[1] Copyright, 1926, by H. C. Witwer.
I wish whoever ejaculates they's nothin' new under the son couldst of
got a load of the gory conflict between them two fascinatin'
heavyweights, Fifty-seven-Round McFoul and One-Punch McTague. In
this epoch-makin' fracas One-Punch McTague done somethin' which was
as new as the word itself; namely, he knocked _himself_ as cold as a
mother-in-law's kiss!
Speakin' of artichokes, few people can give you as good a account of
that brawl as I can, because by a odd coincidence I'm One-Punch
McTague.
I suppose, gentle readers, all three of you remember I was left a
book store by my defunct Uncle Angus and I know you're all agog over
my romantical affair de heart with Ethel Kingsley, the blond panic
which is governess of the volumes therein. Via the efforts of sweet
Ethel I'm gettin' a mock education through a darin' method she worked
out herself; viz., I read one of my books and then put down in black
and white all I can remember about it, if anything. In this way I've
dallied and toyed with a flock of the classicals, somethin' I missed
in my youth, as my schoolin' went in one ear and out the other, there
bein' nothin' in between to stop it.
The fly in the ointment is a boloney answerin' to the high-soundin'
title of Jack Hootmon, only sun and air of the aged Elihu Hootmon,
the trillionaire Thumb-Tack King. This milk-fed bozo is a inmate of
Columbia's College and nearly every time I honor my book emporium
with a visit he's acin' around Ethel tryin' to promote. She
tolerates him on the account he always hurriedly buys a book when he
sees me darken the threshold and as customers is at the premium Ethel
won't give him the gate. The last time he was in our midst he hauled
off and purchased a choice novel published in 1790 and give us a
thousand bucks for same. Since then Ethel has been busy tryin' to
find some more bed-time stories of that date and likewise some more
Patsys like Jack Hootmon, both bein' exceedin'ly rare.
Well, to get to the plot, the day of my fatal muss with Fifty-seven
Round McFoul I sauntered nimbly into my book bazaar, and, low and
behold, the first thing which greets my sparklin' eye is Jack Hootmon.
The plentifully tubed triple superiodine I'd put in to amuse my
delicious clerkess was playin' either a Charleston or St. Vitus
dance, and I bet in another minute them two wouldst of been trippin'
the light fantastical. Not so good! I ain't what you call jealous,
what I mean, but for a counterfeit Chinese coin of nominal value I
wouldst of clouted this Hootmon gil right in the whiskers. Ethel
turned to the shelves with undue haste and nature's gift to
Columbia's College gives me a sickly grin. "Hello, McTague," he
says. "Nice day, isn't it?"
"Blah!" I growled courteously. "What are you doin' clutterin' up my
store?"
"He's been helping me look for some rare first editions," speaks up
Ethel, comin' to this dizzy boob's succor. "You know, I'm sure, this
place is a treasure house of valuable old books."
"Of course!" yeses Stupid, in that male milliner's voice of his.
"Wouldn't it be splendid if you'd come across a first folio
Shakespeare?"
"It'd be even more splendid if you'd come across with the price of a
couple books," I tells him. "What's the idea of the jazz? This
ain't no dance hall!"
"We picked up Static, Wyoming, a little while ago!" brags Ethel,
hopin' to stave off violence. "Tune in on a movie studio if you
crave some real distance!" I says.
"You mean we can listen to a star?" butts in Hootmon, beatin' me to
the giggle of my nifty and lookin' to the smilin' Ethel for
admiration.
"Cop a sneak and make it snappy!" I barks, the bit infuriated. "If
it wasn't for the facts that I'm goin' to box to-night I'd broadcast
you!"
He looked somewhat alarmed and picked up a near-by book. "How much
is this?" he asks, the bit nervous.
"Ten bucks!" I snaps promptly. "And at that price it's a steal!"
"Nonsense!" says Ethel, frownin' at me. "That Mother Goose is only
two and a half dollars!"
"Not no more!" I says firmly. "Geese is out of season and has went
up in price!"
"I love that!" says Hootmon.
"So's your elderly parent!" I returns, bein' unrivaled at repertoire.
"Here's a new history of the League of Nations, Mr. Hootmon," remarks
Ethel in a futile effort to change the subject.
"I don't think so much of the League," says this tomato, and who
cares if he don't? "With all the bickering they're havin' over
there, I don't believe we should ever join it, do you, McTague?"
"What wouldst the League of Nations wish with you and me?" I asked
him lightly. "C'mon, leave me book you! Have you scanned 'Ladies
Prefer Brunettes,' by Anita Loose; 'Lightnin' on the Right,' by
Christy More Lee; 'The--
"What do _you_ read?" he butts in, with a touch of evil curiosity.
"He's going to read Robinson Crusoe next," says Ethel, actin' as my
counsel. "That will give him a breathing spell before he returns to
the heavier classics."
"Why, he must have become familiar with Robinson Crusoe when he was
in school!" exclaims Hootmon.
"I never get familiar with nobody, Ape!" I says. "And on top of that
Robinson Crusoe didn't go to my school. We was particular in the
trap _I_ studied at, what I mean--you had to get sent by a judge!"
"Who do you box this evening?" inquired Ethel, winkin' at me not to
give this mug too much of my secret life story.
Says I: "A palooka named Fifty-seven-Round McFoul, heavyweight
champeen of Saturn. I'll lay him like a pavement, and I don't mean I
guess so! I wish you wouldst be there to see the fun. I already got
you a ringside ducat, for that matter."
"But I couldn't go to a prize fight without a male escort!" cries
Ethel in dismay.
"I'd be very glad to take you, Miss Kingsley," pipes up the chump.
I was on the brinks of breakin' his arm for him, pour le sport, when
like the flash it strikes me that the best thing in the world wouldst
be to let him go to the murder with Ethel. Then she couldst see for
herself what a vast difference they was between a he-man of the wide
open faces like me and a parlor pest like Hootmon. So I become
ungruff and give my consent to the date, though I knew that sendin'
this monkey anywheres with the breath-takin' Ethel was like sendin'
somebody a cabbage leaf by a rabbit. How the so ever, I couldst
always leap from the ring and ruin Monsieur Hootmon, shouldst he
endeavor to hold Ethel's hand durin' the fight.
Well, lads and lassies, a few delicate hints, such as pushin' him out
the door and slammin' it in his pan, soon made this Hootmon sapolio
check out. Then me and Ethel searched high, low, jack and the game
for some more choice old books but the only thing we discovered was
that spiders is still makin' cobwebs. The hunt throwed me and Ethel
into close contact which she didn't seem to find nauseatin' and I was
doin' a fine piece of buildin' up for a evenin' in her parlor, when
Red Higgins phones me. This clown's my manager and operates a stable
of racin' snails on the side. I got the same cryin' need for him as
I got for another thumb, what I mean!
"Hey, you big umpchay!" he greets me, with Old World politeness.
"Shove off from 'at blonde and do some road work. I'll state you'll
need it to-night in this pettin' party we got on with
Fifty-seven-Round McFoul, because if you can't run he'll kill you!"
A nice, encouragin' manager, what? The big stiff!
"What have you found out about this catcher McFoul?" I inquired, with
forgivable interest. "Can he hit?"
"And how!" says Red, with the gusto. "If you keep in close, he'll
cave in your ribs, and if you box him off he'll left-hand you into a
pulp. His best punch is his right, though nobody's ever yet got up
from a sock with his left!"
"I see--just a tramp, eh? Well, I don't know my own strength, Red!"
"You wouldn't fool me, would you? 'At ain't _all_ you won't know
when _this_ baby pastes you. You better give me a power of attorney
so's I can act for you, Big Boy, just in case!"
"You can start right off actin' for me to-night," I suggests
demurely, "by goin' in there with powers of attorney and boxin' this
guy McFoul!"
"I can't," says Red. "The referee's McFoul's old man, and he knows
me."
No kiddin', Red simply slays me!
Well, Ethel give me Robinson Crusoe for my home work, and I says
good-by and left for the wars. First I got a shave and a haircut to
ready myself for the battle of the centuries with Fifty-seven-Round
McFoul, and then I went home and passed the few remainin' hours
before my doom by readin' about Robby. It's a grand book, and I'll
put you jerry to it the minute I get through describin' my thrillin'
conflict with this McFoul scissor-bill--a fight which was the talk of
the industry for many moons.
When I stumbled into the ring my first view of Fifty-seven-Round
McFoul satisfied me that they wasn't the faintest chance of me
yawnin' myself to death for the next half hour! I'll have you know
this burly gorilla must of outweighed me eighty-odd pounds, and I
personally tip the beams at two hundred, stark naked. He toured over
me like Washington's monument, but faint heart never win no
decisions, so I merely give this proper elephant a dirty look and sit
down on my stool determined to show no quarter to _nobody_! I'm one
of them two-fisted, fightin' idiots which makes boxin' a tough racket
for the weaklin's.
The instant the old cowbell rings out I fairly skidded across the
ring, and before McFoul couldst make a move I slammed him on the
smeller with a horrible left. He looked somewhat nonpulsed at this
little incident, and his seconds shrieked, "Don't leave him fox you,
McFoul--use your head!" No sooner said than this big goiter butts me
with that organ and the crowd howls, "Just a couple of bums!"
meanin', of course, McFoul and the referee.
I then put a sizzlin' left and right to McFoul's profile, but they
got delayed in transit whilst the right he shot at me didn't! Alas,
ah me and alackaday! The next thing I know I'm sittin on the floor
and the referee is sayin' to me, "Six--get up, you banana, _you_ ain't
hurt!--seven--snap into it or I'll kick your teeth out--eight----"
Up I sprang like a enraged baboon and the panic was on! I chased
McFoul all over the ring till it looked like our names was Paddock
and Nurmi, instead of what the customers was callin' us. The fun
waxed fast and furious! Twice McFoul led with his chin and each time
he connected perfect with my right glove. The second time he dropped
to his haunches, bounced up and wowed me and the fans by smackin' me
right on top of the head. It was a fearful buffet! I come near
windin' up in the basement of the club, but thought better of it and
stayed in the ring, gettin' a bird's eye view of the ceilin'. I
managed to leap up before the referee got through countin' and I
swung two murderous rights which wouldst of ended the thing, only I
forgot to get off my knees and the punches caught McFoul in the
shins. The bell found us in mid-ring, exchangin' wise cracks.
I was sittin' on my stool with my handlers laughin' themselves sick
at the whole affair, when McFoul staggers over to me and holds out
his glove. He seemed the bit goofy.
"Well, I hope we fight again some time!" he says, shakin' my hand.
"Go back and sit down, you big mock orange!" snarls the referee.
"That's only the first round!"
We had ten frames yet to go.
"How am I goin'?" I quizzed Red Higgins as he shoved the smellin'
salts under my battered beak.
"You wouldn't even make a good punchin' bag!" says my jovial manager
coyly. "You're so far behind now, you'll have to knock this other
false alarm stiff to get a draw!"
I seen Ethel and this Hootmon parsnip in the ringside seats I'd
bestowed on 'em. Ethel give me a cheery smile, whilst Hootmon gazed
at me and then grabbed his uncomely nose with his thumb and finger
like some garlic eater had just breathed on him.
With all this encouragement, I was full of new life for the second
round, while McFoul pushes his handlers to one side and stands erect,
glarin' at me. The mob screams for us to kill each other, and at the
gong I tried nobly to oblige. I decided to make a choppin' block out
of my adversus, and I begin workin' on him with the skill of a old
master, hittin' him with everything but the ring posts! He socked me
on the button with a hard right, but life bein' what it is I
deliberately ignored it and wittily retorted with a terrible left to
the stomach. Mr. McFoul didn't care for it down below, and was
forced to grimace at me. We traded ugly looks whilst the crowd went
mad and then I suddenly run amuck.
I slammed McFoul back against the ropes with a torrid right to what
passed for his head. Another right to the same address crashed him
to the mat, and Jack Dempsey, a ringside witness, was heard to
shudder and wince. McFoul rose and fell again. This time he got up
about as steady as the French Premier's job, and I indignantly
floored him again, as he annoyed me bobbin' up and down like that!
McFoul took nine before arisin', and at that he didn't seem
overanxious to make no reputation for gameness which wouldst stand
for all time. This Humpty Dumpty staggered around the ring like a
wood-alcohol admirer and out of the corner of my one good eye I seen
Ethel jump up and cheer me!
Honest to Coolidge, I simply couldn't lose, and though the crowd was
urgin' me in no uncertain terms to execute McFoul, I took my time and
measured him carefully. Tippin' his jaw back to a attractive angle
with a light left, I swung a most boisterous right for the button.
My glove landed flush on his embarrassed features, and he went down
like I'd shot him through the heart! But, sad to relate, my
countrymen, my swing was so furious that I lost my balance and fell
backward on my head. The force of that fall knocked me insensible.
I'd knocked myself for a loop, and this big punk McFoul got to his
feet at nine and win the fight! What's wrong with this picture?
I was out for ten minutes, and when I come to life the water bucket
was jammed tight over my head, where Red Higgins had carelessly
parked it when the referee held up McFoul's glove.
Well, it's all in the game, and here's the confessions of Robinson
Crusoe. If you find 'em less appetizin' than I did, don't be afraid
to keep it a secret.
_ROBINSON CRUSOE_