THE FIGHT
But the madness of the moment had gotten into my blood and Jack's. The
fight was going to take place. We were glad of it. We felt the
magnetism of the crowd, the pulse of its excitement, and, as impatient
as those around us, eagerly awaited developments. The seconds and
trainers had hardly clambered into Clancy's corner when Clancy
himself, followed by Terry Riley, appeared and leaped into the ring.
The crowd roared approval and he bowed right and left, waving his
hands and nodding to acquaintances whom he recognized at the
ring-side. He wore a pale blue dressing-gown and though broad of
shoulder seemed not even so tall as Sagorski, but he had a bullet head
which at the cerebellum joined his thick neck, without indentation, in
a straight line and his arms reached almost to his knees--gorilla of a
man--a superbrute. I caught a glimpse of Marcia watching him intently,
and tried to read her thoughts. She examined him with the critical
gaze which she might have given a hackney at a horse show.
Jerry's appearance with Flynn a moment later was the signal for
another outburst from the crowd--not so long a greeting nor so
prolonged a one as that which had greeted Clancy, but warm enough to
make the boy feel that he was not without friends in the house. His
face was a little pale but he smiled cheerfully enough when he
reached the ring. He shook hands with Gannon, whom he had met at
Finnegan's, and then, with a show of real enjoyment, with
Clancy--conversing with a composure that left nothing to be desired.
The crowd, like Jack and me, was comparing them. Jerry's six feet two
topped the sailor by more than two inches, though I believe the latter
would have a few pounds of extra weight.
"Big rascal, ain't he?" the sportsman in the adjoining box commented.
"Yep," grunted the stolid one. "But too leggy. Clancy'll eat him
alive--_eat him alive_," he repeated with more unction than before.
"Maybe," said the other, "but I want to be shown. There was another
leggy feller--the freckled one."
"Fitz--but Fitz was a _fighter_."
"Well, I like his looks--good-lookin' feller, ain't he?"
"Aw! This ain't no beauty parlor. He's got a glass jaw, I'll bet. 'S a
goldfish, I tell you. The sea lion will eat him alive--_eat him
alive_!"
I don't know why the reiteration of this phrase of the fat man
irritated me, but it did exceedingly, and I turned around and glared
at him, a sharp retort on the tip of my tongue. Ballard's fingers
closed on my arm and I was silent. But the fat man's glances and mine
had met and held each other.
"What's the matter, perfessor?" he asked testily. "Friend of yours,
eh? Oh, well--no harm done. But if you'd like to back your judgment
with a little something--say fifty--"
But I had already turned my back on the fellow.
In the ring the men had thrown aside their dressing-gowns and the
opposing seconds were examining the bandages upon their hands. Clancy
wore bright green trunks, which if his name had failed would have
betrayed his lineage, and his great chest and arms were covered with
designs in tattoo. Jerry wore dark trunks. And as his wonderful arms
and torso were exposed to view, a murmur of approval went over the
audience. In spite of his training in the open his skin was still very
white beside the bronzed figure of his adversary, but the muscles
rippled smoothly and strongly under the fair skin--and bulked large at
thigh and forearm as he moved his limbs. It was not the strong man's
figure nor yet, like Clancy's, the stocky, thickly built structure of
the professional fighter's, yet it was so solid, so admirably compact
that his great height was unnoticeable. I could see from the
expressions upon the faces of those about me and the calls from the
seats behind us, that Jerry's appearance had already gained the
respect of the crowd, some members of which were already hailing him
by his first name. "Good boy, Jerry," they cried, or "All right, old
boy. You've got the goods--but look out for his right."
Even the stout person beside me was silent and I heard nothing more
about the goldfish. Fortunately for him, and for me, I suspect, for
had he repeated his phrase, I might have brained him with a chair.
The preliminary conferences at an end, the principals took their
corners, fresh ones not used in the preliminaries, Jerry luckily with
his back toward the box in which the Van Wyck girl was sitting. If
their glances had met, I did not notice. For all that I knew. Jerry
might have been unaware that she was in the house. He did not look
around in a search for her and seemed totally absorbed in his
instructions from Flynn, who stood outside the ropes just behind him
whispering continuously in his ear, Jerry nodding from time to time
and glancing across the ring to Clancy's corner, where the superbeast
was sprawled, his long arms extended upon the ropes. Spatola and the
black Swede were seeing to Jerry's gloves and looking over every
detail of the corner with careful eyes.
The referee called the two men to the center of the ring and gave them
some final instructions, to which they nodded assent, and they had
hardly returned to their corners when the gong clanged, stools and
paraphernalia were whipped out of the ring, the seconds and trainers
crouched outside and the fight was on. As the men came together the
disparity in their sizes became less marked for, while Clancy was the
shorter, he made up by his huge bulk what he lacked in height. He was
a dangerous man, but there was no timidity in Jerry's eyes and he came
forward sparring carefully, gliding backward and forward feeling out
the other man's length and speed. Clancy's left grazed Jerry's ear and
the boy countered lightly. His color was rising now and his eyes were
sparkling. It was good, it was a game he loved. The moment of stage
fright had passed. He had forgotten the crowd. His foot-work was fast
and made Clancy seem almost sluggish by comparison. That was the
danger. Would he waste himself too early? Ten rounds! Not too long for
Jerry, if the other didn't land dangerously and more often than he.
Clancy played for the head, and caught the boy fairly on the jaw, but
got a blow in the ribs that made him grunt. Jerry did most of the
leading, ducking a vicious swing of Clancy's right, that made the
Sailor look foolish, and brought a roar of delight from the crowd.
Clancy grinned cheerfully and came on, stabbing with his long left arm
at Jerry's head, but getting only his trouble for his pains. At the
close of the round the honors were even, and both were smiling in
their corners.
"He's got the science," said the optimist next door, "a pretty piece
o' work--very pretty."
"Just you wait, Petey," said the stout man, while behind us an
Irishman shouted, "Get them green tights workin', Clancy."
The second round was clearly Jerry's. Even the stout man admitted it.
Clancy's famous crouching pose met with mishap early in the round, for
Jerry by fine judgment twice evaded the advancing left arm and
straightened Clancy with terrific upper cuts, the kind that Flynn had
said were like tons of coal. At the end of the round Clancy realized,
I think, that his opponent was well worth considering seriously, for
when he came to the center of the ring again, his face washed clean,
he wore a solemn expression curious and respectful, but villainously
determined. He began boring in, as the phrase is, leading constantly
and taking what came. He hit Jerry hard, always when the boy was going
away, however, and caught some well-judged ones in return. He swung a
hard right which caught Jerry napping and sent him against the ropes,
but before he could follow up the advantage the boy had slipped out of
danger. They exchanged blows here, toe to toe, and the crowd howled
with delight. Here was a mere boxer who wasn't afraid to take what he
gave. In the exchange Jerry profited, for Clancy, lunging with his
right and missing, fell into a clinch where Jerry gave his ribs a
fearful beating. At the end of the round both were breathing hard, but
the crowd was cheering, Jerry.
I find myself slipping into the phraseology of the sporting page, and
little wonder when for weeks the boxer's terms were the only phrases I
had heard. I hope I will not be blamed for dwelling with too great a
particularity upon this affair, which, whatever its merits as a test
of strength and skill, was nothing less than a contest in brutality.
During the minute of time Monroe and Spatola rubbed Jerry vigorously
and when the gong clanged, though still breathing hard, Jerry was
ready for Clancy's rush. He had been prepared for this by Flynn, who
knew the fighter's methods. For before the seconds were well out of
the ring Clancy had crossed toward Jerry's corner, planning by sheer
bulk and viciousness to sap some of Jerry's strength. But Jerry
avoided the rush, stinging Clancy's stomach with a terrific blow as he
got out of danger. With the whole of the ring back of him he stood up
and shifting suddenly got inside of Clancy's guard with his right on
the jaw, which, catching the Sailor off his balance, sent him to the
ropes, where he sank to the floor. He took a count of six leisurely
and was up again smiling and fighting hard. Jerry's lip was cut in
this exchange, but at least during this round Clancy rushed no more.
They were both landing freely now, Jerry apparently willing to take
his share of punishment in order to make a good showing. I heard Jack
Ballard muttering at my ear. This was a mistake; I wondered if Flynn
knew it. With his skill, Jerry could have kept away and cut the man to
ribbons. But he was no slacker; this was no boxing tournament, as
Jerry afterwards explained, but a fight, which meant pugnacity as well
as skill.
But the crowd appreciated his efforts. They were ring followers and
knew "science" when they saw it, but more than skill they loved "sand"
and more than "sand," aggressiveness. With the beginning of the
seventh round the honors had all been with Jerry. He had scored the
first blood and the first knock-down and Clancy's rushes had proved
unavailing. The professional's lip was swollen, one eye was nearly
closed, and his ribs were crimson from the terrible beating Jerry had
given them. Though his face was not so badly punished as Clancy's,
Jerry had not gotten off unscathed. He was grim, determined, and cuts
at the lip and eyes made him no handsomer than he should have been.
But he was breathing more easily than Clancy, and, though he had lost
much of his speed, he still seemed able to avoid his opponent at will
and to hold him off with his straight left arm. Six rounds in which
science had been more than a match for all Clancy's bull strength and
ring experience! That in itself was something of an achievement, but
Jerry was still further to show his strength, for in this seventh
round Clancy went to the floor twice, the first time by a clean blow
to the jaw through a beautiful opening that Jerry planned
deliberately, feinting for the body, bringing a lead which Jerry
half-ducked and then side stepped, throwing all the weight of his body
into a blow with his right, timed and aimed with beautiful precision.
The crowd were on their feet, silent. They thought that the end had
come, for at the call of _three_ Clancy had not moved, Flynn and
Spatola were already above the level of the ring clinging to the ropes
and Jerry stood breathing heavily, his arms at his sides watching the
prostrate man. At the count of _six_ Clancy was on one elbow, _eight_
found him on his knees struggling to his feet. He swayed a little, but
rose and fell into a clinch which saved him. The referee tore the men
apart and Jerry at once assumed the aggressive, making the weary
Clancy move warily. But one of Jerry's left-hand blows caught him
again, and he went half through the ropes.
It was here that Jerry earned the wild applause of the crowd by an act
of magnanimity that was nothing less than Quixotic. But it was like
Jerry. He wanted to take no unfair advantages. He bent forward,
lifting the upper rope, and helped Clancy into the ring. There the
round ended in a roar of cheering that did my heart and Jack's good to
hear.
But the thing was foolhardy. The man was not done yet, as Jerry was to
find out in a moment. I saw Flynn frowning and protesting in Jerry's
ear, for the boy had been set for a knockout and the bout in all
probability would have been ended. Jerry listened, his arms stretched
out along the ropes, smiling up at the glaring electric lights. He was
breathing convulsively and Spatola swung his towel furiously, fanning
the heavy air into the boy's gasping lungs. He had had all the
advantage so far and with good generalship could still win on points
if he fought his own battle and not Clancy's. But would he? I knew
what Flynn was saying to him, what he was warning him against. I had
heard the warning often in the bouts at the Manor. Failing in science
and skill Clancy would "slug" (Flynn's word, not mine), trusting to
the prodigious length of his arms, taking the punishment that came to
him, biding his time and the possible lucky blow which would turn the
tide in his favor.
I glanced at Clancy's corner. There was anxiety there. I think during
the seventh round, Clancy had seen his fifteen thousand going
a-glimmering and Riley was no less emphatic than Flynn. There were but
three more rounds--three rounds in which the Sailor could regain his
lost ground and the heavyweight laurels that seemed to be slipping
from him.
When the gong clanged, it was immediately to be seen that Clancy's
whole plan of battle had changed. From some hidden sources in that
great hulk of a body he drew new forces of energy. You will see the
same thing in any wild beast of the jungle, a hidden reserve of
nervous power and viciousness, most dangerous apparently when nearest
extinction. He was ugly--his jowls shot forward, his brow lowering,
his long arms shooting like pistons--a jungle beast at bay. Jerry
stopped his progress again--again--with straight thrusts and
uppercuts, but the man only covered up, crouched lower, and came on
again. Once he caught Jerry in the stomach and I saw the boy wince
with pain; again he reached Jerry's head, a terrific blow which would
have sent him to the floor had Jerry not been moving away. And all the
while Jerry's blows were landing, cutting the man, blinding him, but
still he came on. Was there no limit to the amount of punishment that
he could endure? Jerry's blows were not the leads of a boxer, but
fighting blows, and Clancy's face and body would bear testimony to
their strength for many a day, but he always came on for more--a
superbeast that as long as breath came and blood flowed, was untamed
and unconquerable. Jerry was tiring now and throwing discretion to the
winds was trying for a knockout. Two swings he missed by mere wildness
and weariness of eye, and Flynn's voice rose above the wild clamor of
the of the crowd. "Keep him off, Jerry--keep him off!" But Jerry did
not hear or did not choose to hear, for he no longer avoided Clancy's
blows or his advances, standing his ground and slugging wildly as
Clancy was doing. Jack Ballard saw the danger and sprang to his feet
seconding Flynn's advice, but he could not be heard above the roar of
the crowd. It was a wild moment. A chance blow by either man would end
the battle then. I was no longer Roger Canby, ex-tutor and
philosopher, but a mad mother-beast whose cub was fighting for its
life. "Keep him off, Jerry," I yelled hoarsely again and again, but
the boy still stood, his toe to Clancy's, fighting wildly. Three times
they fell into clinches from sheer exhaustion to be pried apart by the
referee, only to go at each other again. This was no test of skill,
but of brutality and chance. I think that Jerry was mad--brute mad,
for, though Clancy's blows were now reaching him, he didn't seem to be
aware of them. His face was distorted with rage--animal rage. When the
gong clanged at the end of this round, the eighth, they still fought
even when Gannon thrust his bulk between them.
The crowd sank back into their seats gasping. It was a long while
since New York had seen a fight such as this.
"What d' I tell you, Charlie?" whispered the optimist next to me
hoarsely.
"By--, he's good an' no mistake," confessed the fat man.
"He's got the Sailor goin'."
Jack Ballard and I were in an agony of apprehension, watching the
faces of the excited men in Jerry's corner, who were trying to warn
him before it was too late. But we could see that Jerry was stubborn,
for when Flynn pleaded with him he shook his head. Spatola and the
negro massaged him furiously, adding their anxious pleas to Flynn's,
but Jerry would not listen. He was taking the foul air in huge gasps,
his eyes closed, fighting for recuperation.
When the ninth round opened the men were both groggy and stumbled to
the center of the ring like two blind men groping for each other,
swinging wildly and moving slowly. Each was intent upon a knockout.
Twice each swung and missed rights, avoiding the blows by remnants of
their craft and cleverness. Twice they stumbled into clinches and were
torn apart by the pitiless Gannon. In the in-fighting (a technical
term) Jerry I think must have been struck--I did not see the blow, but
it must have been a terrific one--for his knees sagged and his hands
dropped to his sides while his mouth gaped open painfully. At the
cries from his corner Clancy drove a vicious blow, but Jerry weakly
managed to avoid it. But he couldn't raise his arms. Jerry was hurt,
grievously hurt. In a moment they were raised again, but he could not
seem to see his mark and his swings were wild. In agony I rose, my arm
in Ballard's, ready for the worst. Clancy straightened, tried to
collect what remained of his scattered wits and strength, poised
himself and with a terrible blow, struck Jerry at the point of his
chin.
He went down with a crash, his head striking the floor, and remained
motionless. Over him, one hand restraining Clancy, Gannon counted.
Jerry's figure writhed upon the floor, twisting upon its head
struggling to rise and then relaxed. The fight was over.
A curious hush had fallen over the great hall. Here and there Clancy's
friends were shouting in glee, but the great mass of the crowd, those
whom Jerry had won by his skill and pluck, seemed bewildered. The end
had come too suddenly for them to realize what had happened and how it
had happened. The match was his. He had won it. It had only been a
question of rounds. And then, "Chance blow in the solar-plexus,"
someone was saying.
It is curious how many and how lasting are the impressions that can be
crowded into a second of time. I clambered out of the box with Jack
Ballard toward the ring, fearful of the blow to Jerry's head upon the
boards, and as I pushed my way through the bewildered crowd, I caught
just a glimpse of Marcia Van Wyck's party. They were all standing up
in their box, looking toward the ring. A man beside her made a remark
at the girl's ear. I saw her turn and flash a bright glance up at him
and had a glimpse of her small white teeth. She was laughing. This is
just an impression of a momentary glimpse, but it means much. In this
situation is the psychology of the real Marcia. Jerry, her man-god,
her brute-god, lay prone at her feet a quivering mass of bruised
flesh, beaten and broken mind and body, and she could smile.
Tingling with rage at this incident, which I thanked God Jerry had
not seen, I fought my way behind Jack to the aisle to the
dressing-room, whither willing hands had carried the boy. All around
us we heard the encomiums of the crowd.
"Luck," one said, "mere luck."
"It's all in the game. But Benham's the better man."
"Lucky for Clancy that Jerry mixed it. Could 'a cut the Sailor to
pieces."
"Some fight--what?"
"The best in years. The boy's a wonder."
All this from hardened followers of the ring. The door to the
dressing-room was jammed and a force of policemen was keeping back the
people. Our anxious queries were passed along to the doorway.
"He's coming around all right," said the sergeant. "Now move along
there, gents. No admittance here."
But Jack and I awaited our chance and when Sagorski poked his head out
of the door he saw us and the sergeant let us through.
It was a very crestfallen group that greeted us. Flynn and the negro,
Monroe, were working over Jerry, who lay on a cot-bed near the window.
He had recovered consciousness and even as we entered he raised his
head wearily and looked around. His face was battered and bruised, and
his smile as he greeted us partook of the character of his injuries.
But he was whole and I hoped not badly hurt. Youth and strength, the
best of medicines, were already reviving him.
"Well, Roger," he muttered dully, "I'm licked."
"Luck," I said laconically. Jack Ballard had clasped his big
congested hand, "Proud of you, Jerry, old boy! You ought to have won.
Why the Devil did you let him coax you into close quarters?"
"I thought--I could stand--what he could," grunted Jerry.
"Not the lucky blow. He had it. If you'd stood him off--"
"I came here to fight--" said Jerry sinking back on his mattress
wearily.
I think his mind was beginning to work slowly around to the real
meaning of his defeat, not the mere failure of his science and skill,
but the failure of his body and mind as against the mind and body of a
trained brute, whom he had set his heart on conquering. I knew as no
one else there knew what the victory meant to him, and the memory of
the brief glimpse I had had of the Van Wyck girl's face when he lay in
the ring inflamed me anew. I know not what--some vestige of my thought
reached him, for he drew me toward him and when I bent my head he
whispered in my ear,
"Marcia--was there?"
I nodded.
"She stayed--saw--?"
"Yes."
He made no sound, and submitted silently to the ministrations of his
trainers.
Flynn was philosophical.
"The fortunes of war, Misther Canby. 'T'was a gran' fight, as fine a
mill as you'll see in a loife time--wid the best man losin'--'S a
shame, sor; but Masther Jerry w'u'd have his way--bad cess to 'm. You
can't swap swipes wid a gorilla, sor. It ain't done."
"He beat me fairly," said Jerry sitting up.
"Who? Clancy? I'll match you agin him tomorrow, Masther Jerry," and he
grinned cheerfully, "if ye'll but take advice."
"Advice!" sighed Jerry. "You were right Flynn--I--I was wrong."
"I wudden't mind if it wasn't for thinkin' of that fifteen thousand."
"I think he earned it," laughed Jack.
Jerry sat up on the edge of the bed and stared around, one eye only
visible. The other was concealed behind a piece of raw meat that Flynn
was holding over it.
"You lost something, Flynn?" he asked.
"A trifle, sor."
"And the Kid and Tim?"
"_And_ Rozy and Dan--all of us a bit, sor. But it don't matther."
"Well," he said with a laugh. "I'll make it up to you, all of you, d'
you hear? And I'm very much obliged for your confidence."
It didn't need this munificence on Jerry's part to win the affection
of these bruisers, but they were none the less cheerful on account of
it. As Jim Robinson he had won their esteem, and all the evening they
had stood a little in awe of Jerry Benham, but before they left him
that night he gave them a good handshake all around and invited them
to his house on the morrow. Between the crowd of us we got him into
street clothes and a closed automobile in which Jack and I went with
him to his house uptown.