The arena and the grand-stand were packed, the S.R.O. sign having been
hung out at two o’clock. The cosmopolitan crowd sat in solid ranks, tier
upon tier, from the select ringside seats to the topmost rail. Judges,
lawyers, doctors and bankers sat with labourers, miners, loggers,
bartenders, and bootblacks. Men of the underworld sat side by side with
men that make and administer our laws. There was a sprinkling of Japs,
Chinamen and negroes. The turbanned Hindu made bright splotches of
colour here and there in the vast sea of faces. Of class distinction
there was none; all welded as one in the love of the boxing game.
The preliminaries were over, and the vast crowd had settled in their
seats. Suddenly there was a stir, a craning of necks. Down the aisle on
the west side of the arena came Donald, followed by Andy and the two
seconds, the latter carrying buckets, sponges, towels and bottles.
Donald wore a dark-coloured bathrobe thrown over his shoulders. There
was a murmur of applause that swelled to a tumult as he clambered
through the ropes. He seemed cool as Andy piloted him to his corner, but
as he sat down and stretched out his long legs, he appeared ill at ease.
Although the crowd had given him a handsome welcome, prophecies were
shouted down from the top seats that he would not last very long with
the formidable champion. Donald was palpably nervous, as evidenced in
the quick turning of his head and the shuffling of his feet. He looked
slight and frail as he leaned forward in his chair, the black bathrobe
accentuating the paleness of his face. A feeling of friendlessness came
over him as he gazed at the huge, strange crowd who were loudly
predicting his defeat.
A well-known judge, wearing glasses and a big black hat, turned to his
companion. “It’s a hanged shame, Tom, to match that slim boy with a
brute like Garrieau.”
The one addressed was one of the City’s leading dentists and an ardent
boxing fan. “Don’t you believe it, Bill,” he returned. “Just wait until
you see this boy strip.”
“Here he comes!”
A roar of applause greeted the champion as he came down the east aisle
bowing right and left in answer to their plaudits. His dark, massive
body seemed fairly to shine as he leaped to the ring with easy grace and
stripped off his robe. He stood in his corner with hands on the ropes,
shuffling his feet in the resin, still smiling and glancing about the
arena. Evidently he loved the limelight.
In appearance the champion very much resembled the ape. His bullet-like
head was close cropped. The small piggish eyes were deep set under
overhanging, beetling brows, and the nose was flat like a negro’s. His
lips were thick, with a repulsive twist that gave his face a sinister
look. His massive jaw was purposely left unshaved to rasp the tender
skin of his opponent’s shoulders in the clinches. His enormous
barrel-shaped chest was covered with a thick growth of hair. His
shoulders were broad and his disproportionately long arms, heavily
muscled, terminated in two thick ham-like hands. He gazed confidently
across at Donald’s corner.
A pasteboard box containing the gloves was tossed to the centre of the
ring. There was a stir as the announcer pushed his way through the
ropes. Andy crossed the ring to examine the champion’s hands for tape
and to test thoroughly the new gloves for any trace of sewed in shot or
lotion that would cause the eyes to smart. One of Garrieau’s seconds was
making a similar examination in Donald’s corner.
A big man in a wide-brimmed hat, with a mackinaw coat over his arm, came
walking down the steps of the arena. The look of astonishment on his
face gradually gave place to one of joy. He ran to the ringside.
“Donald!” he shouted joyously, as he sprang through the ropes. With a
thrill of pleasure Donald held out his hand to Jack Gillis. The big
man’s face was beaming. “Just got in,” he said. “Bin lookin’ all over
town for you! I come to the fight and—holy mackerel!—here you are one
of the fighters!”
Andy noted the glad look in Donald’s eyes and he spoke sharply to
Donald’s seconds, who were for ordering the boisterous visitor out of
the ring. The word “pyschology” was foreign to Andy, but he knew that
Donald’s mind had for a moment drifted away from the fight. Donald was
surprised to see Douglas greet Gillis warmly as the big man left the
ring.
“I have two good friends in the audience, anyway,” whispered Donald to
himself.
Andy leaned over him, talking in a low voice, giving him comfort and
advice. “E’ll try right along, Donnie, to get your goat by cursing and
using vile language, but don’t listen to ’im, and don’t lose your
temper. ’E fights with ’is chin tucked in the ’ollow of ’is left
shoulder and ’is neck muscles rigid. It’s mighty ’ard to land on ’is jaw
with a right. Now the first round,” Andy went on, “you just jab ’im
light with your left; don’t ’it ’ard, just a good snappy punch. ’E’ll
think you ’ave no sting in it, and the next round ’e’ll get careless and
let you ’it ’im so’s to get in a punch. Of course, if you see a good
opening, let fly with all you ’ave, but ’e won’t open up until ’e tries
you out a bit. Watch the dirty blighter in the clinches; ’e’ll foul you
if ’e gets a chance. Another thing: this is to be twenty rounds, so tyke
your time. Now is everything clear to you, Donnie?”
“Yes, Andy.”
Andy patted Donald’s bare shoulder affectionately.
The contestants stood in their corners as they were introduced. The
referee beckoned them to the centre of the ring for instructions. As
Donald slipped the enveloping bathrobe from his shoulders and stepped
forward, a murmur of admiration swelled from the crowd. His lean loins
and broad shoulders showed to advantage in the bright light. The long,
flowing muscles rippled under his skin when he moved, like those of a
panther. Loud applause came from all over the arena. Garrieau, thinking
the ovation was for himself, turned and ducked his head with a motion
that was intended for a bow.
A rough voice near the top shouted: “Aw! that wasn’t for you, you big
stiff!”
The judge and the dentist turned and looked at each other. The eyes of
the latter seemed to say, “I told you so.” The judge smiled and nodded.
A fat man, who could not have been more than thirty-five years of age,
yet with rolls of fat at his waist-line, a bulbous nose and florid face,
bit savagely on a big cigar. “By gad!” he ejaculated, “that man is
perfect.” There was a look of admiration and envy in his red-rimmed
eyes. Thus do men admire the strong, well-kept body of the athlete, even
though their own physical self has degenerated to mere paste.
“Two to one that Garrieau wins inside of ten rounds!” shouted a voice.
Douglas covered the bet at once.
“Now, men,” instructed the referee briskly, “this is to be for twenty
rounds. You are to fight clean breaks. You can hit with one arm free,
but you cannot hold with one and hit with the other. When I say ‘Break’
I want you to break at once and step back. Do you understand fully?
Good! To your corners.”
Donald glanced at his friends, who sat with their eyes upon him. He felt
Andy’s hand upon him gently stroking his arm, yet he could not suppress
the trembling in his limbs.
“Everything’s all right, Donnie,” whispered Andy softly.
The gong rang.
Garrieau assumed the crouch Andy had predicted, his chin resting in the
hollow of his shoulder, his eyes seeming to retreat into his skull under
the overhanging brows. This was the champion’s famous “fighting face.”
“Pretty boy, ain’t yer?” he scoffed. “I’m goin’ to knock dose pretty
teet’ down yer throat, you——” he cursed.
Donald snapped a light left to the ugly face and danced out of range.
The champion’s thick lips parted in a fiendish grin. “My, mamma’s nice
boy has a terrible punch!” he derided.
Donald continued his dazzling footwork, keeping the champion in pursuit
and contending himself with occasional left-hand jabs that kept his
opponent’s head rocking. He shot glances at intervals to his corner for
instructions from Andy, who nodded his head in approval of his tactics.
The round finished in the challenger’s favour by a wide margin on
points. The champion had not landed a single effective blow during the
round.
The action of the first round caused Donald to forget his nervousness.
Andy crowded between his knees and gently massaged his body, all the
while speaking words of commendation and counsel.
“Now that you find that you can reach ’im easily with your left, watch
me for signals. If I see that ’e’s openin’ up, I’ll give you the sign to
shoot your left with all you ’ave. If he swings again with ’is left, try
for ’is bread basket. You understand me, Donnie?”
“Easiest thing I’ve picked yet,” chuckled the champion as he came to his
corner.
“He may be stalling,” cautioned his evil-faced manager.
“Huh!” grunted the champion. “I can take all he has in dat left and
never feel it. I’m goin’ to open up on him de last part of de next
round.”
The gong rang for the second round.
Donald caught a glimpse of Pursell’s face as he crouched in the opposite
corner. Such a look of vicious hate shot from his one gleaming eye that
Donald shivered.
The rough element began to boo Donald for his running tactics. Some fans
feel that they are cheated out of the price of admission unless they can
witness the spectacle of two boxers slugging toe to toe until one goes
down. Science counts for nothing with this small minority.
“Whadda ya think this is, a marathon?” they shouted.
“Powder-puff punch!” derided another.
Garrieau suddenly tore in, letting loose a terrific right that would
have stopped the bout right then if it had landed. From a clinch Donald
looked to his corner. Andy went through the pantomime of shooting a
straight left. Donald nodded.
“Powder-puff punch!” again shouted the disgruntled fan.
“Did ya hear that?” hissed Garrieau, twisting his mouth into an apish
grin. “Yo can’t hit hard enough to break an egg. I’m goin’ to fix dose
teet’ for you now.” He leered brutally as he tore after Donald,
disdainful of the belittled left.
Donald stopped abruptly in his flight and shot a lightning left across
to his pursuer’s jaw. The champion saw it coming, but too late to block
it. He threw his body into reverse, robbing the blow of a great deal of
its force; yet enough was left to send him reeling back to the ropes,
his head whirling and his knees wobbly. With a roar the spectators came
to their feet as one man. The gong saved Garrieau.
The crowd gave Donald a deafening ovation as he walked to his corner. He
looked for his friends and saw Douglas and Gillis locked in an embrace
and dancing madly in the narrow aisle.
“Pretty near got ’im that time, Donnie!” cried Andy gleefully. “If you
can get ’im to lift ’is jaw off ’is shoulder, send in your right.”
Andy’s hands were shaking with excitement, while Donald was cool and
collected.
“Let me go after him, Andy,” he begged; “I can whip him at his own
game.”
“No, no!” admonished Andy, “keep on as you are. Don’t try to swap
punches with ’im!”
Garrieau’s seconds were working over him feverishly. Pursell leaned over
the heavily-breathing champion, his evil face sick with apprehension.
“What’d I tell yer?” he exclaimed. “They’ve stuck a ringer in on us; dat
feller ain’t no amachoor! If he beats ya we’re both bums! Foul him dis
round, for de——” he finished with a savage oath.
At the beginning of the third round Garrieau charged his elusive
adversary like a mad bull. Donald easily side-stepped him and he plunged
into the ropes. As he rebounded, Donald landed a left and danced safely
away without reprisal.
“You can do pretty footwork,” snarled the champion with a look of Simian
ferocity, “but I’ll get you yet, you——” There followed a burst of wild
cursing. He tried to rush Donald to the ropes, feinted for the wind, and
let loose a powerful right for the jaw. Paying no attention to the
feint, Donald ducked the blow and, countering, shot his left to his
opponent’s mid-section. The champion grunted aloud, fell into a clinch,
and hung on grimly. The referee pried them apart. Again the crowd came
to their feet to shout in a frenzy of excitement.
Garrieau fell into a clinch, then wrestled about until he placed his
opponent between himself and the referee. He loosed his right in a
terrific upper-cut that missed, but his left smashed with fearful force
to Donald’s groin—the most brutal foul that can be delivered. The
referee did not see the blow.
Donald’s nerves quivered with agony. A wave of torment and the awful
nausea that follows such a blow swept through him. His face writhing
with anguish, his gloved hands clutching his groin, he crashed forward
on his face. His body twitched for a moment, then lay still.
The crowd came to their feet and many moved toward the exits. Another
victim, they thought, to the champion’s terrible punch. A number at the
ringside, who had witnessed the foul blow, stood upon their seats and
screamed denunciations at the referee.
The referee stood with one hand on Garrieau’s massive chest. The latter
was lustfully straining forward while the fatal seconds were tolled off.
The roar of the crowd came to Donald’s ears like the dash of waves on a
distant shore. At the count of five his body stirred. At the count of
eight, his jaw sagging, his face distorted, he struggled to his knees.
He saw Andy’s agonised face as through a fog and heard his desperate cry
of appeal.
“Up, Donnie! Up!”
At the count of nine Donald’s benumbed muscles answered the call of his
brain. With tremendous effort he staggered to his feet and wound his
arms about his face. The crowd yelled themselves hoarse in tribute to
his courage.
Garrieau was upon him with a growl like a wild beast. Donald stood in
the centre of the ring reeling drunkenly. Garrieau shot a terrific right
for Donald’s wind that struck his weakly protecting elbows. The impact
carried him to the ropes, and he fell forward to his knees. Again the
referee’s arm rose and fell as he counted the seconds. Again Donald
tottered to his feet to meet a fusilade of short-arm jolts that pierced
his guard and sent him staggering.
The gong rang. With body swaying unsteadily and legs wavering, Donald
walked to his corner and sank down heavily. What a blessed relief to lie
and relax! His head felt leaden and there was a ringing in his ears.
His seconds worked over him in furious haste. Andy knew all the tricks
of resuscitation: the upward sweep of hand on the midriff that brings
the big nerve centre to life; the quick raising of the chest that brings
air to the remote corners of the lungs. With a sudden choking in his
throat, the little Australian realized that this boy was very dear to
him. A prayer on his lips, his hands trembling, but sure and deft, he
strove to restore the shattered nerves.
The colour came slowly to Donald’s cheeks and the haze cleared away as
the cold water was showered upon him. He felt his strength returning. A
long deep breath and he was himself again. Youth and his fine body had
saved him. He looked across the ring at Garrieau, whose vulture-like
manager was leaning over him with an exultant look on his face. This
brute had deliberately fouled him. A cold and terrible rage swept
through every fibre of Donald’s being. He had demeaned himself by
entering the prize-ring. This was bad enough; but to _lose_ the
battle!—_Never!_ He looked for his friends. Their faces, he saw, were
tense and full of misery.
“Andy, I’m going after him,” he declared in a hard voice.
Andy was about to remonstrate, but he caught a flash of the hard light
in Donald’s eyes, and the words died on his lips. He hesitated. Maybe he
should have let Donald take the aggressive from the start.
“Are you strong enough, Donnie?”
Donald’s eyes held a dull glow. “Yes!” he gritted.
Andy patted his arm as the gong rang. “Give ’im ’ell, Donnie!” And then
added reverently: “May God give ’im strength.”
Donald shot from his corner as though thrown from a catapult to meet
Garrieau before he was fairly out of his chair. The spectators held
their breath. Was this the man who a minute before had walked staggering
and beaten to his chair? When the referee pried the fighters apart after
a fierce mix-up in the champion’s corner, a puffed eye and a bloody face
showed that Garrieau had absorbed severe punishment. Donald was
everywhere, dancing in for a fierce rally and out again, always without
a return.
The arena fairly rocked to the cheers of the crowd as Donald stood in
the centre of the ring and exchanged punches with the champion. Head to
head they stood while Donald’s arms worked with such lightning speed
that the champion’s blows were smothered. And, marvel of marvels, the
champion was giving ground. The pursued had become pursuer. The tide had
turned. With his arms wound about his face the champion retreated. As he
assayed a lead, Donald’s fist smote his face before he could again cover
up. Following relentlessly, Donald penetrated his opponent’s guard with
rights and lefts until the champion’s face was a smear of red.
A bedlam of sound came from the audience as they stood on their seats
and roared their admiration for the challenger’s wonderful exhibition.
Andy, his face set, his eyes bulging clung to the corner of the ring.
Garrieau drove heavily at his elusive foe and missed. The impetus swung
him to one side. For an instant his chin was without the protecting
shelter of his shoulder. With a bewilderingly swift move Donald stepped
forward, pivoted on his toes, and with the full weight of his powerful
young body behind it, he whipped his right to the champion’s unprotected
jaw. Plop! Garrieau fell upon his face and sprawled like a baboon on the
floor. Donald walked to his corner, thrust his gloved hands towards
Andy, who stood as though paralyzed, and said; “Take them off, Andy.”
His voice was audible throughout the arena. The referee rushed to
Donald’s side and raised his arm aloft in token of victory.
With a roar the crowd came to its senses to realize that the fight was
over. Pandemonium broke loose. A struggling mass of humanity surged into
the ring. Every man wanted to shake hands with the new champion.
Garrieau, the possessor of the “punch” they had so much admired, was
forgotten. The king is dead—long live the king! Such is life,
especially in the boxing game!