The Leather Pushers (1921, G. P. Putnam's Sons)/Round 3
When it comes to takin' punishment I am forced to award the brown derby to the modern prize-fight fan. Next to the wrestlin' addict, the gent which digs into the rent money for a ringside seat at the average one of these "return engagements" between the present crop of professional sluggers stands alone as the Crown Prince of dumb-bells. For the example, one of our present champs has "fought" the nearest contender for his crown a even thirteen times, with first one and vhen the other winnin' the newspaper decision, mixin' in a occasional "draw" to keep up the interest. Another title holder has met the ex-champ in his class eight times in them brief, chummy, "no decision" things, and as for the secondand third-rate heavies—Sweet Mamma! Them guys has a regular route mapped out for their act, with a season which would make a standard vaudeville team sob with envy. Why, girls, it's nothin' at all for a pair of 'em to box each other a coupla times a week on a trip around a circuit that extends from Maine to California, takin' turns in winnin' by a "shade."
A sparrin' partner which has got anything at all conuected with his head outside of a tin ear, soon learns to avoid disfigurin' punishment and yet give his master a stiff workout. In the same way any two professional scrappers which knows the first thing about their trade can carry each other along for a dozen rounds at a pace which makes three-fourths of the customers think they are tryin' to assassinate each other, whereas violence is the farthest thing from their minds. The oftener they meet, the more sensational they can make the "bouts" look, because after half a dozen such entertainments they know each other's every wallop by heart and could prob'ly stand up and block each other with their eyes closed.
Now, if amongst the billions in my audience there is a blown-in-the-flask box-fight fan which is hysterically rearin' up on his hind legs shriekin' that I'm all wrong, and what I know about the ring could be wrote on a gnat's ear, I would like to gently ask him why is it that there is usually more genuine action, promiscuous gore, and intent to kill in one round of the preliminaries than there is in the average star bout of the evenin'? Well, the main and principal reason is because the $1-a-round birds have to make a fight of it or they don't get no more work! Let them babies ease up for a minute and the indignant referee is at their pantin' sides informin' 'em that if they don't show some speed he will take the greatest of pleasure in throwin' the both of 'em outa the ring. Then again, gentlemen of the jury, it takes a finished workman with the mitts to stall so successfully that when him and his fellow artist apparently ignores the bell and keeps on sluggin' each other at the end of a round, the mob thinks it's on the level and goes delirious. A third-rater cannot stall, even if you rehearse him for a year. He don't know enough to slip inside what looks like man-killin' wallops, and when stung he forgets what he was told and fights! He's like the boneheaded but crack ball player which couldn't throw a game for a million dollars in dimes because he's got no imagination—he's a machine. He can't make the error which would frame the thing for the other side, because once he's in there he remembers nothin' but to play ball to the best of whatever ability he has. It ain't particularly because he's honest; he's shy the intelligence to be a first-class crook! The third-rate scrapper is the same way. Tell him for a month to rate the other guy along, pull his wallops, and take a occasional count to make it look good for the "return bouts," and when he climbs into the ring he forgets all about his instructions and goes ahead on his own hook as per usual. Given a fair chance, he'll innocently knock the other tramp for a goal, and spoil him for future and profitable use.
The fighter himself is in no way responsible for the conditions which surround box fightin' to-day. Like the exceedin'ly late czar of the playful Russians, he's more or less the victim of circumstances. Modern professional boxin' is a business as well organized as the circus. As perpetrated in some of the big burgs, prize fightin' is very close to bein' a trust. The boxers on the inside are carefully nursed along, advertised, and exploited the same as a breakfast food, patent medicine, or movie star, and the tough ambitious outsider has the same chance of bustin' into the large money as I got of bein' elected Queen of Montenegro. Every now and then some newspaper guy, with more nerve than prospects, trains his typewriter on these dollar snatchers and pans the "return engagements" between the leadin' scrappers to a fare-thee-well. The promoters' alibi is that they have to rematch the headliners, because there is so few young men hither and you about the country which is talented enough with their hands to give the stars a battle. This, of course, is 36-carat bunk! In every class, from bantam to heavyweight, there is a half dozen earnest, clever, and bone-crushin' young sluggers which are automatically barred off the Big Time because they are just that! The champs don't wish no part of these babies—they're too tough and ambitious. Merciful Heavens, no—why, them poor boobs wanna fight!
These and other present-day conditions which I will take up at our next meetin' is what has stripped the prize ring of the sentimental glamour, sportsmanship, and fair play throwed around it by many of our otherwise unhysterical authors and playwrights. In days of old, when men was bold and the like, perhaps prize fightin' was a he-man's sport and may kave developed courage and biceps in the youth of the land. At any rate, the guys which traded wallops when John L. Sullivan was the name of a fighter at least made a honest attempt to earn their dough. They stood toe to toe for hours at a time and battled more for glory than anything else, and the winner usually knew he had been in a brawl by the time his handlers carried him outa the ring. There was no percentages, bonuses, or guarantees in them days. The purse was often in the neighborhood of a coupla hundred berries, and frequently the guy which remained upright at the finish took it all!
Sweet Mamma—what a difference now!
The modern boss scrapper picks his opponents as carefully as Ziegfeld picks a chorus. He gets a guaranteed sum somewheres in the thousands for a six-, eight-, or ten-round muss with some set-up which must take what he's handed for his end, no matter if by some miracle he knocks the star kickin'. Then again, if the star happens to be a big local drawin' card, his victim is at times warned that if he trims his man he don't get no more work at that club. The result is that the poor boob goes in against one of them $5,000 beauties, finds the mob all with the native son, and yellin' for his own immediate assassination; knows that if he wins, draws, or loses his pay will be the same; remembers that if he gets too rough he will lose a lotta future bouts at the club, an therefore takes a lickin', boostin' the star's reputation and, likewise, the star's price.
But occasionally along comes a handsome city chap which upsets all the plans of the gentlemanly promoters and the athletic young business men which calls themselves boxers. A tough, ambitious baby will crop up which, besides havin' a kick in each hand, has also got a few ounces of brains in his head and a manager which is not simply a addin' machine. A combination like that is carbolic acid to the boxin' trust. Sooner or later they gotta be taken in and gave a crack at the big money. Then they either peg along, satisfied with the soft sugar and takin' their turns at boxin' the other members of the lodge, or they go in business for themselves when they get to the top. That's what me and Kid Roberts done, and that's how I made him heavyweight champion.
Followin' the wind-up of love's young dream, and my return from the Merchant of Venice with a handful of the root of all evil, Kid Roberts shuts the door of our bower in the hotel and indicates by signs that he wouldst like me to be seated.
"I have fought twice," he says, "and I've made somethin' less than a thousand dollars."
"That's better than diggin' streets, ain't it?" I says.
"It won't do!" he tells me. "I'm not in this beastly game for the love of it—I'm in it because it appears to be the only thing at which I'm skilled enough to make big money. I'm going to fight my way to the top of the pile so that I can demand enough for my bouts to rehabilitate my father and myself, and then I'm going to get out of it. I'm not satified with my progress to date. I don't want any more matches with those tenth-raters—those battered, loathsome brutes whose very appearance make the Darwinian theory a base libel on the monkeys! I'm sick of pounding them to a pulp for a few dollars. There's no semblance of a contest about those things; it's sheer, wanton brutality. Go ahead and match me with some of these so-called logical contenders for the heavyweight championship, or I'll be my own manager. I'm not trying to desert you, but I want you to thoroughly understand that I hate this game and everything connected with it, and the quicker I get out of it the cleaner I'll feel! I can't get out until I've made good. Is that clear?"
"Oh, easily that," I says, "and I don't blame you as much as a particle for wantin' to make money. There's a certain time in our lives when all of us gets that feelin', usually durin' the first seventy-five years. But, Kid, you gotta learn your trade and work your way up in the fight game the same as in anything else. You can't make a guy a plumber by simply handin' him a piece of lead pipe and a monkey wrench. You're a pretty good prospect right now, but that's all—just a prospect. Them two fights you had don't mean nothin'. You got a hefty kick in each paw, and you seem to be able to take it, but you're as green as 350 Irish flags. You get rattled under fire, you squander wallops on the air, your defense wouldn't puzzle a one-armed blind man, and you telegraph every clout you got in stock before you pull it. When you get bounced you jump right up instead of takin' a count till your head clears, and you got a bad habit of lettin' a punch-drunk burn dive into a clinch with you instead of shakin' him off and finishin' him. Ring generalship, that's what you're minus, and the only way you can get it is by experience. You gotta be rated along, not rushed. That's what a manager's for. Many a promisin' kid has been ruined at the start by bein' overmatched. As for these guys lookin' like gorillas—well, none of 'em claims to be chorus girls, and you don't have to take 'em out to dinner—you get paid to beat 'em up!"
The Kid ain't said nothin' whilst I'm pourin' this into him, but his face is a movie.
"If I'm as rotten as that," he sneers fin'ly, "how do you account for the fact that I won my first two professional fights by knockouts?"
"You licked a pair of tramps," I says, "who's combined knowledge of the art of boxin' could be wrote on a ant's nose. You gotta long ways to go yet before I throw you into a ring with a fighter! You'd be a set-up right now for the first good man you met, and I ain't gonna have you knocked kickin' yet. You been shook and hurt, but you ain't never experienced the delightful sensation of bein' socked to dreamland, and if I can help it you never will! A knockout right now and you'd prob'ly be through with the ring—I know you temperamental babies; I had a stable full of 'em once."
He takes a coupla turns around the room to think this over, and then he stops and looks at me.
"What you say may be true," he says, kinda cold, "but it doesn't change my decision! If I'm as bad as that, then I'll never be a success as a fighter, and I may as well give it up and try something else. However, I want a fair test first, and I haven't had one yet. Match me with a good man or I'll do it myself. That's my last word!"
I seen the boy had worked himself up into a fit of nerves, and it would be terrible silly to argue with him then.
"C'mon," I says, "we'll take a walk around to Billy Morgan's gym and see some of the boys workin' out. Maybe you can pick up a coupla tricks for yourself watchin'—"
"We have no time to waste," he cut me off. "I'll never be a champion by hanging around anybody's training quarters."
"C'mon, C'mon," I says, "lay off to-day and you'll be champion a day later then—what's the difference?"
Up at Billy Morgan's I let the Kid roam around at will while I tried to make arrangements to have him took on as a sparrin' partner for some good guy. Billy gazed around the gym, where there were half a dozen of all weights workin' the pulleys, punchin' the bag, sparrin' or shadow boxin'.
"Well," he says, "I dunno. There's not many boys here now—most of the big fellers is goin' around the circuit outa town and the like. Al Kennedy is readyin' himself for his quarrel with Young Williams, but I guess Al's a little too tough for your kid, hey?"
"You tell 'em!" I says with feelin'. "My boy's only started twict and I ain't gonna have him cut up and discouraged by that big stiff for nothin', that's a cinch! By the way, who's got Kennedy now?"
"Heh?" says Bill. "Oh, Dummy Carney—he's around here somewheres now with Rocky Martin and Sailor McGann, them two boloneys of his. Say—Dummy oughta fix you up at that. His guys is workin' out here, and no doubt Dummy will ease your boy in with 'em. He's a pretty good friend of yours, ain't he?"
The answer come from Carney.
I can see the thing now as well as if I was standin' there in Billy's gym lookin' at it again. Dummy Carney slouchin' in with his two bruisers, me gettin' and feelin' pale in the neighborhood of the gills when I seen him, because the last time we bosom friends had met, Kid Roberts had knocked Dummy flat—and the Kid watchin' big Al Kennedy punchin' the bag.
Dummy is a big man and far from yellah. The second his eyes lit on the Kid he has him by the shoulder and swung him around.
"Well, see what's here!" he sneers. "Little Kewpie, the sassiety boxer, hey?" He raised his voice, and some of the gang stopped workin' to look. "Are you ready to live up to your contract with me yet, you big bum?"
The Kid puts his hands in his pockets and his complexion turns a shade or so lighter.
"You deserted me in Sandusky in my first fight when you thought I was going to be knocked out," he says pretty even. "I have no contract with you, as I consider that your yellow action automatically broke it. If you make one more insulting remark to me or annoy me in any way, I will take great pleasure in knocking you through that wall!"
Dummy' face turned a unbecoming shade of purple, and he begin to gasp like a newly captured trout. When he fin'ly succeeded in gettin' a fresh grip on the English language he shook his fist in the Kid's face and bellered:
"You—you—why—don't you dare to double-cross me, you boob, or you'll never get a fight around New York! Your contract called for at least three starts under my management, and you'll go through with it or you don't pull on another glove!"
The Kid deliberately turns his back to him and gazes at Al Kennedy, which, whilst still whippin' the bag around, has got a attentive though battered ear open to the conversation.
Dummy let fall a expression which is rarely heard in a church and wheeled around to his two maulers, Rocky Martin and Sailor McGann.
"Let him have it!" he snarls, half under his breath.
Me and Billy Morgan started over at once, but we was too slow. The Kid suddenly pivoted around and seen them two pork-and-beaners comin' in. He didn't wait to ask no questions. Rocky Martin met a straight left to the face that dumped him in a comical position at Dummy's feet, through for the day. Sailor McGann was short with a right to the jaw and got a chop on the side of what passed for his head which immediately removed all thoughts of violence from the same. Then the Kid faced the frenzied Dummy.
"If my contract called for three fights, you can consider it filled now," he pants. "I had one in Sandusky and"—he points to the two reclinin' gladiators—"there's the other two!"
Wow!
"Clout him too, kid!" yells a interested lightweight. "I'm with you!"
Big Al Kennedy has stopped punchin' the bag arid is starin' over at us with a grin on his face. The lace on one of his gloves has come undone and he tries to tie it with his teeth, Dummy's face suddenly brightens, and he yells at him, pointin' to the Kid: "Take this guy for me, Al!"
I let out a roar and jumped forward, but Dummy swept me against the wall with one walkin'-beam arm. It made quite a picture. There's the Kid, white and drawn with a nervous grin on his lips, facin' Kennedy and waitin'. Dummy is snarlin' and motionin' to his hired man to let one go, whilst the two hams on the floor rolls outa harm's way and the rest of the gang quits everything to watch. I said a silent prayer and then yelled to Billy Morgan to stop it, but the big stiff shrugged his shoulders and waved me away. Somebody dropped a pin and I heard it hit the floor.
Then Al Kennedy walks over to the Kid, which don't give way a inch. Al looks up and down coolly and turns to Dummy, his manager: "Where d'ye get that stuff?" he growls. "What's the idea of askin' me to slough this guy for yuh, hey? If you want him beat up, get some of them bums which is hangin' round here lookin' for exercise—what d'ye think I am, a roughneck? I'll box him for pennies—sure, but them gang-fight days is over, get that?" He holds up the glove with the loose string under the Kid's nose. "Here, kid," he says in a offhand way, "tie that up for me, will yuh?"
Kid Roberts dropped his half-raised hands and give a short laugh.
"Certainly!" he says politely, and damned if he didn't, whilst Dummy let forth a howl and collapsed in a chair.
A week after that me and Kid Roberts traveled over to the Never-Say-Dry country of New Jersey and seen Al Kennedy put Young Williams out in six rounds. The fight was a dude whilst it lasted, both men bein' seasoned campaigners and both in line for a crack at the title. Kennedy had everything, includin' a nasty straight left which Williams was unable to keep his face off of, and Kennedy used that to wear his man down till fin'ly a well-timed right cross to the button gave Williams a one-way ticket to dreamland.
The Kid watched the brawl like it was the first one he ever seen, and never for a minute did his eyes leave the shifty, bone-crushin' Kennedy. When that guy stepped from the ring after the mêlée, without even his hair mussed, and the mob yellin' itself hoarse, I turned to Kid Roberts.
"Well," I says, "are you satisfied? There's one of the good men you wanna meet, and you seen him work to-night! You know this Williams is anything but a bum, yet he was duck soup for Kennedy. What chance would you have against a guy like that now?"
His answer was nothin'.
When we got back to the hotel the Kid broke a long silence. "Have you made a match for me yet?" he says.
"I expect to close to-morrow with Dave Kane, which has the Newark club," I says. "We'll get a eight-round preliminary with some pushover in a week, I guess."
"Guess again!" snaps the Kid. "My next bout will be with Al Kennedy."
"A good stiff headache powder will fix you right up," I says soothin'ly.
"Either you get me Kennedy or I get him myself," he says, "and that's final! If I beat him, I'll be in line for a match with the champion; if he beats me, I'm through. I watched every move he made to-night, and I'm confident I can take his measure. I'm big enough to whip any man I can hit, and one thing is certain—Kennedy will never stick that left in my face as he did with Williams. I haven't got a permanent mark to show that I'm a prize fighter, and I never will have, you can rest assured of that!"
"I could rest even more assured if you'd forget about fightin' Kennedy!" I says. "Now listen to me, son—apart from the fact that you ain't got a Chinaman's chance with this guy, I don't know of any club which would put the match on. The only way we could get the fight is because Dummy Carney would be tickled silly to have you flattened on account of him losin' you. But they'd be no dough in it—you don't mean nothin' around here, understand? And—"
"That's what I have a manager for," he interrupts. Your job is to make my name mean something here until I get a fight. Now get busy and use your imagination, or I'll go it alone!"
Well, we argued back and forth till the inmates of the adjoinin' rooms got sick of the thing and threatened reprisals, and the night clerk called up with the information that they was runnin' a hotel and not a dance hall. At three in the a. m. we called it a night after the Kid had agreed to fight one tramp before Kennedy, and I had promised to make his name as well known as Georgie Cohan's in and around Manhattan.
The Kid bein' young, healthy, and care free was unconscious a minute after he hit the hay, but I laid awake gazin' at the ceilin' for quite some space tryin' to dope out a scheme that would get us très bien publicity and beaucoup pennies. Along around the time they shoot you in the army—sunrise—I got it, and a little while later, when I heard Kid Roberts splashin' around in the bathroom, I bust in on him and revealed all.
At first he registered the greatest of disgust, but as I continued on with the layout his face cleared, and when I wound up outa breath he slaps me on the back and grins.
"Great!" he hollers. "Old man, you should have been a press agent. When I become champion and leave the ring to enter business, I'll engage you as publicity man!"
"Yeh?" I sniffs. "Well, that's horrible nice of you—only if you ever win the title I expect to own at least half of that business you're gonna enter!"
I spent the rest of the day chasin' all over the isle of Gotham from the one end to the other tryin' to dig up the necessary dough to put my stunt over. Late that night, as they say in the movies, I had begged, borreyed, and gypped myself a $500 bank roll, and Kid Roberts had met "the most wonderful girl in the world!" or, in the other words, Estelle Van Horn, one of the merry villagers in "The Girl and the Cream Puff." This was the Kid's second attempt to put over a romance with himself as the leadin' man. He made a dozen wild stabs at the thing which drives the poets wild before along come—but we'll get around to that later.
The campaign to make Kid Roberts as popular as matrimony begin with me takin' him down to a swell photographer's and havin' him snapped in half a dozen poses, wearin' ring togs and—a mask. This was nothin' more than a piece of black silk with eyeholes, which fitted over the top of his face, makin' it practically impossible to identify him. Likewise, it was part of my scheme to make him stand out from the mob and get him talked about. Then I started the rounds of the newspaper offices with him.
My story was this: Kid Roberts was a millionaire college guy which refused to give out his real name and wore a mask in the ring so's his high society pals couldn't discover the double life he was leadin'. In the afternoons he attended receptions and the like, flauntin' a mean teacup, and at night he give himself over to fisticuffs, swingin' a nasty left hook. He never accepted as much as a thin dime for his services, because he was in the game for the love of it alone, not to mention his ambition to become champion. I had him throw out chance remarks about his "cars" and his "country place" with a occasional mention of "the yacht," and whilst some of the wise-guy sport writers grinned and invited us to take the air, most of 'em eat the stuff up and hollered for more. Havin' once been a habitué of Yale, the Kid was easily able to make the college-boy thing sound good, and as for the millionaire end of it, well—Kid Roberts looked and acted more like a million dollars than two $500,000 bills. He throwed handfuls of poetry at 'em, slipped in a slice of O. Shaw, Rudyard Longfellow, John G. Shakespeare, Washington Irving Berlin, and all them old masters of the English language.
They was one sportin' editor which tried out the Kid on a coupla dozen tough questions in order to prove was he really a highbrow, and Kid Roberts was never even extended, comin' back with a flow of words which would make a Boston high-school teacher take carbolic. Fin'ly they get on the subject of boxin', and with regard to a knockout the Kid explains it like thus:
"The jawbone strikes hard upon the thin plate of bone supporting the delicate labyrinth of the inner ear, and the bony portion thereof is driven upward into the glenoid cavity of the skull. This shocks the semicircular canals, and this shock is in turn transmitted to the bulbs producing dizziness, nausea, and momentary paralysis!"
The sport writer fell over a copy boy in a trance and the next day we got a column in his sheet, with pictures.
But I didn't stop at that. With some of the dough I had excavated, I hired the Kid a swell-lookin' bus, a chauffeur, and a guy with a uneyform like a Turkish admiral to open the doors. A sparrin' partner passed as a valet. Then I commenced takin' Kid Roberts and this layout around to all the fight clubs, where he regularly challenged the champion and got introduced from the ring. He never failed to be a riot for the reason that he climbed through the ropes in a dizzy dress suit and the mask, escorted by the alleged valet which took his coat, hat, and gloves whilst he bowed to the crowd and thanked 'em for their appreciation. You can always get attention with somethin' new whether you're in Succotash Corners or Times Square, and as this had never been done before we was rarely off the sportin' page. By the time he was ready to fight Owney Griggs, who I had hand-picked for him as a workout before he committed suicide by facin' Al Kennedy, I had established Kid Roberts as a card and we went on in a main bout for a $700 guarantee. I had no trouble arrangin' with the club managers to give out that we was fightin' for nothin'. As long as I filled the house, they should grieve what I got across in the papers.
The night of the fight with Griggs we rolled up to the clubhouse bright and early in our Snappy Six, with the chauffeur, door tender, valet, and nickle-plated hood. Over the radiator is a large sign marked, "Kid Roberts, Next Heavyweight Champion of the World." We stop outside the main entrance for a few minutes, and as the Kid is masked and wearin' evenin' clothes we attract no more attention than a snowfall would in Hades. We occupy a ringside box durin' the preliminaries, and before each scrap the Kid climbed into the ring, shook hands with each fighter and wished 'em many happy returns—also somethin' new. I kept hittin' the mob in the face with the Kid all the time we was there till fin'ly we was arousin' as much interest as the boys in the ring. We left for the dressin' room durin' the semifinal bout, followed by cheers that would of tickled Dempsey. Did that crowd want to see Kid Roberts fight? You tell 'em!
But I wasn't through yet!
The Kid comes into the ring wearin', besides the mask, a blue silk bath robe, ornamented with pale pink peacocks and purple flowers. On top of his regular handlers and me they is the valet with a tray of hot chocolate, a silver water bottle, smellin' salts, and the etc., and a pile of clean white towels. He is helped through the ropes like he was a 1542 Chinese vase, the stool is carefully dusted off, and he sits down, takes a cup of chocolate from the valet, a novel from the pocket of his bath robe, and without a glance at the other corner, begins to read!
Sweet Cookie!
For a second the customers is dazed, and then with a roar they begin to give him the razz. Some of the witty remarks from the gallery would be barred here, but I had spent a week preparin' the Kid for that and he simply turned over a page, cast a amused smile at one and all, and went on readin'. Over across the ring Owney Griggs and his handlers is on the verge of the hystericals. Kid Roberts, the "Millionaire Society Boxer," certainly did look soft, till the Kid stood up to be introduced to the house and the "valet" whipped off the trick bath robe.
The mob quit kiddin' on the instant, the noisy chatter hangin' fire on a long gasp—then they rocked the buildin' with the hand his clean, magnificent body deserved. The grin slid from the face of Owney Griggs and he sat down, lookin' very serious.
If ever there was a flashy looker, stripped, his name was Kid Roberts—the ripplin' muscles rollin' and twistin' under his white skin like corded steel under satin. A sport writer, sittin' under his corner, threw away a cigarette and immediately christened him "the Adonis of the Ring," and as such he was known to the finish. Alongside of this seven-ton bruiser he was gonna meet, he looked kinda light for a punishin' heavyweight, but the minute the bell rang he looked big enough to take the Rock of Gibraltar—and he was!
With the crowd yellin' and strainin' in their seats, the Kid was half-way across the ring before Griggs left his corner. Workin' fast, Roberts feinted this big ham into a knot, brought his guard down with a jab at the body and then, like a flash of startled light, crashed over a right to the jaw that dumped Monsieur Owney Griggs on his face as cold as a pawnbroker's eye, just forty seconds after the openin' gong.
So that was all settled!
Leavin' the ring, the Kid got a sendoff which he'll remember to his dyin' day. With the help of the good old bunk, represented by the mask and the "Millionaire Society Boxer" thing—and the lucky one-punch knockout of the tramp—Kid Roberts had arrived in his first start on the Big Time and, barrin' accidents, we was headed for the large dough.
The guy which first said "Accidents will happen!" was no Ananias, I'll rise to inform the globe!
The next day, all arguments, threats, prayers, and the like havin' failed with the Kid, I signed him to fight Al Kennedy eight rounds in Jersey City two weeks later. We was guaranteed $1,000 for our end, with a option of 30 per cent of the gross. I had no trouble gettin' the match, because Dummy Carney was so wild to see his man batter Roberts insensible that he was almost willin' to let Kennedy go in for nothin', which, as usual, was what the papers said Roberts was gonna get. I figured the Kid had one chance in five against Al Kennedy right then.
Then my troubles begin for real!
In the first place, the Kid starts duckin' his trainin' to act as a bodyguard for Estelle Van Horn. He commenced to tell me that Estelle "understood him" and that she really was a sweet, wholesome, and innocent girl which come only recently from a fine family out in Parsnip, Ohio. Upon receipt of that sensational information, I managed to get the boon of a interview with the fair Estelle. As I expected, if Estelle was a country maiden, then I'm Caruso, and a five-minute conversation convinced me that the Kid's swell front had led her innocent little mind astray. She was lookin' for a limousine any day and not no flivver, either, whereas and to wit the Kid actually couldn't buy her a inner tube.
As I had the boy's future in my hands, I told her that and also that no matter what he had led her to believe on the way home in the taxi, he was simply a second-rate prize fighter and I was his manager and if she didn't believe it, nothin' would please me better than to have her come up to Billy Morgan's some afternoon and see her gentleman friend work out with the other hams. She coldly shooed me away, but called me back at the door to ask the address of Billy Morgan's.
The other thing which kept me from dyin' of the sleepin' sickness was the Kid's sudden and determined ambition to protect his face at all costs from the end of a glove. No matter what come to pass, he swore he'd never leave a prize ring marked up. No cauliflower ears, busted beaks, split lips, or eyes in mournin' was gonna come to him. Outa the ring, nobody would ever know he was a fighter, because once he made his pile he expected to take up his place in society at about where he left off. Now this here stuff is O. K. in its way, but when a guy leaves himself wide open in the neighborhood of the belt in order to keep his beautiful features untouched, it's exceedin'ly dangerous. A well-placed clout to the body has won as many fights as a smash to the jaw ever did. Ask Corbett, he knows!
As the time for the fight with Kennedy got nearer, the Kid got worse if anything. Sparrin' partners had no trouble at all reachin' his short ribs and heart, and I warned him that if Kennedy ever threw a solid punch into his mid-section he would break him in two, but the Kid only grinned and called my attention to the fact that they wasn't a pug in the gym which could lay a glove on his face and that he was in good enough condition to take anything in the body. He also remarked that the Kennedy fight would be the same as the fracas with Owney Griggs—one round.
He had it posolutely right!
A coupla days before the mill a middleweight, which had been trainin' in Billy Morgan's and sparrin' with the Kid, failed to show up. I didn't give that a thought at the time, bein' busy with a million other things. I seen that guy again the night Kid Roberts climbed through the ropes. He was grinnin' at me and holdin' the bucket for Al Kennedy!
The evenin' that Kid Roberts and Al Kennedy fought in Jersey City the coppers closed the doors of the clubhouse at nine o'clock, whilst a coupla thousand bugs fought 'em in the streets to get in. I had the Kid pull his regular stuff—mask, dress suit, valet, and all—and it went big this time with the howlin' mob, which had seen him polish off Owney Griggs with a punch two weeks before. Roberts got a president's ovation when he was introduced and so did Kennedy for that matter. Sweet Mamma—but that crowd was on edge, and when the bell clanged there wasn't a guy sittin' down in the house.
Whilst readyin' up the Kid I had told him this:
"Tie into this baby from the gong, Kid, and he's yours! Don't let him set, keep right on top of him. Forget about your own face and pay some attention to his, and, above all things, don't keep your guard too high, because this Kennedy is a nasty body punisher!"
"I'll be all right," smiles the Kid. "But I'm not going to let this fellow cut me up! I'm not going to chance a broken nose or a torn ear for a few dollars—those things never heal perfectly and they always leave a man marked. Well, I won't be marked and—"
The bell cut him off.
The instant they met in the middle of the ring, Kennedy begin to play for the Kid's face with that mean left jab of his and Roberts backed away whilst the crowd booed him. This seemed to rouse the Kid, and he rushed Kennedy to the ropes, landin' two hard rights to the head before they fell into a clinch. Kennedy again tried hard for the Kid's jaw on the break, but Roberts, now the picture of confidence, made him look foolish and brought a roar from the crowd by sendin' him back on his heels with a vicious right to the heart. Instead of followin' this one up and maybe finishin' his man, the Kid stood off whilst the mob shrieked: "Go on, you big stiff, take a chance—knock him out!" A left chop brought blood from Kennedy's nose and a second later Roberts crashed him into the ropes with a volley of rights and lefts to the head. The crowd was now ten thousand lunatics yellin' for a knockout. Kennedy dove into a clinch and looked over the Kid's shoulder to his own corner for advice, his face a crimson smear. The advice come from that little rat middleweight which had blowed our camp before the fight.
"The face, Al!" screams this guy. "Bring it up!"
As the referee tore them apart, Kennedy, badly outpointed and almost all in, let fly a desperate right to the jaw. It barely grazed the Kid, but it made him nervous for that infernal face of his and up came his guard. "Now!" comes bellerin' from Kennedy's corner, and Zam!—he buries his left to the wrist in the Kid's body with a sock that could be plainly heard in South Dakota. The Kid flashed white and his head tolled. I knew what was comin', but I yelled to the Kid to clinch, at the same time gettin' the sponge ready. Kennedy, now wild with eagerness to finish the Kid, missed a coupla swings and then fin'ly connected with a right hook to the jaw that dropped the Kid on one knee. He looked over to me like he didn't know what it was all about (which he didn't, by the way), took a count of "eight," and then, grabbin' Kennedy's leg for a brace, he pulled himself up—out on his feet. A feint for the jaw, the Kid's hands goes up mechanically and a solid left under the heart sprawled him dead to the world, knocked out for the first time, almost at my feet! I had started into the ring with the punch.
To the mob of maniacs around me it was only the sensational end of a sensational fight, but to me it was the probable wind-up of a chance to make a million! All I could think as I helped carry the Kid to his corner was would he ever forget he had been knocked cold, or was this his finish and mine?
The first thing the Kid called for in the dressin' room was—a mirror. When he seen there wasn't a scratch on his face, he grinned.
"Sorry!" he says. "Are you through?"
"What d'ye mean through?" I snarls. "We're just beginnin'—or maybe you got enough, hey?"
The grin gets broader.
"I had to get it some time, I suppose," he says, kinda thoughtful. Then: "I think this fight will do me a lot of good—I learned a pile of things while it lasted. You know, frankly, in spite of this reversal to-night, I feel in my heart that I can whip that fellow!"
"There's no question about it!" I says. "You'd of flattened him sure to-night if you hadn't been so damn careful of gettin' your face mussed up. Why, you had him—"
"Get him for me again!" he butts in. "I'll start conditioning myself again to-morrow!"
Not bad for a guy which has just been knocked, hey?
I turned on the old thinker again that night and several days later I signed Roberts to fight Kennedy six rounds in Philly, the middle of the followin' month. I had to take $600. By a strange coincidence, I also brung a new sparrin' partner around to Billy Morgan's to work out with the Kid. This baby and Roberts had been sparrin' lightly for a few minutes, when who appears in the doorway but Estelle Van Horn, which had selected that day to see for herself how her boy friend evaded the poorhouse. I called to the Kid, and he turned his head. The other guy prob'ly didn't hear me, because on the instant he swung a roundhouse left, square on the Kid's unprotected face! Roberts staggered back, recovered, and put both gloves to his nose. We all rushed over, the sparrin' partner chokin' apologies and scared stiff and some of the other handlers tryin' to stop the flow of gore. Whilst waitin' for the medico, I felt the Kid's nose with a experienced and eager hand—they was no doubt about it, it was broke bad and would carry a dent as long as he lived. In the excitement the fair Estelle beat it.
We was sittin' in the room at the hotel some hours later when the phone rung. A cold female voice asks for "Mister Roberts." The conversation wasn't long and consisted on the Kid's part of the followin':
"Hello . . . yes . . ." (a long silence). "But, my dear girl . . ." (another and longer silence). "Very well, Miss Van Horn . . . good-by!"
With reference to nobody in particular, the Kid bursts out as he slams up the receiver:
"She saw me in the gym—she called me a pork-and-beaner, whatever that may be. She— Good Heavens, her language!—and I thought— Say, can you tell me why I ever thought that girl was— Why, she fooled me completely."
"They run that way sometimes," I says carelessly. "Now, that beak of yours will be O. K. in—"
He's lookin' in the mirror.
"If I hadn't been so careful of my nose, I would have stepped into Kennedy and beaten him sure!" he murmurs, with a half smile. "But I got knocked out saving it and then a sparring partner breaks it in training. A jest of the gods! Well, it's done and indirectly it will be a great thing for me—I've got the badge of my profession now, and at least there's one worry off my mind! Beginning to-day, I'm in this thing heart and soul. I'll take no more foolish precautions—as you say, one can't make catsup without breakin' some tomatoes. Watch me step into them and treat 'em rough now!"
"Sixty-eight cheers!" I grins. "That's just what I figured—I mean, you got the right idea, son!"
"Isn't fate the playful jade?" he says. "Still I almost feel like rewarding that fellow for that punch on the nose—it will probably make me a fortune! What's his name anyhow?"
"Search me!" I says, reachin' for my hat. "Them tramps is usually all 'One-Round' somethin' or other. Let's get some chow."
I didn't think it necessary to tell Kid Roberts that, speakin' of rewards, I had already rewarded the guy which busted his nose before I brung him in to do it, and his name was—well, Heroic Treatment is as good as any, I guess!