DEAR SIR: I am in receipt of your telegram. I must thank you for
the faithfulness with which you have fulfilled my request. It is
not probable that Richard will continue in athletics. I enclose
herewith a compensation which is certainly due you. I shall be
greatly disappointed if denied the pleasure of its acceptance.
Wishing you the success you deserve in your profession, I am,
Sincerely yours,
MARGARET LEE FAIRFAX.
TO MR. WALTER BROWN.
So closed my correspondence with the "chatelaine" of "The Oaks," whom I
never saw, but about whom I have often thought. What did she write in
that black-sealed, black-bordered note? I have puzzled my brain over it
many and many an hour. I think I have guessed the riddle; but true or
false, it must be kept a secret still.
Dick himself is certainly not an enigma. He is only the most pronounced
case of a description I have met before and since.
He had ability, but not the inclination nor the will. A temporary anger
on that April morning had given him the necessary determination to force
his muscles to their extreme exercise of power. His mother's note had
furnished a motive which had brought him in a winner. Without
incentives, his muscular powers were not exercised, and his performances
were ordinary.
Sometimes, as I sit by the fireside, smoking my pipe over old memories,
I think of Dick, and wonder what he would have done had he Teddy
Atherton's head on his shoulders, or his heart inside his ribs.
Of all my athletic disappointments Dick furnished me with the most
disheartening, and among all the surprises of field and track none has
equalled the Virginia jumper.
[Illustration: And Every One A Winner]
We are winners. The lobby of the hotel is crowded. Athletes, college
men, travellers, and a curious public are well shuffled together. It is
the same old pack of cards that I have seen for years, though the faces
change. That "know-it-all" by the post is a new man, yet he is telling
just how and why we won, like the wiseacres who preceded him, and the
others who will follow; for this line of succession never runs out. He
is telling how he has foreseen the result for weeks, and can call
witnesses to prove his faultless prediction of six months ago. Yes, he
can, though we only pulled out by the skin of our teeth, after sitting
on the anxious seat all the afternoon; and had not Jim Harding thrown
the hammer ten feet farther than ever before, we never should have won
at all. But this only makes the "know-it-all's" wisdom more remarkable,
and my ignorance as well, for I had thought the team a losing one,
though I had, of course, held my tongue.
Bah! Thirty years have not reconciled me to this gentry, with the addled
brains and brazen throats.
Most of the college men are gathered in little groups, around which the
crowds ebb and flow in a surging tide. That its strongest current is
through the swinging door of the bar-room cannot be denied, nor that it
shows signs of the source from which it sprang. There are at least three
grains of talk to one of listen, which is the regular dose, though the
athletes pull the proportion down. They are, as usual, quietest of all.
They have developed other muscles than those of the tongue; and yet even
they are a bit talkative to-night, and have an unmistakably festive air
about them.
After months of preparation and weeks of strict training, when rigid
rules prohibit, and all the pleasant things of life seem labelled "Keep
off the grass," there is a maddening pleasure in being free again,--free
to taste that favorite dish, palatable but indigestible; free to inhale
the fragrance of a good cigar; free to watch the hands of the clock
swing into the small hours; free, as Harry Gardner expresses it, "to do
as you darn please once more."
For those who have lost there is the necessity of drowning sorrow, and
it is certainly the duty of a good winner to give his victory a fitting
celebration. There is not as much difference in the two ceremonies as
might be imagined.
Our team has broken training, and some of them are breaking it badly.
There are the long summer months before them, with the leisure hours at
seashore or mountains, and no more work until the cool winds of autumn
begin to blow. Even those of the most regular habits are kicking over
the traces, and some of the wilder spirits, that make a trainer's hair
gray before its time, to whom the six months' restraint has been a
galling yoke, are giving themselves very loose rein. I am sorry to say
that this particular team has not a large percentage of either deacons
or clergymen, though Jim Harding afterward took holy orders, became an
honor to the cloth, and will some day be a bishop. I occasionally attend
his church; and when I see his huge form at the desk, and hear his
voice, powerful and earnest, as it echoes to the farthest corner, I
wonder if he has forgotten the night when we looked for "Paddy's cousin,
the copper," when "every one was a winner."
As I enter the hotel lobby, after dinner, on this evening of the games
of 188-, I discover Jim standing near the street entrance with Harry
Gardner, and a little knot of college friends and admirers. They are
smoking like bad chimneys, and between puffs are giving a green reporter
some most surprising bits of information, much to their own enjoyment
and the delectation of their friends. The little reporter is taking
copious notes, which will create a sensation in the morning, if the
sporting editor does not discover them before they get into print. Jim
is big and blond, and Harry slender and dark; the former has made a
first in the "hammer-throw;" the latter, after winning his trial heat in
the "hundred" with ease, got away badly in the finals, and had to
content himself with adding a single point to our score.
Now, Jim and Harry are particular friends of mine; I shall never handle
them again, and I want a last word or two of farewell. They have
developed under my care from awkward boys to the finished athletes they
are to-night. I have seen the firm, round muscles becoming more and more
perfect; the heart and lungs grow equal to more and more severe tests,
and the increasing courage and self-reliance (without which there can be
no success on the cinder-path) which will help them through many a
struggle with the world they are about to enter. It is one of the sad
parts of a trainer's life that he must lose such friends.
I force my way through the crowd, getting numberless nods and greetings
of a warmer nature, for I am a well-known man in such a gathering. I
strike the strong current flowing to and from the bar; but a little
patience, and a liberal use of the elbow, brings me to the boys at last.
I give them each a hand, and we exchange a word or two of
congratulation. Harry is, I see, a bit sore at his misfortune, for he
had been picked as a sure winner. I give him a word of praise for his
gallant effort to make up a three-yard loss at the start. There are many
sprinters who would not have tried at all, let alone have pulled off the
much-needed point. I tell Harding, with assumed resentment, that he has
been sogering all the time, abusing my confidence by playing the
sleeper, and that he has always been good for the extra ten feet.
At this Jim gives one of his basso profundo laughs, and in answer to my
question as to what mischief he is plotting, replies that Harry and
himself are waiting for Paddy, who has gone with Tom Furness for a
little something "to kape the night out," and that they have promised
the Irishman to help him look up his cousin "Dinny Sullivan, a copper."
I find that all they know about this cousin is that he is a policeman,
on duty somewhere in the Bowery district. The boys admit the scent is
not strong, but anticipate good sport in the hunt, whether they bag the
game or not. There is always fun with Paddy, for though he has become a
mighty knowing man on cinder-path and track, and is not as green as when
he tackled the "ghostly hurdler," he is a delicious bit still.
He appears a moment after, the "Knight of the Rake and Roller,"
accompanied by Tom; and judging from the aroma that clings to them, the
necessary precautions have been taken against the baleful influences of
the night air.
Tom is as happy and sanguine as ever, shakes me by the hand as if my arm
was a pump-handle in midsummer, and immediately protests that not a step
will he take out of the house unless I go with him.
At this they all insist that the party will be incomplete without me. I
must go, or I shall break up the party and spoil sport. After
considerable resistance, which I admit now was assumed, I consented at
last. The truth was that, while I had not trained as had the boys, I had
given many months of care and anxiety to them, and really wanted a bit
of a fling myself. I knew very well what the little walk would lead up
to, but reasoned that the boys were bound to get into trouble, and that
it would be a charity to look after them. In fact, I played the
hypocrite in a way for which I should have been ashamed.
Although Tom and the boys gave unmistakable signs of "having dined," and
Paddy of his heroic remedies against the night, we all meander to the
bar for a last measure of precaution, light fresh cigars, and sally
forth.
The clocks are striking eight as the door swings behind us, the stars
are beginning to show, and the street lights to shine. The air is mild,
and the pavements seem like a country road after the awful crowd of the
lobby. The rattle of the pavements is silence compared with the rattle
of tongues which we have left behind us.
We pile into a carriage which Paddy selects from a number drawn up to
the curb,--because the driver is a Connemara man. We are not
particularly comfortable with three on one seat, and five pairs of long
legs interlaced; but our ride is enlivened by Paddy's conversation, no
less brilliant than fluent, which is a magnificent compliment.
Occasionally Tom succeeds in getting in a word, but the rest of us are
out of it. He is about to give us some reminiscences of "Dinny's"
boyhood when the carriage stops, much to our surprise, for we do not
realize the lapse of time.
We alight before a corner drug-store, and Paddy calls the "Connemara
man" an "Irish thief" when Tom pays him an exorbitant charge. He is
easily placated, however, and goes into the store to inquire after
Dinny, while we wait outside. We look through the window, between the
red bottle on the right and the blue bottle on the left, and see him go
up to the clerk at the soda fountain. The latter, a tall, pale-faced
youth, answers shortly, and points to a big directory on a little shelf
in the corner. Paddy walks over, upsetting a rack of sponges on the way,
opens the directory doubtfully, turns over its leaves, runs his finger
down a page or two, looks more and more puzzled, and at last beckons us
in.
We enter, and find him looking blankly at an almost unending list of
Dennis Sullivans, engaged in many occupations, and several of them "on
the force." After a careful examination, befitting the seriousness of
the occasion, we pronounce the task hopeless, and file out again. Our
departure is apparently greatly to the relief of the pale young man, for
we had laughed until the bottles rattled when Paddy described his cousin
as a "big chunk av a man, wid a taste for gin, an' a bad habit av
snorin'."
We halt in the lee of the mortar and pestle, while the crowd surges
past, and hold a council of war. Harding suggests that our best plan is
to form a rush line, letting none pass until they tell all they know
about "Dennis Sullivan, the copper." This proposition is hailed with
delight by all but Tom and me, and though we are in the minority our
opposition succeeds. To spread a drag-net across a Bowery sidewalk I
believe to be a decidedly hazardous proceeding, and likely to result in
the catching of fish too big to land. We finally form, with Paddy ahead,
then Jim and Harry, Tom and myself bringing up the rear.
We had not taken a dozen steps before Paddy halts a tough-looking chap
with "Do yes know me cousin, Dinny Sullivan?" The prisoner wears a very
short sack-coat, plaid trowsers, and a tall silk hat. He has a "mouse"
under one eye, and the other, though lacking the honorable decoration of
its companion, is red and angry. His mustache is closely clipped and
dyed a deathly black; the cigar in the extreme corner of his mouth is
tilted at an acute angle. He blows a cloud of smoke over Paddy's
shoulder, and looks us all over suspiciously, each in turn.
Now, we are rather a formidable party: Paddy and Jim as big as houses,
Tom tall and angular, myself a rugged specimen, and Harry, though not
adding much to our physical strength, evidently spoiling for trouble.
As a rule, the little men are the aggressors, and most dangerous of all
if they have a crowd with them.
Paddy's first captive, in deference to our superior force, decides to
act the civil, and asks gruffly, "What's his biz?"
"He's a cop," answered Paddy, "a big chunk av a man, wid a scar over the
lift eye, under the hair." Identifying a man by a concealed scar is too
much for Tom, who breaks into a hearty laugh, and the prisoner himself
gives a half smile, when after denying all knowledge of "Dinny" he is
allowed to pass on.
We next halt a couple of young fellows, evidently gentlemen, out on a
lark. They recognize in Paddy a character worth cultivating, and keep
him talking several minutes, asking fool questions; but they finally
admit that "me cousin Dinny Sullivan" is not on their list of
acquaintances.
We spent some time in this way, Paddy doing picket duty, the main army
close up in support. After questioning a dozen or more we make up our
minds that Dinny is certainly not as well known on the Bowery as John L.
or Tony Pastor, and that the success of our mission is doubtful. We had
enjoyed the dialogues immensely, particularly that with a good-natured
German. The latter understood hardly a word of English, but spoke his
own language like a cuckoo clock. Paddy, of course, knew not a single
word he said, but stuck to him for several minutes, giving up English at
last, and treating us to the classic accents of old Ireland.
Nearly all we met had taken the matter good-naturedly, but one or two
did not see the joke, and turned ugly. One big fellow talked fight, but
the proposition was received by Paddy with such extreme joy, and
preparations were made with such alacrity, that he thought better of the
plan and withdrew his challenge. This was greatly to Paddy's
disappointment, and Harry's as well, the latter offering to take the
Irishman's place, though he would have been fifty pounds short weight.
We had been stopping frequently for Paddy to take further precautions to
"kape the night out," and the rest of us doctored with the same medicine
in smaller doses.
Paddy was now perfectly happy, and he had his reasons. The "byes" had
won; he was drinking, under Tom's most learned and experienced tuition,
a different new drink every time, and in his heart of hearts was sure of
a fight before the sun rose.
What more could an Irishman ask; and a Connemara Irishman at that? His
face was growing redder and more smiling every minute, and his feet,
although they performed their duties after a fashion, would certainly
not have been equal to the "crack in the floor test," as on the night
when he encountered the "ghostly hurdler."
But although Pat would have been contented to continue in the same
blissful state until the crack of doom, the rest of us began to tire of
the quest, and to look around in search of other things beside "Dinny,
the copper." The streets were crowded, the stores open, the bar-rooms
doing a rushing business, and the places of amusement in full blast.
Suddenly Jim stopped before the bulletin board of a little variety
theatre, and began to examine it critically. There was a long list of
names in black letters,--singers, dancers, acrobats, boxers, and I know
not what else; but Jim's eyes were fixed with great seriousness at the
tall red letters at the bottom. They declared, in extremely mixed
metaphor, "A Galaxy of Stars, and Every One a Winner."
"I'm going in," said Jim, with much gravity, throwing his cigar away.
"How about Paddy's cousin, the copper?" asked Harry.
"He's as likely here as anywhere," Jim answered; "beside, it says that
'every one's a winner,' and that's the only kind for us to-night."
We were all of us quite ready for a change, so we stepped into the
little lobby, Paddy first going up to the ticket office to ask, "Is me
cousin, Dinny Sullivan, the copper, inside?"
The ticket-seller, a big, fat fellow, with weak eyes and a Roman nose,
thought Paddy was trying to jolly him, and answered "No," quite tartly.
Paddy, of course, resented the incivility, and declared himself to be a
gentleman, and he cared not who knew it. He further ventured to doubt
whether the man behind the window was in the same class with himself,
and, gradually abandoning the reproachful accents with which he had
begun, became first unparliamentary, and then abusive.
The ticket-seller stood it for a while, and then told Paddy to pass
along, that "Dinny Sullivan" was not inside, but that they had two other
policemen who were no relation of Pat's, but would take care of him just
the same.
This last threat raised Paddy's anger to the boiling point, so that he
first tried unsuccessfully to enter through the locked door, and then
reaching his huge fist through the little open place in the window,
shook it as near the Roman nose as the length of his arm would permit.
We finally persuaded him to subside, and Harry took his place with a
roll of bills to purchase the tickets. He had hardly begun to speak,
however, before Harding caught him, and lifted him, despite his
struggles, on to the shoulder of a big statue of Terpsichore, in the
corner, reminding him, gently but firmly, that the invitation was his,
and he must be permitted to pay the bills. He obtained five seats in the
front row of the orchestra, and parted therefor with two dollars and
fifty cents.
We were inspected a trifle suspiciously by the door-keeper, but filed
in, and found the little theatre filled with a numerous and enthusiastic
audience. The gallery was packed, the cheap seats on the rear of the
floor well taken, and only a few of the more expensive ones in the front
of the house unoccupied. The air was hot, and full enough of the fumes
of alcohol to burn. Before we had adjusted our lungs to the new
conditions, a little fellow in a dirty zouave suit took the checks from
Jim, and ushered us down the centre aisle to our seats in the front row.
We made considerable noise, for the steps were of uneven depths, and at
unequal distances, and Paddy stumbled all over himself at every
opportunity.
Harry went in first, followed by Pat, Tom, myself, and Jim, in the order
named. We were obliged to squeeze by an old lady and her daughter who
occupied the end seats, and the former, sitting next to Jim, resented
the necessary crowding by sundry sniffs and looks of disgust. Her
displeasure was so evident that Jim felt called upon to apologize, which
he did in his most grandisonian manner, and in tones not less loud than
those of the singer on the stage, "I beg your pardon, madam; I assure
you it was unintentional; I have tender feet myself, and can sympathize
with you."
At this there was a burst of applause and laughter. I looked around and
could see a number of college men scattered through the orchestra,
evidently ready to encourage any exploit to which such "dare-devils" as
Jim and Harry might treat them.
There were a few of the gentler sex in the audience, but the great
majority were men, the flotsam and jetsam of the Bowery. Some of these
joined in the laughter at Jim's elaborate apology, and others scowled
their resentment at the disturbance. From the abode of the gallery gods
(filled mostly with boys, big and little) came a shrill "Put 'em out!"
and a big wad of paper composed of an entire "World," and thrown by a
skilful hand, which landed on the top of Jim's head.
But Jim, apparently not at all noticing the attention which he was
attracting, unfolded his play-bill, and began to study it with the air
of a connoisseur, or a provincial manager in search of talent. The
document was headed with "BILLY JAYNE'S REFINED VAUDEVILLE CO.," and
near the bottom of the first page was bracketed, "Robert Loring, Basso
Profundo, Nautical Songs, Without a Rival."
It was evidently Robert who was "doing his turn" when we entered, for
his song told of "wild waves, brave ships, oak timbers, fearful storms,
wrecks, and watery graves," in tones deep enough to make the heart
quake. He ended, just as we were well settled in our seats, with a row
of descending notes, the last several feet below the lowest brick of the
cellar, and bowed himself off the stage, amid a burst of applause, which
was followed by another demonstration, well mingled with laughter, when
Jim remarked very audibly to the old lady by his side, "I really wonder
how he does it," and "Shouldn't you think it would hurt him?"
Loring had already occupied the full time for "his turn" (we discovered
later that the performer came out and filled up his ten minutes just the
same, whether applauded and encored, or greeted with stony silence), so,
notwithstanding vigorous clapping, assisted by the more demonstrative
boot-heel, Robert only made his bow from the wings, and departed.
As he disappeared on one side, a diminutive little darky hurried on from
the other, and changed the cards, announcing as the next star, "Sam
Walker." An examination of the play-bill rewarded us also with the
information that Sam was the "World's Champion Clog Dancer, Lancashire
Style." Two attendants in ragged costumes brought out a big square of
white marble, which they deposited with considerable labor on one side
of the stage, and after a little delay, to make the audience impatient,
the distinguished Walker appeared, clad in well-chalked white tights,
and with the champion's belt buckled round his waist. It was at least
six inches wide, and so heavy with gold, silver, and precious stones
that the redoubtable Sam was obliged to remove it before he could dance
at all. Sam's brother Alfred, in a rusty dress suit, took his seat in a
chair on the other side of the stage, and with an enormous accordeon
furnished the music for the champion, who treated us to a continuation
of festive taps, stopping with wonderful precision whenever the music
broke off, even if in the middle of a note.
Next came "Annette Toineau," the "Queen of French Song, Fresh from Her
Parisian Triumphs;" and the big man at the piano began to execute a
lively tune, which set all the feet in the house in motion, until
Annette herself appeared. This she did with a nod, a wink, and a kick
that won instant applause, even before she opened her mouth to sing. An
enthusiastic admirer in the gallery called out, "You're all right, Liz,
old girl," from which remark, and the accent (much more Celtic than
French) with which she afterward treated us, I argued that Annette was
but a stage name, and the "Parisian Triumphs" probably a fiction of the
manager. Annette was a very pretty little girl, with a trim figure in
abbreviated skirts, and she sang rather naughty songs in a manner that
made them worse than they were written.
I could hear Jim, after she was through, remark to the old lady by his
side, that such songs were likely to lead to the perversion of youth,
and should not be sung except to those who had reached the age of
discretion; by which I suppose he meant himself and the old lady,
though she was old enough to be his grandmother. Jim's censorious
remarks were, however, more than offset by Harry, who, at the other end
of our line, applauded so vociferously that Annette rewarded him with a
direct and beaming smile when she made her last bow.
Then followed "Leslie and Manning, Knock-about Grotesques," "Cora, the
Queen of the Slack Wire," and "Sam Berne, the Dutch Monarch;" the last
of whom first convulsed us by asking Tom, in a sepulchral whisper, to
"Please wake your friend," pointing to Paddy, who was indeed asleep; and
then had a very funny dialogue with the piano-pounder, in which they
both pretended to get in a towering passion over the question as to
whether the singing or the accompaniment was the worse.
The delights of the play-bill were now well-nigh exhausted, the next to
the last on the list being "Alice Wentworth, America's Most Dashing
Soubrette." She appeared to the tune of some gay waltz notes from the
long-suffering piano. Alice was a slender girl, with brown hair and
large, dark eyes. I doubt she could ever have been "dashing," though
pretty she certainly had been. There were also signs that "once she had
seen better days," as the old song goes. But now, despite the
assistance of paint and padding, it was evident that sickness or
dissipation had robbed her of most of the attractions she had once
possessed. Her face was too thin for the bright color on her cheeks, her
steps were too listless for the generously filled stockings, and she
coughed several times before she began her song. It was a jolly little
thing, sung in good time and tune, and with those touches which indicate
unmistakably the rudiments, at least, of a musical education. The song
was well received, but at the end of the verse she had a dance, which
called for considerable exertion, and was very trying for her. She got
through the first two verses all right, but when she started the third
her strength was gone; she broke down, and gasped for breath. The piano
continued for a few notes, then stopped, and there was a dead silence.
It was a pitiful sight enough: the poor girl trying to get strength
enough to continue, coughing and gasping painfully; but some one in the
orchestra back of us hissed, there was a cry from the gallery of "Take
her off," and then a chorus of yells and cat-calls. It was the same old
wolf instinct which makes the pack tear to pieces the wounded
straggler,--the wolf instinct in some way transmitted to man.
I was indignant enough, and looked around at the audience after the chap
that made the first hiss, but should probably have done nothing had not
Tom Furness, who has the biggest heart in the world, made an effort to
stem the tide. He jumped on his feet, rising to his full height, and
began to applaud with all his might. Of course we all joined in, Paddy's
big feet and hands making a prodigious noise; and the better nature of
the audience being given a lead, the hisses were drowned by a great
storm of applause that fairly shook the old theatre.
Poor Alice succeeded in getting enough breath to finish her song, and,
dancing no more, gave as an encore "Ye Banks and Braes o' Bonny Doon,"
in a way that reached the hearts of the toughest in the house. It is
wonderful how such an audience is affected by the pathetic. An allusion
to an "old mother," an "old home," or suffering from sin and wrong will
catch them quicker than the most doubtful verse.
The last word of the old Scotch song ended, Alice made her bow amid
applause as hearty if not as noisy as when we drowned the hissing, and I
hope the poor girl was able to keep her place, or, better still, went
back to the old home, among the New Hampshire hills, perhaps, or under
the shadow of the Maine pines.
There was now a great bustle on the stage, a rush of "supes," and a
clamor of orders. The scenery was pushed back and the drop-scenes
hoisted out of the way. Padded posts were set in the floor, ropes strung
and pulled taut, making a very satisfactory ring, and the chairs placed
in the corners. By the demonstration on the stage and the eagerness of
the audience, it was evident that we had now come to the great
attraction of the evening. The play-bill read "George Johnson,
Heavy-Weight Boxer, Will Knock Out Three Opponents in Three Rounds Each,
or Forfeit $50 to the Man Who Stays."
Now, although I was fairly well informed concerning the boxing world, I
was unable to remember "George Johnson's" name, and wondered why he had
not been taken on by some of the well-known men who intruded themselves
into the papers so frequently. The play-bill said clearly that he had
challenged the world, and Tom suggested that Johnson was probably too
good for them to take him on, or perhaps he had not a diligent backer
who could wield a vigorous pen. Harry, who stripped at one hundred and
thirty, declared his willingness to put on the gloves with Mr. Johnson
if they would let him stand on a chair. Paddy, to whom the performance
had become a dreadful bore, endured only through respect for the high
society in which he was travelling, had now become wide awake, and at
Harry's remark pricked up his ears and asked with much interest if they
gave any one in the audience a chance to put on the gloves. Jim told him
that there were probably three "stiffs" already engaged to go through
the motions of a knock-out, and Paddy remarked that it was a pity, and
subsided for the time.
When everything was arranged, the pails of water, sponges, and towels
handy, and the gloves thrown into the middle of the ring, the manager
introduced Mr. Richard Foley as the referee of the bouts, ending his
remarks with some very florid compliments to Mr. Foley's well-known
fairness in such matters. What was our surprise to discover in the
gentlemanly referee the identical man we had first stopped on the street
to inquire for "Dinny Sullivan, the copper." He wore the same short coat
and plaid trousers, but had discarded the tall hat and the cigar,
without which he looked lonely. The mouse under his eye had also
disappeared, the artist having succeeded in disguising its mournful hue
by a skilful application of flesh paint.
After the enthusiasm which greeted his appearance had a little
subsided, Mr. Foley raised his hand in a Napoleonic fashion to command
silence, stepped to the front of the stage, and hanging on the ropes in
an attitude of extreme ease and freedom from restraint, made the usual
little speech without which a boxing contest would seem out of joint. He
declared the bout to be one of "a friendly nature" for "scientific
points only," and ended with the warning that any disturbance from the
audience would stop the contest immediately.
At the close of his remarks appeared the celebrated George Johnson, a
tall mulatto, who took his seat in the chair facing the audience,
followed by his handlers. He was stripped to the waist, and wore a blue
sash, white trunks, and tan shoes. He was a powerful fellow, well
trained, and looked like a bronze statue when he rose, bowing and
smiling at a little group of colored friends who called to him from the
front of the gallery.
A moment later "Jack Costigan, the Jersey blacksmith," made his debut,
and was greeted with even more enthusiasm than Johnson, probably because
of the predominating nationality of the audience, for he was certainly
not a beauty, or even a well-built man. Indeed, he was a mighty
tough-looking customer, his black hair clipped close enough to reveal a
number of white scars, his face pockmarked, his shoulders stooping, and
he was at least ten pounds lighter than Johnson, with much less height
and reach. He looked sheepish enough to prepare us for the "lie down"
that was to follow, and seemed pleased that his chair gave him the
opportunity to turn his back to the spectators.
After the very labored introductions by Mr. Foley, in which a slight
allusion was made to their previous records, the men took their corners,
and at the call of "time" they shook hands and got to business. Now, I
shall have hardly a word to say concerning this bout, for there was a
much more stirring one to follow. It was evident from the beginning,
although Johnson was the better man, and could have won anyway, that
Costigan was not sent to do his best. He was an old war-horse, performed
his part well, kept up the mill until the middle of the third round, and
then at a comparatively light blow went down. He pretended to make a
desperate effort to rise while the ten seconds were counted, then picked
himself up, and Johnson was declared the winner.
After Costigan disappeared there was a long wait, the house growing more
and more impatient. At last the manager appeared and announced his
great regret that the two other boxers had disappointed him. He
announced that one of them had a broken arm, and read a physician's
certificate to that effect. The other, as far as we could learn, was
suffering from a broken heart; that is, he had, after looking the
redoubtable Johnson over, declined to face him for any consideration.
The manager, again expressing his sorrow at the unavoidable
disappointment, handed our friend, Mr. Foley, a fifty-dollar bill,
making a great splurge about it, and asked if there were not some
gentlemen in the house who would take the places of the delinquents.
At this there was a dead silence, except the noise made by Paddy and
Harry whispering together, but what they said I did not understand.
Again the manager repeated the request, evidently not expecting its
acceptance, and ended with a challenge reflecting delicately upon the
courage of his audience.
He had hardly spoken the words when suddenly, to my surprise and dismay,
Paddy rose slowly to his feet, and clearing his throat said, in husky
tones, "Faith, thin, 'tis a pity it is not to hev the foight, and
lackin' a better I'll give him a bit av a go meself."
There had been many murmurs of disappointment when it looked as if there
would be but one bout, instead of three as advertised, and at Paddy's
speech there was deafening applause. I did my best to dissuade him, as
did Tom Furness as well; but Jim took up the plan with enthusiasm, and
despite our protests the three "devil-may-cares" crowded along the
aisle, and disappeared through a little door under the gallery, which
led to the stage. A few moments later they filed on, all three with
their coats off, stepped through the ropes, and Paddy took his seat in
the chair facing Johnson, his red face wreathed in smiles, and his
sleeves rolled up to the elbows, Jim and Harry going to work in a very
business-like manner to prepare for the contest.
Now, all this was great fun for the audience, the manager, and even
Johnson himself, who grinned back at Paddy, showing a long row of white
teeth. It took no expert to see that the Irishman was dead easy, and
there were the anticipated windmill swings, and abortive efforts to hit
on his part, and a scientific exhibition from Johnson, with a knock-out
to follow.
Tom and I expected nothing better, unless Johnson should be careless
enough to let Paddy hit him once, in which case he might be treated to a
surprise party, for Pat had an arm like a gorilla, and a fist as big as
a small ham. Indeed, when Jim tried to push the gloves on which
Costigan had discarded, after his lie down, he found it a job requiring
the exercise of patience and considerable strength as well.
At last Paddy was all right, Harry fanning him with the towel, Jim
kneeling behind him, whispering sage advice into his ear, to which Paddy
nodded his head with a confident grin. We were close enough to hear his
husky, "'Tis right you are," and "Sure that wud phase 'im." The boys
looked striking enough on the stage, with their refined faces,
fashionable clothes, and spotless linen. Not one in the building but
knew they were gentlemen, and nearly all wished them success with their
man. Paddy himself had caught the crowd also, the gallery becoming his
at first sight of his wide smile and the sound of his "illigant brogue."
Mr. Foley called "time," and at the word Harry gave a last flap, Jim a
final word of advice, and as Paddy rose to his feet they pulled the
chair through the ropes, and left their man in the ring, to do his
"_devoir_" as best he might.
He certainly was not anxious, nor did he lack confidence in himself. He
advanced cheerfully, shook his opponent by the hand, and got in
position. Now, where Paddy learned to "shape himself" I never heard,
but I doubt if there is anything like it in the long history of
"Fistiana." I have seen many queer things in old sporting prints, where
the fancy of the artist, I am sure, has maligned the science of good men
with their "fives," but nothing like Paddy's pose has ever appeared to
me before or since. His left foot was well forward, his left arm high,
as if he feared the rap of a "shillalah" instead of the straight blow of
a fist. His right hand he held low behind him, ready to hit, as if he
held a flail or a "bit av a scythe," and he swung his fist round and
round in a little circle. Even Tom and I could not refrain from
laughter, the crowd yelled themselves hoarse, and Johnson could hardly
restrain himself.
The latter shaped beautifully. After his first surprise was over he grew
serious, stepped in, led lightly, landing on Pat's nose, and when Paddy,
after a belated duck, swung a terrific blow at his opponent, he found
him well out of reach. It was just as I expected: Johnson could hit
Paddy when and where he pleased. He played with him as a cat would with
a mouse. He made a punching-bag of him, hit and got away. He ducked, he
countered, he dodged, he swung on Pat's jaw. He side-stepped, and tapped
him lightly; he uppercut him when he made a bull rush, so that his head
lifted as if on a hinge. He hooked him with right and left, and played
the "devil's tattoo" all over his body, ending with a rib-roaster that
made even Paddy sigh. In short, when Patrick O'Malley, our "Knight of
the Rake and Roller," took his seat at the end of the first round his
smile was gone, and he looked like a man in a trance.
Johnson had hit hard enough to have put most men to sleep, but on
Paddy's tough anatomy had made no serious impression, after all. Pat's
right eye was in a fair way to close, and his face looked puffy and his
neck sore, but he was as strong as ever, and his courage as good, though
he probably would have been willing to admit that over the picnic aspect
of the occasion there had come a cloud. Harry and Jim got at work at him
with sponge and towel the minute he took his seat. A very artistic
exhibition they gave, and no doubt Jim's advice which he whispered was
very good, but there was nothing before Paddy but a "knock-out" unless
the unexpected happened.
Johnson was without a mark, and I question whether he had been hit at
all. He took his drink, smiled up at his handlers as they worked the
cool sponge over his hot chest and arms, and leaned back on the ropes
with an air of extreme contentment.
When the bell rang for the second round Paddy came up in good condition,
but with a somewhat dubious expression on his countenance, and he kept
his left a little lower, ready to stop some of the straight punches he
had accepted so generously in the first round. He did not swing quite as
wildly as before, and although hit harder, the blows did not land quite
as often. In the last half-minute, however, Johnson cut loose, and
Paddy's broad face and thick neck were visited in a savage manner. The
bell barely saved him, for the poor fellow was fairly smothered with
blows, and yet he stood up to his punishment without flinching, and
fought back as best he could.
Tom had lost patience when he saw Paddy staggering like a bullock under
an axe, and though I told him we could do nothing to help, he insisted
we should at least be with the rest of the party. So the minute the bell
rang for the end of the round, we crowded along the seats, and hurrying
through the door, I was just in time to reach Paddy's corner before he
started in for the third and last round. Now, of all men on earth Paddy
believed in me; Jim and Harry were all right, and doing all possible for
him, but when he felt my hand on his arm, and heard my whisper in his
ears, his heart, almost gone, came back to him. He turned his swollen
face up to me, and with a new light in his eyes he said, "Tell me what
I'll do, Misther Brown; tell me, darlin', an' I'll lick the nager yet."
There was something wonderfully pathetic in his blind confidence, and I
never cared so much for the big-hearted Irishman as I did that minute.
To tell the truth, I had been half willing to see him knocked out after
his foolish persistence against my advice. Then again I knew it was not
at all a serious matter to one with his strength and vitality, and a
dash of cold water would leave him no worse memories than a sore head
and a few bruises. But after his appeal I felt very different. I racked
my brain, but though I had been studying his opponent from the
beginning, trying to find his weak point, he was so very shifty on his
feet, and Paddy was so deathly slow, I could think of nothing. Pat had
been swinging at his opponent's head, from the very start, the same old
blow, landing never. He had not tried for the body once, and I made up
my mind just before the bell rang, and whispered, "Never mind his
top-knot, Paddy; wait until he leads, then step in, and hit him in the
ribs; and hit him hard."
The third round started much like the others, but now on Paddy's face
was not the foolish smile of the first, nor the dubious look of the
second. "Misther Brown" had told him what to do, he was supremely
confident in my wisdom, and had no doubt of the result. His mouth was
firm and his eyes clear as he faced his opponent and waited for his
opportunity.
I could see that Johnson did not half like the change. He was altered
too, his face had grown cruel, his eyes fierce, and he came in like a
tiger crouching for a spring. The joke was all gone out of the game now;
he must knock Paddy out in the next three minutes or the fifty dollars
would be forfeited. Nothing but a blow in the right spot would be of any
use, and it must have the full swing of the body behind it. I could see
plainly by his high guard that he feared nothing from Paddy but a swing
on the head, and I doubt if he thought of much else beside how he could
land on the point of Paddy's jaw just the right blow. As I knelt between
Jim and Harry, peering through the ropes, I made up my mind that Paddy
had good enough advice if he knew how to use it.
As usual, Johnson stepped in, leading with his left a light tap, meant
only to open up Paddy's guard, so he could swing on him. As usual, he
landed on Paddy's nose, the blood starting freely; but instead of
answering with a blind swing as before, this time Paddy took the blow
coming on; indeed, he started in before he was hit, and the blow did not
stop him at all. The result was, he found himself, for the first time,
almost, since he had put his hands up, at a good striking distance. With
a fierce grunt he smashed his huge fist full on the mark where the ribs
branch, just above the belt. It was a terrible blow, unexpected, given
with all the good intentions that a sense of debt could foster, and with
the impetus of their two weights, for Johnson was coming in himself.
It doubled his antagonist up like a frog, and Paddy was kind enough to
undouble him with a straight push in the face that straightened him up
again. Harry could not refrain from calling, "Now's your time, Pat!" for
which he was very properly warned by the referee; but Paddy really did
not hear him, and needed no advice. Science was forgotten, and in the
mix-up that followed, Paddy showed a ready hand, cultivated by many a
boyish fight and youthful set-to. Johnson was now not so much interested
in putting Paddy out, as in saving himself; he was fighting blindly,
hugging and clinching when he could; keeping away as much as possible,
and growing more and more groggy under the shower of blows that were
rained on him. Time was nearly up when, after a break away, Paddy
stepped back, gathered himself, rushed in, and swung his huge right hand
with all the strength of his powerful body. It was a half hook, and it
landed on Mr. Johnson's jaw, and he went down like a felled tree,
falling with stiff knees, and striking nothing until his face reached
the floor with a thud. He made no effort to rise, and Paddy was so wild
that, had I not called to him, I think he would have gone into Johnson's
corner for a fresh antagonist among his handlers. Johnson lay on the
floor while the ten seconds were ticked off, and then Mr. Foley stepped
to the footlights, and, announcing that Mr. O'Malley had won the bout,
handed him the fifty-dollar bill.
Paddy hesitated a moment, for he had not thought once of the money; then
he drew from his hip pocket an old-fashioned leather folding wallet,
much worn and discolored, and with a chuckle put the big bill safely
away. The audience had risen as one man to cheer Paddy when the decision
was given, and now the tumult broke out again, and he was forced to bow
his acknowledgments from over the footlights. Even this was not enough,
and he finally cleared his throat, and made a short speech, of which I
could distinguish nothing but the last words, as he gave a comprehensive
sweep of his gloved hand, including our whole company, and yelled, "An'
ivery wan a winner." He would have spoken longer had not the manager,
with rare presence of mind, dropped the curtain in front of him. Johnson
had come to himself very quickly with the assistance of his handlers,
and now stepped up to Paddy with very honest congratulations, and the
contestants shook hands with mutual respect and no ill will.
We were delayed a few minutes by our inability to get the boxing-glove
off of Paddy's big right hand; the left he had removed himself on
receipt of the bill. We finally cut it off him, formed in line of march,
and threading our way through the wings, joined the last stragglers of
the audience as they filed out. I tried hard to subdue the spirits of my
companions, but with little success. Jim and Harry were greatly elated,
and Tom (who of all men enjoys winning) was now as bad as the others,
and deserting me, left the conservative vote in a very decided minority.
There was certainly nothing lacking in the perfect success of the
evening but the fact that "Dinny, the copper," the great object of our
search, had evaded us. I voted to give him up and go back to the hotel;
the others hesitated, but Tom, who never despairs,--Tom still declared
that Dinny would yet appear. Tom is a man who has faith that a ball team
will win with the score five to one against in the ninth inning, two
out, and a weak hitter at the bat.
Jim and Harry were too much elated by their success with Paddy in the
"squared circle" to ask for much else. In fact, they were slightly
hilarious. The intoxication of victory, on top of their efforts to "kape
the night out," was a bit too much for them. In passing along they
tipped over a table by the door, sending a shower of play-bills on the
floor, and when a stout fellow remonstrated, Jim promptly "crowned" his
derby hat with a blow that sent it down to his chin.
In the lobby the big wooden statue of Terpsichore, standing in scant
attire, with one foot lifted for the dance, caught Harry's eye. He
whispered to Jim and Paddy, and before I could interfere, they had torn
her from her fastenings, and "stood the old girl on her head." As the
muse was being balanced in this undignified position in the corner,
there suddenly arose a cry of "Police!" "Police!" in high-pitched and
nasal tones from the ticket office. It was Paddy's "ancient enemy" who
had discovered us, with his face close to the aperture, secure in the
protection of the window. He called lustily, until a huge fist swung
through the hole, and landed on the Roman nose with a dull, sickening
thud. Silence followed Paddy's skilful blow, but the mischief was done,
for there suddenly appeared through the door behind us a knock-kneed
bobby, club in hand. Tom called "'Ware the cop!" and by giving the
promptest kind of leg bail they just escaped him, bolting out the door,
and across the Bowery, the crooked-legged copper close after.
Harry, who was leading, swung down a dimly lighted alley, Jim and Paddy
following in order. The policeman, who apparently had little confidence
in his ability to catch such nimble-footed gentry, stopped at the
corner, and commenced a devil's tattoo with his night club on the
pavement as a signal for some compatriot to head off the fugitives. Tom
and I, who were close up, dashed by him without a word, resolved to
stick to our friends, no matter what the cost. Tom was chuckling with
delight, gave me a look over his shoulder, and set a killing pace, with
the laudable ambition of running me off my feet, as well as distancing
our pursuers. Chasing and being chased is one of the primitive
pleasures of man, and I doubt if we ever quite outgrow it. We cut
through the darkness, with the cool night air in our faces, sprinting
over the slippery cobble-stones of the pavement as if in the finals of a
"hundred." There was a mad pleasure in it all, and the listening for
sounds of pursuit and the looking sharply ahead for threatening danger
added a double zest. It reminded me of a night in old Lancashire, when
with some schoolmates I had raided a farmer's orchard, and with the
spoils under our jackets we had led him a cross-country run of a couple
of miles, knowing that a good thrashing was close behind as the
punishment for a stumble or a temporary shortness of breath.
We were gaining on the three dark forms ahead, for we could see them
more and more plainly as they bobbed against the lights at the end of
the street. Occasionally some one would yell at us from a window or
doorway, but the pounding of the knock-kneed bobby was growing more and
more faint, and we heard no footsteps at all behind us. We had almost
reached Paddy, whose boxing efforts had told on his endurance, and I was
just about to call to Jim and Harry, when suddenly there emerged from
the darkness a herculean figure in brass buttons.
It floated into the middle of the alley, like the ghost of Hamlet's
father, silent, huge, portentous. A long arm reached for Harry as he
dodged to one side of the alley, and gathered the little fellow in,
while Jim slid by on the other side. Paddy sprang to Harry's assistance,
and got a blow with the flat of the hand that sent him in a heap on the
pavement. Jim was about to mix in the fracas, but Tom and I, who knew
better than to assail the majesty of the law, caught and held him. For a
moment neither of us spoke, watching Harry's futile struggles. He was
being held firmly, but gently, like a fractious child, and a voice of a
richness that cast Paddy's brogue quite in the shade said soothingly,
"Arrah there, be aisy. It's hurtin' yesel' ye are. Be aisy, or I'll pull
ye in."
I was glad to hear the figure speak, for the silence was quite uncanny.
Tom advanced in that conciliatory way of his when he feels that he has a
delicate task before him, and was about to make his little appeal, with
one hand on the roll of bills in his pocket, when Paddy, who had sat up
at the sound of the voice, and was looking fixedly at Harry's captor,
gave a howl of mingled surprise and joy, and exclaimed, "Begorry, Dinny,
ye Connemara divil, let the lad go, or I'll break yer face."
At these words Harry stopped his struggles and Jim abandoned his efforts
to break away from me. Tom stood with his mouth wide open, uncertain
what to do, and I waited as if I was watching a play, and the dramatic
climax was about to be sprung on me.
Paddy rose slowly and unsteadily to his feet; and the big policeman took
him by the collar with his unoccupied hand, and led him to the light of
a little window, where he studied his face a moment in silence.
Gradually over the big copper's face there spread a grin of recognition,
his brown mustache drawing up at the corners, despite his efforts to
look severe.
"Sure, 'tis yesilf, Patrick, ye blaguard," he said at last, shaking his
head; "but frind or no frind, divil a wan o' me cares, if wrong ye've
done."
"It's only a bit av a lark, an' no harm at all, at all," answered Paddy;
and then he told the story of the evening, the search, the boxing
contest, and the mischief in the lobby, making as little as possible of
the latter, and expatiating at length on our efforts to find "Dinny, the
copper," with our extreme pleasure at final success. He ended by
introducing us all with much pride and satisfaction.
Dinny listened at first with suspicion, afterward with a flash in his
blue eyes as Paddy described his victory over Johnson, and finally with
a slow smile, expanding into a grin, as the adventure in the lobby was
described.
When Paddy finished, the "arm-of-the-law" turned without a word, letting
Harry and Paddy go free again, tapped on the little window, through
whose brown curtain enough light had streamed to make recognition
possible, and waited in silence until there came a sound of moving
bolts. He then pushed a door open, led us through a dark entry, and into
a little back room, where was a long table, plenty of chairs, and a
kettle singing on the stove in the corner. I have a suspicion that it
was from this very same snug retreat that Dinny emerged when the sound
of the rattling night club disturbed him. I learned that the little room
was the sanctum sanctorum of the widow Rafferty, whose bar-room in front
was too public to suit the refined taste of Mr. Dennis Sullivan, and was
also perhaps more exposed to the gaze of an inquisitive inspector.
Dinny went to a corner cupboard, with the air of a man who knew the way,
took from it a brown jug, and placed it carefully on the table with a
half-dozen tumblers. He pointed to the chairs with a wave of his hand,
and when we were seated he broke the silence with, "Gintlemen, 'tis
proud I am to meet ye all, though in bad company ye come" (the last with
a smile at Paddy). "I've a little something here" (looking fondly at the
jug) "will kape the night out; 'tis the rale old stuff, such as we used
to drink in old Connemara. 'Tis aisy I've been with yes, but, faith, I
swear to pull in ivery mother's son that will not drink with me."
We all filled our glasses, though Tom called us to witness that he drank
under protest, and only through fear of arrest. Just how long we
lingered in the widow Rafferty's back room I cannot tell, but we
discovered Dinny to be the very prince of coppers, able to tell a good
story and sing a better song. He was a broth of a boy, and would have
gladdened the eyes of the manager of a football team. He stood six feet
three in his stockings, and weighed two hundred and fifty pounds, all
good stuff, and as hard as nails. His uniform was fresh, and fitted him
like a glove, while every button was bright as a West Point cadet's.
When we came to part with him it was with mutual expressions of good
will, which were increased when we discovered he had sent for a
carriage, and the same awaited us in the dark alley. If he has his dues
he is chief of police by this time.
We were a bit quiet on the way home, a little weary, and very contented
and happy. There was a hint of the morning in the east as we alighted at
the hotel, and the lobby was silent and deserted.
We were much pleased to find that the elevator was still running, and we
climbed aboard, at peace with all the world, and just ready for bed. As
Tom said, a five minutes earlier or later would have spoiled it. When we
reached the third floor, Paddy insisted that we must go with him to the
fifth, so we kept on, and Harry unlocked the door and Jim lit the gas.
When we bade him "good-night" and the elevator began to drop, he stood
in his doorway, a smile of perfect bliss shining on his honest face. He
waved his big hand at us with a gesture that was half farewell, half a
benediction, and murmured huskily "An' ivery wan a winner."