strident voice from the cheaper seats, and it was answered at once by
an argument that was apparently deemed irrefutable:
“Why didn’t he do it?”
Near the door is a fight bug whom no one ever heard of, and who is
interesting simply because he is a freak. He is voluble, emphatic and
vainglorious.
“I kin beat Britt an’ he knows it, an’ dat’s the reason he won’t give
me a chanst. He’d be a pipe fer me, ‘cos I’d infight him, an’ he
couldn’t stand my body punchin’. Dere’s where I’m great--on dose body
blows. I challenged him three times an’ he never paid no attention to
me. He’s afraid uv me, dat’s what he is. I kin beat ’em all if dey’ll
only cum to me.”
“You couldn’t beat a carpet,” shouts a wit, and the bug is temporarily
squelched.
The noise of the voices is suddenly emphasized--the first pair are
coming and the show is on. Into the ring they climb from opposite
corners, principals and seconds, and then, more leisurely, as befits
the dignity of his exalted position, comes the announcer. They all have
the same speech, which has been doing duty for generations, and this
one is no different from the rest:
“A little order, please, gentlemen, and stop smoking while the bouts
are on.” But no one ever pays any attention to that last. “These two
boys,” he calls them by name, “both members of this club,” another neat
little scheme to evade the law, “will box three rounds for scientific
points only. Keep a little order, please, because if you make a noise
the bouts will be stopped. The men will box straight Marquis of
Queensberry rules. All ready, boys.”
He waves his hands toward the corners, and then backs through the ropes
conscious of a duty well performed. The gloves, a bit too big for the
majority of the onlookers, have in the meantime been adjusted, the
referee calls “Time,” they step to the center, shake hands and get down
to work. Sparring doesn’t go in bouts of such short duration, so it’s a
case of mix it from the start. Here is a sturdy little Italian against
a good, fast and clever Irish lad. The good-natured grin of the former
is never relaxed for a moment as he wades in, taking a punch to give
one. This fellow is fighting his way out of debt, and he’s well on the
road to financial freedom now. Last year he figured in more than one
star fight and he looked like a money-maker. He took care of his end of
the purse every time, but on one of his Southern trips he fell in with
a girl that he grew to think pretty well of, and it wasn’t long before
she became the custodian of his coin. When the bank roll was big enough
to suit her, she blew with another boy and left this one broke. That’s
the reason he’s putting the gloves on and going three hard rounds for
a ten spot now. The Irish boy is punching him at will and counting up
the points every time they come together, but there is steam behind
those blows of the Italian, and it isn’t hard to predict the result if
they were to go ten rounds instead of three. At the finish they are
furiously mixing it in a corner, and the gong rings its notification
more than once before they break away, shake hands, the Italian still
smiling, and climb out to make way for the next pair.
The boys are put on as fast as they can bring them in the ring, and the
bouts are all good ones. Finally there is only one more to come, and it
is that for which the crowd has been waiting.
Before the announcer can do his next stunt half a hundred hands--gloved
and ungloved--are coming together in applause. The cue came when a trim
built, muscular little fellow, whose condition is not too good, slips
through the ropes. He smiles cordially at the crowd and nods his head
jerkily in response to the reception.
“I take pleasure in introducing Patsy Haley,” begins the announcer, but
he is stopped by the applause which breaks out again, and he fails to
get in that saving clause about the “club member” business. As if Patsy
needed any introduction to that crowd of sports, young or old, who have
seen him fight when he was at his best. How can they ever forget the
wonderful cleverness he used to show? Don’t you remember when he fought
Terry McGovern before the Lenox Athletic Club in 1899? It was all Patsy
up to the eighteenth round, and even the wonderful Terry couldn’t find
him until then, when he landed the crashing punch that gave him the big
end of the purse. Is it any wonder that they applaud him? He’s too wise
for the best of them for three rounds even to-day, for he can stall and
get away with as little effort as a kid makes when he goes up against
a nursing bottle. He hits when and where he likes and how he likes,
but he has no punch, as the youngster who is up against him soon finds
out, and so he wades in to do a little execution with a wild, swinging
right, but the glove never gets within three inches of Patsy’s smiling
face. It is jab, jab, jab with the old-timer, and the crowd roars its
approval, while the Kid’s seconds keep calling to him in stage whispers
which can be heard all over the house, to--
“Mix it there, Kid, one punch will do him.”
Their advice is good, but the bewildered, dazed kid, not hurt a bit,
but simply made dizzy by those lightning-like feints, followed by taps
that push his head back and throw him off his balance, can’t make good.
He rushes, swinging as he comes in, but he finds himself breasting the
ropes, and he turns only to get a straight left square on the point of
the nose.
It’s very discouraging work for a novice. You see, he’s evidently
been figuring on going into the ring and putting this old-timer away
and then getting his name and picture in the sporting papers. It’s a
hundred to one that he’s been in training, and he’s had it all framed
up with his trainer just how he was going to do the trick. It seemed
very easy in that stable, or loft, or wherever it was that he had his
punching bag and skipping rope, and he was told there was no harm in
a dozen of Patsy’s punches rolled into one. He knows that now, but
that merciless, pitiless jab is enough to worry anyone, and besides,
his arms are beginning to ache with the effort of swinging and hitting
nothing.
“Close in, Kid; close in.”
They are calling to him again and he makes another rush. He is going to
try to knock the smile off that face this time. He puts all his effort
in the blow and lets go. He misses, and the force of it brings him to
his knees as the bell rings for the end of the first round.
He takes his seat and he knows that those yells are not for him.
His seconds and counsellors are there as quickly as he is, and while
he is being fanned, and rubbed and sprayed, he is also being advised
how to do it next time. Over in the other corner Patsy is talking
laughingly with some ringside friends.
“You’re as fast as ever, son,” says one. “How are you feeling?”
That is always the proper thing to ask a man who is in the ring--that
is, when you’ve nothing else to say. I’ll bet no man ever went in the
ring who wasn’t asked that question at least a dozen times. It seems to
be sort of a stock query, just as every rube considers it his bounden
duty to ask an actor who plays his town:
“Where do you go from here?” As if it made any difference to him where
the actor went, but he feels he has to say something, so he says that.
The gong rings, and they’re at it again. The Kid has a new set of
tactics now, and he proceeds to put them into execution, so as soon as
he leaves his chair he starts on a run for his opponent. He’s going
after him this time, sure enough. Out goes the left and around goes the
right. The right gets Patsy just behind the ear and shakes him up a bit.
“Go after him; you’ve got him,” call out the seconds. He thinks so,
too, and he draws back when the versatile Patsy slips into a clinch.
“Break there; break now,” calls the referee. The Kid is pushed away
and his antagonist dances back out of reach, not showing the slightest
evidence of distress. Truly this is no cinch. Again and again an
attempt is made to land that finishing punch, but each time it fails
to connect, and when it does land it doesn’t seem to land in the right
place. In a mixup his chance comes again, and he rips up a right to
the stomach so hard that the old-timer grunts. That gives him a little
courage and after the break he rushes again, but the jaw that he aimed
for is not there. His nose is beginning to get a bit sore when the bell
rings with rather a welcome sound.
Lacking the punch this “vet” seems to be all right for three rounds.
He’s a bit winded, to be sure, but who wouldn’t be under the
circumstances? It’s good, anyhow, to see him with the mitts on once
more. It makes a fellow think of old times. I am just about to become
reminiscent when the gong rings again.
“Shake hands and windup,” says the referee.