The Boss
It had been a private dwelling, far out on the prairie once, but the
hot, steady lava flow of the great city had reached and split and swept
around the little elevated patch of grimy green with its eleven
despairing trees. A wooden house it was, and in the very nature of it a
temporary shift; but the committee--Hopkins, Hartigan, and Belle--felt
it worth looking into.
With the agent, these three went over it and discussed its possibilities
and the cost. Ten times in that brief talk did Hopkins find himself
consulting Belle when, in the ordinary process, he should have consulted
Hartigan. Why? No man raises himself to the power and pitch that Hopkins
had attained, without a keen, discriminating knowledge of human nature.
And he felt the fact long before he admitted it even to himself: "Yes,
he's a pair of giant wings, but she's the tail, all right." And he was
not displeased to find this original estimate justified by events.
The three years' lease was signed; and a bulletin board appeared on the
bravest of all the battered old trees at the front--the very battle
front. A gnarled and twisted cedar it was, and when a richer name than
"Club" was sought for the venture, it was this old tree that linked up
memory with itself and the house was named, not "The People's Club," as
at first intended, but "Cedar Mountain House"--the word "mountain" being
justified in the fact that the house was on a prairie knoll at least a
foot above the surrounding level.
The bulletin board displayed this to all passers-by:
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| CEDAR MOUNTAIN HOUSE |
| |
| Notice |
| |
|A Meeting to organize this Club will be held here|
|on these premises Sunday afternoon next. Men and |
|women who are interested are cordially invited. |
| |
| REFRESHMENTS |
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The Board of Deacons would have had a wrangle over each and every word
of that notice. That was why they never saw it till long afterward.
"Now what's going to happen?" said Hopkins.
"A few will come and act very shyly; but I've a notion the refreshments
will bring them," was Belle's guess.
"I am afraid we have omitted something of importance," said Jim. "We are
invading a foreign savage country without taking any count of the native
chiefs."
"What's your idea?" said Hopkins, sharply.
"I mean, we have arranged matters with the real estate man, and the
Church workers and the police; but we haven't taken the trouble to look
up the ward boss."
"We ignored the boss because we thought he was an enemy," said Hopkins.
"I'm not so sure about that," said Jim. "I've been talking with the
police sergeant, who knows him well. He says he's a queer mixture of
prizefighter and politician. He can protect anything he likes, and
pretty nearly drive out anything he doesn't like. Isn't it worth while
making a bid for his support? It may please him to be asked."
"Who is he?"
"Oh, a saloon-keeper, Irish, ex-pugilist. His name is Michael Shay. He's
easy to find," said Jim.
"Let's go now," said Hopkins. "But I'm afraid that this is where you
drop out, Mrs. Hartigan."
So they went down to the headquarters of the boss. It was an ordinary
Chicago saloon of less than ordinary pretensions. The plate-glass and
polished-mahogany era had not yet set in. The barkeeper was packing the
ice chest and a couple of "types" were getting their "reg'lar" as the
two strangers from another world entered. The build of Hartigan at once
suggested plain-clothes policeman, and the barkeeper eyed him
suspiciously. Hopkins spoke first:
"Is the boss in?"
The barkeeper made a gesture, pointing to the back room.
"May we see him?"
"I s'pose so." And again, with a jerk of the thumb, the back room was
indicated.
The two walked in. It was a small room, meanly furnished, with a square
table in the centre. Sitting by it were three men. Two were drinking
beer--one a small, thin man; the other a red-faced specimen with rotund
outline. The third and biggest was smoking a briarwood pipe. He was a
heavily built man with immense shoulders square jaw, and low, wrinkled
forehead; deep under his bushy eyebrows were two close-set, twinkling
gray eyes, which were turned on the visitors with a hostile stare.
"Is Mr. Michael Shay here?" asked Hopkins.
"I'm Mike Shay," said the smoker, without rising or removing his pipe;
"what do ye want?" There was a sullen defiance in the tone that showed
resentment at the different dress and manner of the strangers.
"We have come to ask for your support for the club we are going to open
in the old house down the street."
"Support nuthin'," was the gracious reply.
Hopkins began to explain that this was not to be a rival show--no drinks
would be sold; the idea was merely to found a place of amusement for the
people. The only effect on the boss was to evoke a contemptuous
"E-r-r-r!" and an injunction, in Chicago vernacular, to get out of that
as soon as they liked--or sooner. And, by way of punctuation, he turned
to expectorate copiously, but with imperfect precision at a box of
sawdust which was littered with cigar stumps. The interview was over--he
wished them to understand that. He turned to his companions.
Hartigan felt that it was his chance now. He began: "See here, now,
Michael Shay; you're an Irishman and I'm an Irishman----"
"Oh, g'wan!" and Shay rose to walk out the back way. As he did so, Jim
noticed fully, for the first time, the huge shoulders, the strong, bowed
legs, the gorilla-like arms; and the changing memory of another day grew
clear and definitely placed. There could be no doubt about it now; this
was bow-legged Mike, the teamster of seven years before.
At once, a different colour was given to Jim's thought and manner; no
longer cautious, respectful, doubtful, he began in his own more
boisterous way, "Say, Mike. I have a different matter to talk about
now."
Mike stopped and stared.
Jim proceeded. "Were you ever at Links, Ontario?"
"Maybe I was, an' maybe I wasn't. What's that to you?"
"Well, do you remember licking a young fellow there for jerking the roof
log out of the hotel with your masting team of oxen?"
"Bejabers, I do that"; and Mike's eyes twinkled for the first time with
a pleasant look.
"Well, Mike, I am that fellow; an' that's what ye gave me." Jim raised
his chin and showed an irregular scar.
"Well sure, that's the Gospel truth"; and Michael grinned. "By gosh,
that's the time I had to skip out of Chicago. A little election fuss ye
understand," and he chuckled. "Set down. What'll ye drink?" and the huge
hand swung two chairs within reach.
"No," said Jim. "I'm not drinking to-day; but I want to tell you that I
was only a kid when you licked me. I swore that some day I'd meet you
and have another try. Well, I've filled out some in the last seven
years, an' some day, when ye feel like it, we might put on the gloves
together."
Mike chuckled, "Now you're talking! What's the matter with right now?"
and he pointed to a room farther back. "But, say, ye ain't in training,
are ye?"
"No; are you?"
"No."
"Then come on."
Mike opened the next door and led the way into a larger room, with the
fixings of a regular boxing academy, followed by his friends and one or
two additional customers from the bar room.
Hopkins followed Hartigan, and was filled, apparently, with strange and
mixed emotions. "Really, Mr. Hartigan, as President of the Board of
Deacons, I must protest against this whole shocking procedure." Then, in
a different tone: "But, as a man, by jinks! I'm going to see it
through."
"Why not?" said Jim. "Sure it's simple and easy. In about three rounds,
I'll get him or he'll get me; then we'll shake hands and all be good
friends ever after. It couldn't have happened better."
Both men stripped to the waist, and the contrast was as great as the
resemblance. Broad, equally broad, and superbly muscled, the
saloon-keeper was, if anything, heavier, but there was just a suspicion
of bloat over all his frame. Jim was clean built, statuesque--a Jason
rather than a Hermes. He was by six inches taller, but the other had
just as long a reach. And, as the officious patrons of the "pub"
strapped on the gloves and made the usual preparation of wet sponge and
towel, it seemed in all respects an even match--in all respects but one;
Jim was twenty-odd, Mike was forty-odd.
The small man with a squeaky voice installed himself as timekeeper. He
struck the gong, and the boxers met. Jim always smiled and bared his
teeth while boxing. Mike was one of the bull-dog jaw; he kept his lips
tight shut, and his small eyes twinkled with every appearance of rage.
On the first round, the great experience of the pugilist enabled him to
land one or two heavy jolts, and when the gong sounded the time-limit,
Jim had got rather the worst of it.
The second round opened much like the first. Jim landed on Mike's under
jaw more than once; and Mike got in a body blow that was something to
think about.
It was the third round that told the tale. What chance in a fight has
forty-five against twenty-five? The extra weight of the prize fighter
was mere softness. His wind was gone; and half the time had not passed
before Jim landed under his left jaw the classic punch that Mike had one
time given him, and Mike went down like a sack of meal.
In five minutes, he was up and game, but the bout was over. The men
shook hands, and Michael, rapidly recovering his spirits, rumbled out of
his deep chest: "Bejabers, it's the first time in five years I've been
knocked out--and it was done scientific. Say, Hartigan, ye can put me
down for a member of your club; or yer church or whatever the dom thing
is an' I'll see ye get whatever ye need in the way of protection; an' if
ye want to sell any liquor on the sly, that'll be all right. You count
on Mike."
Then, with a singular clearing of hate and an access of good
feeling--psychological reactions which so often follow in the wake of a
finish fight--the men all shook hands and parted in excellent humour.
"By George!" said President Hopkins of the Board of Deacons, "I wouldn't
have missed that for a thousand dollars. It was perfectly bully--just
what we wanted! I've heard of things like this, but never really
believed they happened. It's a new side of human nature for me. I
wouldn't have missed it for--no, not for five thousand dollars."