AUNT CAROLINE--REFEREE
As Bill stepped into the hall he glanced in dull surprise at the single
light that was burning there. And soon he became aware of a din in the
library. For an instant his bewilderment increased. Then came sickening
comprehension. The Kid was pulling it off to-night. He had changed the
date. Why? And why, again, had fate summoned Aunt Caroline to the feast?
Bill put a hand against the wall to steady himself. He turned fearful
eyes toward his aunt.
She was already in action. On occasion she was a brisk lady, despite her
years; she was not timorous. Something she did not understand was taking
place in her house. She proposed to look into the matter herself. Before
Bill could clutch her arm she darted along the hall and flung open the
door of the library.
She never really appreciated the beauty of what she saw. Like Mary
Wayne, she was untutored in its scientific nicety and its poetic
movement. She merely sensed that it was red carnage, titanic, horrific.
Just what happened is most easily described by referring to the official
version of the eighth round, which was uncompleted in the last chapter.
The Kid rushed again, landing left and right to the head. The Bearcat
wobbled. The Kid stepped back, measured his man, and sent a right to the
body. The Bearcat's hands dropped to his side. The Kid drove a terrific
blow to the jaw, and the Bearcat crashed over on his back, completely
out.
The official version does not say that when the Bearcat prostrated
himself in dreamless slumber he did so with his head lying at the feet
of Aunt Caroline, who drew aside her skirts with housewifely instinct
and stared down at his battered, yet peaceful countenance. The Bearcat
never slept more soundly in his life; so profound was his oblivion that
Aunt Caroline, in her inexperience, thought he was dead.
She looked up and saw a stout man waving an arm up and down and
counting. She saw Signor Antonio Valentino, poised and panting, waiting
in vain for the Bearcat to rise again. Beyond she saw, through a haze of
smoke, the faces of strange men. None of these persons whom she saw as
yet appeared to be aware of her own presence, or that of Bill Marshall,
who was now staring over her shoulder. They were all too utterly
absorbed in the slumberous bliss of this young man from Trenton.
"Ten!" said the stout man triumphantly, as though it were an achievement
to count as high as ten.
Then he seized Kid Whaley's right arm and held it high in air. There was
a hoarse roar of joy from the crowd. Two young men whose bodies from the
waist up were clad in sleeveless jerseys rushed forward and hugged the
Kid deliriously. They upset a bucket of water in their agitation, and it
flowed across the parquetry, to mingle with the powdered rosin. Two
other young men, similarly attired, sprang into the picture, seized the
Trenton Bearcat by the heels and dragged him into an open space, where
they could more readily lay hands upon him.
And then everybody at once--except, of course, the Bearcat--seemed to
observe Aunt Caroline Marshall, standing in the doorway. They froze and
watched. Slowly she raised a finger until it pointed at the breast of
the Kid.
"Murderer!" she cried.
The Kid blinked in amazement.
"Murderer!"
The stout man who had counted so excellently shook himself and spoke.
"There ain't nobody been murdered, ma'am. Everythin's all right. He
won't be asleep more'n a coupla minutes."
Aunt Caroline turned upon him in a blaze.
"Who are you? Who are all these men? What have you been doing? How do
you come to be in my house?"
She surveyed her library--the wet and rosined floor, the rugs heaped in
a corner, the chairs piled against the wall, the tables with men
standing on their polished tops. Was it really her house? Yes; it must
be. There was no mistaking that portrait of her grandfather, still
looking down from its accustomed place on the wall.
She centered her gaze once more upon Signor Valentino, advancing as she
did so. The signor backed away, plainly nervous.
"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded. "How dare you break into my
house?"
The Bearcat had been propped up in a chair, and his seconds were
squirting water over him, employing a large sponge for the purpose. He
had not yet responded to the reveille. There was an uneasy stir among
the crowd. The men were trying to unfasten a window.
Aunt Caroline was still advancing when Mary Wayne pushed Bill Marshall
aside and darted into the room.
"Come away! Please!" she cried, seizing Aunt Caroline's arm.
The mistress of the Marshall mansion turned a dazed glance upon the
social secretary, uttered a little shriek of recognition and embraced
her.
"Oh, my dear child! You're safe!"
"Of course. Please come up-stairs."
Suddenly Aunt Caroline stiffened and thrust her away.
"What do _you_ know about this?" she demanded.
"Nothing--absolutely nothing. Oh, _please_ come away. You mustn't stay
here."
"I am entitled to remain in my own library," said Aunt Caroline, in
stern tones. "And I propose to stay here until I discover exactly what
this means."
And as she stood in the middle of the cleared space, she looked far more
like a conqueror than Kid Whaley.
Bill Marshall, who had been standing in an awed trance at the doorway,
abruptly came to life. He leaped forward with a yell. Aunt Caroline, the
Kid, the Bearcat, the seconds, the crowd--all had vanished from his
vision. He saw nobody but the social secretary. Her he gathered into his
arms, lifted clear of the floor and hugged violently to his breast.
"Oh, girl," he muttered. "Oh, girl, but I'm glad to see you."
Mary gasped. She struggled. She tried to push herself free. But Bill
was oblivious to all but his honest joy.
"Oh, girl!" he murmured, over and over again.
The crowd, which had been moving restlessly, became immobile again. It
forgot even Aunt Caroline.
Mary Wayne writhed frantically in the grip that held her. Her feet,
inches clear of the floor, beat the air impotently. She worked an arm
free and tried to strike, inspired, perhaps, by a memory of the battle;
but a series of futile slaps was all that resulted. She stormed at him;
she tried to slay him with her eyes. But Bill Marshall only smiled
happily, bent his head and kissed her on the freckles.
"Oh, girl!"
At last he set her free, placing her gently on her feet and gazing at
her with an intensity of admiration that ought to have made any woman
proud. But Mary was in a cyclonic state of rage and consternation. She
swung an open hand against his ear with a crack that resembled a
pistol-shot, and fled ignominiously from the room. Bill looked after
her, nodding his head proudly and grinning wide.
"Oh, girl!" he whispered.
Aunt Caroline tapped him sharply on the arm.
"William, do _you_ know what this means?"
Bill rallied from his ecstasy and began to scratch his chin. He neither
knew how to approach nor to evade explanation. Kid Whaley went
generously to the rescue. He had draped a bath-robe over his shoulders,
and now accosted Aunt Caroline with the assurance of a gentleman who
regards himself fittingly garbed for an occasion.
"It's like this," said the Kid. "We got t' have a place t' pull off this
mill, see? So Bill says th' fam'ly's goin' off yachtin', an' we c'n
come over here, where it's all quiet an' no bulls t' horn in, an' go as
far as we like. He gives me th' keys an'----"
Aunt Caroline halted him with a peremptory hand, and turned to Bill.
"William Marshall, is this true?"
Bill drew a deep breath and managed to look her in the eye.
"Yes, Aunt Caroline."
"You gave this creature permission to conduct a prize-fight in _my_
house?"
"I'm afraid I did."
"And then you brought me home to be a witness----"
Kid Whaley interrupted her.
"Nothin' like that," he said. "Bill didn't know we was pullin' it off
t'-night. It wasn't comin' till next week. Only I got trained down kinda
fine, see? I was li'ble to go stale. So th' Bearcat, he don't mind, an'
we touches it off t'-night. Y' wouldn't expect a guy t' wait till he
gets stale, would y'? I ain't makin' myself a set-up f'r nobody."
Aunt Caroline eyed Kid Whaley from head to foot.
"You have never been a sculptor, of course," she said in a bitter tone.
"I might have known better. Of course, I placed confidence in my nephew.
I shall take care never to do so again. You are nothing but a low
prize-fighter, it appears."
The Kid was beginning to glower. There is a dignity that attaches to
every profession, and those who rise high should always endeavor to
maintain it.
"I'm a pr'fessional athalete," said the Kid, wrapping his robe about
him. "There ain't nothin' low about me. I'm goin' t' fight th'
champeen."
Aunt Caroline studied him with narrowing eyes.
"Bill, y' oughta been here," continued the Kid, turning to his patron.
"Y' oughta seen th' mill. Take it from me, this Bearcat is good. He
gimme a run. I got nothin' against him f'r it. Knocked him stiff in
eight rounds, Bill. Say, if I'd had th' champ in here t'-night I'd 'a'
done th' same thing. Bill, I'm gettin' better every time I put on th'
gloves. Six months from now I'm gonna be champeen, Bill. Get me!
_Champeen!_"
The Kid expanded his chest under his frowsy toga and glanced
condescendingly at Aunt Caroline. It was time she acquired a proper
perspective concerning his exact status, he thought.
"Out of my house!" she said sharply. "Out of my house--everybody!"
There was a sudden movement of the crowd, a slacking of tension. Men
started crowding through the door into the hall. The Trenton Bearcat,
groggy as to head and legs, went with them, supported on either side by
his seconds. The stout man who had been general manager, announcer and
referee, seized his coat and elbowed his way toward freedom as though
seized with panic. A window had been opened and part of the crowd began
flowing out through that.
Kid Whaley turned nonchalantly, sought a chair and began unlacing his
fighting-shoes.
"Leave my house--at once!" commanded Aunt Caroline.
He glanced up with a confident grin.
"Y' don't think I'm goin' out th' way I am?" he inquired. "I got
chucked outa this house once; I'm goin' when I get ready now."
Aunt Caroline turned to her nephew.
"William, I want this person out of the house--immediately."
"Beat it, Kid," said Bill tersely.
Kid Whaley regarded his patron with faint surprise.
"What's th' idea?" he asked. "Y' gimme th' run o' th' place. Y' gimme
th' keys. Now y' want t' gimme th' bum's rush."
Bill Marshall was suddenly sick of the whole affair. He had no pride in
his exploit. He was even acquiring a dislike for Antonio Valentino. And
all this revulsion was quite apart from his fear of consequences at the
hands of Aunt Caroline. He wanted to be rid of the whole business; he
wanted a chance to go up-stairs and explain things to Mary Wayne.
"Beat it--the way you are," he ordered. "Go on, Kid."
Kid Whaley twisted his lip into a sneer.
"Gettin' cold feet, eh? That's th' way with all you rich guys. Puttin'
on th' heavy stuff. Oh, well; I guess I got nothin' t' worry about. I'll
be champeen in six months."
"Move quick!" said Bill sharply.
"What f'r? Just because th' old dame----"
Bill reached forth, seized the Kid by an arm and brought him to his feet
with a single heave. He was beginning to get angry.
"Get out of this house," he said, shaking him. "Do you understand me?"
The Kid wrenched himself free and swung an upward blow that landed on
Bill's ear.
"William!" cried Aunt Caroline.
"Don't worry about me, Aunt Caroline," said Bill grimly. "Just leave the
room, please."
"I shall not leave the room. I want you to----"
"I'm going to."
And he made a rush for Kid Whaley.
Bill Marshall was a large young man. So far as the Kid was concerned, he
had every advantage that goes with weight. He was also something better
than a mere novice in the use of his hands. But he did not have the
skill of Antonio Valentino, nothing like it; nor his experience, nor his
generalship. He simply had a vast amount of determination, and he was
angry.
He missed a good many blows, whereas the Kid seldom missed. But the more
often Bill missed the more resolved was he that Kid Whaley should leave
the house a chastened artist. One thing that encouraged him was the fact
that the Kid was not really hurting him. For several minutes they
utilized all the available floor space.
Aunt Caroline had retreated to a corner, where she was standing on a
chair, her skirts gathered about her. Frightened? No. She was giving
Bill Marshall plenty of room. There was a battle-light in her eyes. And
Bill, busy as he was, began to hear her voice, coming to him as though
in a strange dream:
"Will Marshall, don't you let that creature beat you! Do you hear that?
William! Look out! Don't you way. I expect you to thrash him, William
Marshall. I want him thrown out of this house. _Thrown_ out! Do you hear
that? William! Look out! Don't you see what he's trying to do? There!
Strike him again, William. Harder! Again, William; again!"
Aunt Caroline was stepping around on the chair-seat in her agitation.
Her fists were clenched; her eyes blazing; her nostrils dilated. The
butler and the servants and Pete Stearns, who had crowded to the
doorway, looked at her in amazement.
"Keep on, William; keep on! I want him punished. Do you understand? I
want him beaten! Harder, William! There! Like that--and that! Oh, dear;
I can't think---- Oh, what is it I want to say?"
What dear old Aunt Caroline wanted to say was "Atta boy!" but she had
never learned how. She wanted to say it because matters were suddenly
going well with Bill.
Kid Whaley, shifty as he was, had been unable to stem the tide of Bill's
rushing assault. A right caught him on the tin ear, and he went down. He
was on his feet in a flash. Another right caught him, and he went down
again. This time he lingered for a second or two. When he got up Bill
managed to land a left on the jaw. Down went the Kid. But he was game.
Once more he got to his feet.
There was a shrill call from Aunt Caroline, who was now dancing on the
chair.
"William, remember that you are a Marshall!"
Bill remembered.
The Kid went down. He got up. He went down. He got up. He went down--and
stayed.
Bill Marshall stepped back and surveyed his work grimly. Two young men
in jerseys came slinking forth from a corner and moved toward the
prostrate warrior. Bill greeted the nearest with a critical inspection.
"Are you one of his seconds?" he asked.
"Uhuh."
Bill calmly let fly a punch that knocked him over two chairs.
He turned to the other youth.
"Are you a second, too?"
"No, sir," said the youth, hastily.
"You're a liar," said Bill, and knocked him over three chairs.
He stooped, lifted the quiet form of the Kid and tucked it under his
arm. As he made for the door the servants gave way to him. Through the
hall he marched solemnly, bearing the burden of his own making as though
it were merely a feather pillow. Through the front door, down the stone
steps and across the sidewalk he carried it. Pausing at the curb, he
dropped Signor Antonio Valentino into the gutter.
As he reentered the house, his mood gravely thoughtful, two young men
who had waved towels for the conqueror of the Trenton Bearcat slid out a
side window and hurried around the corner to see what had become of
their hero.
Bill encountered his aunt in the front hall. He regarded her doubtfully.
"I am very sorry, Aunt Caroline," he said quietly, "that you had to see
this thing. I asked you to leave the library, if you remember."
Aunt Caroline clasped her hands and looked up at him.
"Why, William Marshall! It was perfectly splendid!"
Bill scratched his ear and shook his head helplessly.
"I give it up," he said.