IX

Where a jagged peak of rock thrust above the vast virgin forest,

reclined a man and a woman. Beneath them, on the edge of the trees,

were tethered two horses. Behind each saddle were a pair of small

saddle-bags. The trees were monotonously huge. Towering hundreds

of feet into the air, they ran from eight to ten and twelve feet in

diameter. Many were much larger. All morning they had toiled up the

divide through this unbroken forest, and this peak of rock had been

the first spot where they could get out of the forest in order to

see the forest.

Beneath them and away, far as they could see, lay range upon range

of haze-empurpled mountains. There was no end to these ranges. They

rose one behind another to the dim, distant skyline, where they faded

away with a vague promise of unending extension beyond. There were

no clearings in the forest; north, south, east, and west, untouched,

unbroken, it covered the land with its mighty growth.

They lay, feasting their eyes on the sight, her hand clasped in one

of his; for this was their honeymoon, and these were the redwoods

of Mendocino. Across from Shasta they had come, with horses and

saddle-bags, and down through the wilds of the coast counties, and they

had no plan except to continue until some other plan entered their

heads. They were roughly dressed, she in travel-stained khaki, he in

overalls and woolen shirt. The latter was open at the sunburned neck,

and in his hugeness he seemed a fit dweller among the forest giants,

while for her, as a dweller with him, there were no signs of aught

else but happiness.

"Well, Big Man," she said, propping herself up on an elbow to gaze

at him, "it is more wonderful than you promised. And we are going

through it together."

"And there's a lot of the rest of the world we'll go through together,"

he answered, shifting his position so as to get her hand in both

of his.

"But not till we've finished with this," she urged. "I seem never to

grow tired of the big woods ... and of you."

He slid effortlessly into a sitting posture and gathered her into

his arms.

"Oh, you lover," she whispered. "And I had given up hope of finding

such a one."

"And I never hoped at all. I must just have known all the time that

I was going to find you. Glad?"

Her answer was a soft pressure where her hand rested on his neck,

and for long minutes they looked out over the great woods and dreamed.

"You remember I told you how I ran away from the red-haired school

teacher? That was the first time I saw this country. I was on foot, but

forty or fifty miles a day was play for me. I was a regular Indian. I

wasn't thinking about you then. Game was pretty scarce in the redwoods,

but there was plenty of fine trout. That was when I camped on these

rocks. I didn't dream that some day I'd be back with you, YOU."

"And be a champion of the ring, too," she suggested.

"No; I didn't think about that at all. Dad had always told me I was

going to be, and I took it for granted. You see, he was very wise. He

was a great man."

"But he didn't see you leaving the ring."

"I don't know. He was so careful in hiding its crookedness from me,

that I think he feared it. I've told you about the contract with

Stubener. Dad put in that clause about crookedness. The first crooked

thing my manager did was to break the contract."

"And yet you are going to fight this Tom Cannam. Is it worth while?"

He looked at her quickly.

"Don't you want me to?"

"Dear lover, I want you to do whatever you want."

So she said, and to herself, her words still ringing in her ears,

she marveled that she, not least among the stubbornly independent of

the breed of Sangster, should utter them. Yet she knew they were true,

and she was glad.

"It will be fun," he said.

"But I don't understand all the gleeful details."

"I haven't worked them out yet. You might help me. In the first place

I'm going to double-cross Stubener and the betting syndicate. It

will be part of the joke. I am going to put Cannam out in the

first round. For the first time I shall be really angry when I

fight. Poor Tom Cannam, who's as crooked as the rest, will be the

chief sacrifice. You see, I intend to make a speech in the ring. It's

unusual, but it will be a success, for I am going to tell the

audience all the inside workings of the game. It's a good game, too,

but they're running it on business principles, and that's what spoils

it. But there, I'm giving the speech to you instead of at the ring."

"I wish I could be there to hear," she said.

He looked at her and debated.

"I'd like to have you. But it's sure to be a rough time. There is no

telling what may happen when I start my program. But I'll come straight

to you as soon as it's over. And it will be the last appearance of

Young Glendon in the ring, in any ring."

"But, dear, you've never made a speech in your life," she

objected. "You might fail."

He shook his head positively.

"I'm Irish," he announced, "and what Irishman was there who couldn't

speak?" He paused to laugh merrily. "Stubener thinks I'm crazy. Says a

man can't train on matrimony. A lot he knows about matrimony, or me,

or you, or anything except real estate and fixed fights. But I'll

show him that night, and poor Tom, too. I really feel sorry for Tom."

"My dear abysmal brute is going to behave most abysmally and brutally,

I fear," she murmured.

He laughed.

"I'm going to make a noble attempt at it. Positively my last

appearance, you know. And then it will be you, YOU. But if you don't

want that last appearance, say the word."

"Of course I want it, Big Man. I want my Big Man for himself, and to

be himself he must be himself. If you want this, I want it for you,

and for myself, too. Suppose I said I wanted to go on the stage,

or to the South Seas or the North Pole?"

He answered slowly, almost solemnly.

"Then I'd say go ahead. Because you are you and must be yourself and

do whatever you want. I love you because you are you."

"And we're both a silly pair of lovers," she said, when his embrace

had relaxed.

"Isn't it great!" he cried.

He stood up, measured the sun with his eye, and extended his hand

out over the big woods that covered the serried, purple ranges.

"We've got to sleep out there somewhere. It's thirty miles to the

nearest camp."

X

Who, of all the sports present, will ever forget the memorable night

at the Golden Gate Arena, when Young Glendon put Tom Cannam to sleep

and an even greater one than Tom Cannam, kept the great audience

on the ragged edge of riot for an hour, caused the subsequent graft

investigation of the supervisors and the indictments of the contractors

and the building commissioners, and pretty generally disrupted the

whole fight game. It was a complete surprise. Not even Stubener had

the slightest apprehension of what was coming. It was true that his

man had been insubordinate after the Nat Powers affair, and had run

off and got married; but all that was over. Young Pat had done the

expected, swallowed the inevitable crookedness of the ring, and come

back into it again.

The Golden Gate Arena was new. This was its first fight, and it was

the biggest building of the kind San Francisco had ever erected. It

seated twenty-five thousand, and every seat was occupied. Sports had

traveled from all the world to be present, and they had paid fifty

dollars for their ring-side seats. The cheapest seat in the house

had sold for five dollars.

The old familiar roar of applause went up when Billy Morgan, the

veteran announcer, climbed through the ropes and bared his gray

head. As he opened his mouth to speak, a heavy crash came from a near

section where several tiers of low seats had collapsed. The crowd

broke into loud laughter and shouted jocular regrets and advice to

the victims, none of whom had been hurt. The crash of the seats and

the hilarious uproar caused the captain of police in charge to look

at one of his lieutenants and lift his brows in token that they would

have their hands full and a lively night.

One by one, welcomed by uproarious applause, seven doughty old ring

heroes climbed through the ropes to be introduced. They were all

ex-heavy-weight champions of the world. Billy Morgan accompanied

each presentation to the audience with an appropriate phrase. One was

hailed as "Honest John" and "Old Reliable," another was "the squarest

two-fisted fighter the ring ever saw." And of others: "the hero of a

hundred battles and never threw one and never lay down"; "the gamest

of the old guard"; "the only one who ever came back"; "the greatest

warrior of them all"; and "the hardest nut in the ring to crack."

All this took time. A speech was insisted on from each of them, and

they mumbled and muttered in reply with proud blushes and awkward

shamblings. The longest speech was from "Old Reliable" and lasted

nearly a minute. Then they had to be photographed. The ring filled up

with celebrities, with champion wrestlers, famous conditioners, and

veteran time-keepers and referees. Light-weights and middle-weights

swarmed. Everybody seemed to be challenging everybody. Nat Powers

was there, demanding a return match from Young Glendon, and so were

all the other shining lights whom Glendon had snuffed out. Also,

they all challenged Jim Hanford, who, in turn, had to make his

statement, which was to the effect that he would accord the next

fight to the winner of the one that was about to take place. The

audience immediately proceeded to name the winner, half of it wildly

crying "Glendon," and the other half "Powers." In the midst of the

pandemonium another tier of seats went down, and half a dozen rows

were on between cheated ticket holders and the stewards who had been

reaping a fat harvest. The captain despatched a message to headquarters

for additional police details.

The crowd was feeling good. When Cannam and Glendon made their ring

entrances the Arena resembled a national political convention. Each was

cheered for a solid five minutes. The ring was now cleared. Glendon sat

in his corner surrounded by his seconds. As usual, Stubener was at his

back. Cannam was introduced first, and after he had scraped and ducked

his head, he was compelled to respond to the cries for a speech. He

stammered and halted, but managed to grind out several ideas.

"I'm proud to be here to-night," he said, and found space to capture

another thought while the applause was thundering. "I've fought

square. I've fought square all my life. Nobody can deny that. And

I'm going to do my best to-night."

There were loud cries of: "That's right, Tom!" "We know that!" "Good

boy, Tom!" "You're the boy to fetch the bacon home!"

Then came Glendon's turn. From him, likewise, a speech was demanded,

though for principals to give speeches was an unprecedented thing in

the prize-ring. Billy Morgan held up his hand for silence, and in a

clear, powerful voice Glendon began.

"Everybody has told you they were proud to be here to-night,"

he said. "I am not" The audience was startled, and he paused long

enough to let it sink home, "I am not proud of my company. You wanted

a speech. I'll give you a real one. This is my last fight. After

to-night I leave the ring for good. Why? I have already told you. I

don't like my company. The prize-ring is so crooked that no man

engaged in it can hide behind a corkscrew. It is rotten to the core,

from the little professional clubs right up to this affair to-night."

The low rumble of astonishment that had been rising at this point

burst into a roar. There were loud boos and hisses, and many began

crying: "Go on with the fight!" "We want the fight!" "Why don't you

fight?" Glendon, waiting, noted that the principal disturbers near the

ring were promoters and managers and fighters. In vain did he strive

to make himself heard. The audience was divided, half crying out,

"Fight!" and the other half, "Speech! Speech!"

Ten minutes of hopeless madness prevailed. Stubener, the referee, the

owner of the Arena, and the promoter of the fight, pleaded with Glendon

to go on with the fight. When he refused, the referee declared that

he would award the fight in forfeit to Cannam if Glendon did not fight.

"You can't do it," the latter retorted. "I'll sue you in all the

courts if you try that on, and I'll not promise you that you'll

survive this crowd if you cheat it out of the fight. Besides, I'm

going to fight. But before I do I'm going to finish my speech."

"But it's against the rules," protested the referee.

"It's nothing of the sort. There's not a word in the rules against

ring-side speeches. Every big fighter here to-night has made a speech."

"Only a few words," shouted the promoter in Glendon's ear. "But you're

giving a lecture."

"There's nothing in the rules against lectures," Glendon answered. "And

now you fellows get out of the ring or I'll throw you out."

The promoter, apoplectic and struggling, was dropped over the ropes by

his coat-collar. He was a large man, but so easily had Glendon done

it with one hand that the audience went wild with delight. The cries

for a speech increased in volume. Stubener and the owner beat a wise

retreat. Glendon held up his hands to be heard, whereupon those that

shouted for the fight redoubled their efforts. Two or three tiers

of seats crashed down, and numbers who had thus lost their places,

added to the turmoil by making a concerted rush to squeeze in on the

still intact seats, while those behind, blocked from sight of the ring,

yelled and raved for them to sit down.

Glendon walked to the ropes and spoke to the police captain. He was

compelled to bend over and shout in his ear.

"If I don't give this speech," he said, "this crowd will wreck

the place. If they break loose you can never hold them, you know

that. Now you've got to help. You keep the ring clear and I'll silence

the crowd."

He went back to the center of the ring and again held up his hands.

"You want that speech?" he shouted in a tremendous voice.