THE UNKNOWN UNMASKED
The three weeks of training passed quickly and Carty had won his
fight, a favorable augury for the camp of Flynn. Jerry worked hard,
too hard it almost seemed for flesh and blood to endure, but he seemed
tireless. He had lost weight, of course, and his face was haggard and
drawn, but he ate and slept well and though a little irritable at
times, seemed cheerful enough. Marcia came frequently, always with
Miss Gore, and the word was passed around that Jim Robinson's
"chicken" was staying in the village. I think Jerry's wooing
prospered. There were no Channing Lloyds at Briar Hills now. To all
appearances the girl was with him heart and soul and when Jerry rested
on the terrace in a reclining chair wrapped in blankets, Marcia sat
beside him, talking in subdued tones. Sometimes I heard their voices
raised, but whatever their differences they were not such as to cause
a breach between them. They were hardly ever entirely alone and for
purposes of endearment the terrace was not the most secluded spot that
could have been found. Flynn's word was law and his eye constantly
watchful. If he had been paid to make Jerry win this fight, he was
going to earn his money, he said, and anyone who interfered with the
training would be put out and kept out of the grounds. Whatever her
own wishes, the girl recognized Flynn's authority, and came and went
at fixed times which could not interfere with the rigid rules. Jerry
rose at five and took to the road with Flynn on horseback and either
O'Halloran or Sagorski afoot. When he came in he had his shower,
rubdown and then breakfast. After a rest, Flynn boxed four or five
rounds with him, after which came rope jumping, and exercises with the
machines to strengthen his arms and wrists. In this way the morning
passed and after the midday meal came the real work-out of the day
with his training-partners, where real blows were exchanged and blood
often flowed. Jerry had improved immeasurably. Even I, tyro as I was,
could see that his encounters with these professionals had rubbed off
all signs of the amateur. He had always been a good judge of distance,
Flynn had said, but he had been schooled recently to make every
movement count--to "waste nothing." In spite of myself, the excitement
of the game was getting into my blood. If for the while Jerry was to
be a beast, why should he not be the best beast of them all? Stories
came to us from the camp of the Terrible Sailor, who was training down
on the Jersey shore. He was "coming" fast, they said, and was strong
and confident. The newspapers followed him carefully and sent their
reporters to Horsham Manor, one of whom, denied entrance at the Lodge,
climbed over the wall and even reached the gymnasium where Jerry was
boxing with O'Halloran, to be put out at my orders (as Jeremiah
Benham) before he got a fact for his pains. The result of this of
course was an account full of misstatements about the millionaire
Jeremiah Benham and his protégé which brought a protest in the mails
from Ballard the elder who, fortunately for Jerry, hadn't gotten at
the truth of the matter.
Once or twice I had been on the point of going to Ballard's office and
making a clean breast of Jerry's plans, hoping that Clancy might be
bought off and the match canceled. But I could not bring myself, even
now, to the point of betraying the boy. I am not a fatalist by
profession or philosophy, but Miss Gore had made me pause and I had
resolved to see the thing through, trying to believe as she believed
that Jerry could only be toughened to the usages of life by the rigor
of circumstance. And so I was silent.
On the morning of the great event I found myself, instead of properly
censorious, intensely eager for the night to come. Jerry had been
brought secretly to town the day before in a closed machine and was
resting under the care of Flynn at Jerry's own house uptown. It was at
Jerry's request that Jack Ballard and I stayed away from him, and so
the day passed slowly enough in speculations as to the possibility of
overtraining and as to Jerry's ability to stand punishment. Of his
pluck there was no question between us. Both of us had had too many
proofs of it to doubt, but there was always the chance of the unlucky
blow early in the battle which might mean defeat where victory seemed
the only thing possible. I believed that Jerry would win. I think that
I actually believed him to be invulnerable. I knew that Flynn was
confident, and that Sagorski, Spatola and O'Halloran had put their
money on him. Of course he would win. There was no man in the world
who could stand up against Jerry when he meant to do a thing. No one
knew better than I what victory meant to Jerry. Money, championship
laurels--of course they were nothing. However much or little Marcia's
theories as to the superman meant to Jerry, he was committed to
her--and she, I suspected, to him. His laurels were in the touch of
her rosy fingers, the flash of her dark eyes, the gleam of her small
white teeth when she smiled. Those were his reward, all that he had
worked for--all that he prized. She expected him to win. He couldn't
lose.
The day passed slowly. I visited the gymnasium with Jack. Flynn was
still with Jerry, but confidence reigned. There was a story going the
rounds of the press that Clancy had gone stale, that he had strained a
tendon, that he had broken a finger, that his mother had just died.
"Buncombe!" said Jack, who knew the game. "They want to worry the odds
down a bit. He's fit as a fiddle. You can be sure of that."
The early afternoon papers contained the first hint that Jim Robinson
was not what he was supposed to be. A heading on the sporting page
caught my eyes. I have kept it among my papers and give it verbatim.
PUGILIST SOCIETY MAN
JIM ROBINSON, THE HEAVY WEIGHT, A
MASQUERADER.
I read the type below hurriedly:
A story is going the rounds that Jim Robinson, the heavyweight, who
goes against Sailor Clancy in the principal event at the Garden
tonight, is not Robinson at all, but a well-known society man and
millionaire. From the hour when this match was made in May last there
has been a mystery attached to the personality of this fighter never
before heard of in Fistiana in New York. Flynn, his backer and
trainer, could not be found to deny or affirm the rumor, and his
sparring partners at Flynn's Gymnasium, of course, denied it, but
every circumstance, including the size of the purse, now believed to
be five thousand dollars, would indicate that Flynn's Unknown, unless
a well-known Westerner in disguise, is a man of more than usual
ability--or else a millionaire sport, bent on enriching the
hard-fisted sailor, who thinks he sees a chance of picking up some
easy money besides his share of the gate. Whoever Jim Robinson is, we
welcome him cordially.
But we also warn him that New York is tired of ring fakes and that
nothing but a good mill will justify the prices asked.
I showed the thing to Ballard, who read it through eagerly, his lips
emitting a thin whistle.
"Ph-ew! They're getting 'warm,' Pope. Somebody's leaked."
"But who--?"
"May be the management--to draw the crowd." And then, looking at the
front page, "That's only the twelve o'clock edition. Perhaps--"
He paused and rang the bell (we were at his rooms again), instructing
his man to go out on the street and buy copies of the latest editions
of all the afternoon papers.
"It would be the deuce if they followed that up."
He walked to and fro while we waited impatiently. And in a short while
our worst fears were realized, for when the papers came we saw the
dreadful facts in scare heads on the first page of the yellowest of
them. I give the item here:
JEREMIAH BENHAM--PRIZE FIGHTER.
MULTI-MILLIONAIRE SEEKS LAURELS IN RING.
FLYNN'S MYSTERIOUS UNKNOWN REVEALED
IN PERSON OF MILLIONAIRE SPORTSMAN.
Jack Ballard swore softly, but I read on over his shoulder,
breathlessly:
The latest mystery of the prize ring has been revealed by a
reporter of the _Despatch_, who proves here conclusively that
the so-called Jim Robinson, matched to fight Sailor Clancy in
the big event at the Garden tonight, is no less a person than
Jeremiah Benham, son of the late John Benham, Railroad and
Steamship King. Last month it will be recalled that this paper
sent a reporter up to Horsham Manor, the magnificent Benham
estate in Greene County, where the so-called Jim Robinson was
finishing his training at the invitation of Mr. Benham, who was
supposed to take a warm sportsman's interest in the ring.
Horsham Manor, one of the wonders of the State, is surrounded,
as is well known, by a wall of solid masonry, and much secrecy
was observed in the training of the so-called Robinson, all
visitors being denied admittance at the lodge gates. The
reporter, however, managed to gain admittance and reached Mr.
Benham's gymnasium, a palatial affair, fully equipped with all
the latest paraphernalia, where the so-called Robinson was
boxing with one of his partners. But a person who represented
himself to be Mr. Benham immediately gave orders to have the
reporter shown out of the grounds.
The life of the younger Benham has been shrouded in mystery,
but this morning after some difficulty the reporter succeeded
in finding the photographer who made the picture of Robinson
printed herewith, who at last confessed that it was faked.
Further investigation among members of an uptown club revealed
the fact that Jeremiah Benham has just passed his twenty-first
year and could therefore not be the slender, rather crusty,
sandy-haired gentleman impersonating the owner of Horsham
Manor, who was at least thirty-five.
"Slender--rather crusty!" muttered Ballard. "You! D--n the fellow!"
In order to verify the suspicion [I read on], the _Despatch_
reporter went to the office of the New York and Southwestern
Railroad and obtained without difficulty from several sources a
description of the person of Mr. Benham, which coincides in all
particulars with the so-called Jim Robinson, whom the reporter
saw at work at Horsham Manor.
There is no Jim Robinson, except in name. The opponent of
Sailor Clancy in tonight's fight is no less a person than young
Jerry Benham, multi-millionaire and sportsman. It is a matter
of regret, since Mr. Benham chose, for personal reasons, to
hide his identity under another name, that the _Despatch_ could
not keep the matter secret, but the _Despatch_ is in the
business of supplying news to its patrons, news not presented
in other journals, and so important an item as this, of course,
could not be suppressed.
The murder was out. We searched the other papers. Nothing.
"A beat!" muttered Jack. "I'd like to show the fellow what a beating
is."
Jack Ballard was merely angry. I was bewildered into a state of
helplessness. What should we do? What _could_ we do? The damage was
done. Telling Jerry wouldn't help matters and might unnerve him. We
disconnected the telephone and dined at the apartment, making a
pretense of eating, nervously awaiting the hour when we should go to
the Garden. We had reached the coffee, of which we were much in need,
when there was a ring at the bell and Ballard Senior came into the
room, a copy of the _Despatch_ in his hand.
"Have you seen this?" he snapped.
"We have," said Jack with an assumption of calmness.
"It's a lie?"
"No. It's the truth."
The old man raged the length of the room and turned.
"Do you mean that you've let this thing go on without trying to stop
it--without letting me know--"
"We did try to stop it. There was no use in letting you know. Jerry's
mind was made up."
"Jerry! The fool is ruining himself--and us. The thing must be
stopped--at once."
Jack smiled coolly. "I don't see how you're going to do that."
The father stamped the length of the room again. "I'll show you. Where
is Clancy?"
"I don't know. You'll find him at Madison Square Garden about ten."
"But where is he now?" he snapped.
Jack shrugged. "I don't know."
"Well, you must come with me. I've got to find him."
"What are you going to do?"
"Buy him off. This match can't take place."
"Do you mean that?" asked Jack with a smile.
"Did you ever know me to waste words?--Come!"
However lenient Henry Ballard had been to his son, at that moment the
parental word was law, and Jack obeyed, taking up his hat and gloves,
and laying a pink ticket on the table.
"Yours, Pope. I'll see you later."
And they went out hastily, the old man from beginning to end having
ignored me completely. I sank in a chair, my gaze shifting from the
ticket to the brandy bottle and cigarettes. I wanted to do
something--I didn't know what. I hadn't drunk or smoked for twelve
years, but that' night I did both. The brandy steadied, the cigarette
quieted my nerves. I sat there alone over the half-cleared dinner
table, resolutely impelling calmness. The ticket stared at me, a
symbol of Jerry's destiny.... My thought shifted curiously to the
placid Miss Gore. Whatever Fate had in store for Jerry, this phase of
his life would pass as she had said, the mind would survive. Something
told me that tonight would mark a turning point in Jerry's career--how
or what I could not know, but for the first time I realized how deeply
I was committed to Jerry's plans. I wanted the bout to take place. I
wanted to see it--win or lose I was committed to it and to Jerry.
It had grown dark outside. I rose, slowly putting the ticket in my
pocket, and went out. The night was sultry. It would be hot there in
the ring--but it would be hot for both of them. Muscle for muscle and
tissue for tissue, Jerry could stand what another could. I glanced at
my watch. It was now nine. The preliminary bouts would be beginning,
but I had no interest in these. I walked down town, purposely delaying
my steps, but found my footsteps hurrying in spite of me, and it was
only half after nine when I entered the building.
I remembered a six-day bicycle race that I had witnessed there years
ago, but I was not prepared for the sight of the crowd that had
gathered under the enormous roof. The match had been well advertised
and the article in the _Despatch_ must have lent an added spice to the
attraction. The heated air was already a blue fog of tobacco smoke,
through which beyond the glare of the ring, tiny spots of light flared
and disappeared like glow-worms--where in the gallery the smokers
lighted their tobacco. As I entered I scanned the crowd. Eager, stupid
or brutal faces, the washed and the unwashed, the gloved and the
ungloved, cheek by jowl, all talking, smoking, cheering, jeering or
waiting calmly for the expected thrill. They had paid their money to
see blood, and as I found my seat I realized the inevitableness of
Jerry's appearance. He could not disappoint these people now.
My seat was in a box, in the second row of boxes, the first row being
just back of the press seats which were along the sides of the ring.
In this vast crowd I would be lost to Jerry and I was thankful not to
be directly under the ring where the sight of my anxious face might
have diverted him. A bout was in progress now, of six rounds, between
two lightweights, a rapid affair which drew to a conclusion none too
quickly for me. The final bout was to take place at ten, but I knew
from the long intervals between these preliminaries that the hour
would be much later. I thought for a moment of going out and walking
the streets for awhile, but realized that I should be even more
unhappy there than here; so I sat quietly absorbing the scene,
listening to the conversation of my neighbors in the next box, who
seemed to have their money on the sailor. One of their comments
aroused my ire.
"What's this goldfish their feedin' to the sea lion? Say, that story
ain't straight about young Benham bein' Robinson?"
"Sure thing. Clancy will eat him alive--_eat him alive_," the man
repeated, slowly and with unction.
I glanced at the speaker. Squat, stout, heavy jowled--with a neck
that pushed over the back of his collar--a follower of the ring, smug,
assertive, confident. A prophet? I was not ready to admit that.
After the third bout three women and three men, following an usher,
passed along the aisle just in front of me. I recognized her instantly
in spite of the dark suit, large hat and heavy veil, for her walk
betrayed her. One of the women was Marcia Van Wyck. Followed by the
gaze of the men nearest them, they went to a box in the second tier
just around the corner of the ring where I could see the girl
distinctly. The other women of the party or the men I did not
recognize, but Marcia attracted the attention of my neighbors.
"Some dame, that," said one of them admiringly. "Know her, Charlie?"
"Naw," replied the stout man. "Swells, I reckon, friends of the
goldfish."
As the bout on the boards proceeded and the attention of those nearest
her was diverted, the girl settled into her seat and coolly removed
her veil, watching the fight calmly, now and then exchanging a word
with her companions. She _was_ beautiful, distinguished looking, but
in this moment of restraint, cold and unfeeling almost to the point of
cruelty. She looked across the space that separated us, caught my gaze
and held it, challenging, defying--with no other sign of
recognition--and presently looked away.
The preliminaries ended, there was a rustle and stir of expectation.
Men were rushing back and forth from the dressing rooms to the ring
and whispering to the master of ceremonies between his introductions
of various pugilists in a great variety of street clothes, who claimed
the right to challenge the winner of the night's heavyweight event. I
had heard many of their names during the past three weeks at the
Manor, and knowing something of the customs of the ring, was not
surprised to see Tim O'Halloran and Sagorski. It was a little free
advertising which meant much to these gentlemen and cost little.
O'Halloran grinned toothlessly, at the plaudits that greeted his name,
shuffled his feet awkwardly and bobbed down. Sagorski was not so
popular, but the crowd received him good-naturedly enough, and amid
cries of "Clancy" and "Bring on the Sailor" the Jew ungracefully
retired.
I glanced at the girl; she was smiling up into the faces of these men
as at old acquaintances. If there was any regret in her--any revulsion
at the vulgarity of this scene into which she had plunged Jerry
Benham--she gave no sign of it. It seemed to me that she was in her
element; as though in this adventure, the most unusual she had perhaps
ever attempted, she had found the very acme, the climax of her
experience.
When the introductions were finished, the hubbub began anew. Had Henry
Ballard succeeded in buying Clancy off? I hoped and I feared it. Men
came from the dressing-rooms and whispered in the ear of the announcer
who sent them back hurriedly. The crowd was becoming impatient. There
were no more pugilists to introduce and the man in the ring walked to
and fro mopping his perspiring brow. At last when the sounds from the
crowd became one muffled roar, he clambered down through the ropes and
went himself to the dressing-rooms, returning in a while with the
referee of the match whom he presented. The new referee looked at his
watch and announced that there was a slight delay and begged the crowd
to be patient a few moments longer.
But when the moments were no longer few and there were no signs from
the dressing-room doors the people in the rear seats rose howling in a
body. There were cries of "Fake" and "Give us our money" and the man
in the ring, Diamond Joe Gannon, held up his hands in vain for
silence. For awhile it looked as though there would be a riot. Had
Ballard Senior succeeded?
Suddenly the howling was hushed and merged into shouts of acclaim.
"Good boy, Kid! Here he comes," and, rising with the others, I saw
coming down the aisle from the dressing-rooms "Kid" Spatola, the
bootblack champion. He carried a bucket, sponges and towels and after
a word with the clamorous reporters clambered up into the ring,
followed by a colored man, in whom I recognized Danny Monroe, the
Swedish negro. He wore suspenders over his undershirt and carried
several bottles which he placed in the corner of the ring beside the
bucket. The eyes of the crowd were focused upon the door from which
Spatola had emerged. I saw two figures come out, one grim and silent
who made his way toward the street doors, the other who came quickly
down the aisle--Ballard Senior and Jack. The latter questioned an
usher and was shown directly to my box, by his prominence investing
both himself and me with immediate publicity. I felt the gaze of our
neighbors upon us, but Jack seated himself coolly and lighted a
cigarette.
"What happened?" I questioned in a whisper.
"They're going to fight," he returned.
"Your father--?"
He smiled a little. "Mad as a hornet. Jerry blocked the game."
"How--?"
"Dad offered Clancy five thousand and his share of the gate money to
quit."
"Clancy refused?"
"He was very white about it. He sent the message over to Jerry."
"And Jerry?"
"The boy doubled any amount dad offered if Clancy would go on. Clancy
stands to win fifteen thousand. Dad quit. I told him Jerry had made up
his mind. He realizes it now."
"Fifteen thousand! Clancy will work for it."
Jack smiled grimly. "I think Jerry wants him to."
The boy was mad--clean mad.