# The Leather Pushers (1921, G. P. Putnam's Sons)/Round 11

No matter how nifty he is with his hands, a box fighter without absolute confidence in his ability to weather whatever unexpected hurricane of smashin' wallops he may run into durin' the course of a muss is a box fighter without no good reason for remainin' in a tough game. He may outpoint the clumsy, slow-thinkin' dumb-bells, but the hard-boiled baby which can take it and grimly wait till the openin' comes for one solid smash has the edge on this guy every time. The faint-hearted bird is no good when he's hurt; the real fighter is no good till he's hurt! In other words, the clever but weak-spirited boxer is usually a world beater among the tramps and a tramp among the world beaters.
But confidence, boys and girls, is a heady drink—too much is as dangerous to success as too little. You want to dilute it a bit, reduce its high proof with a little respect for the other guy's chances. Instead of thinkin' that every cuckoo and every situation you're called upon to face in this game called life is a set-up for you, allow leeway for the unreckoned break, the bolt from the blue, the chance that you might slip on the banana peel Fate or be flattened by the thunder-​bolt Chance. Give plenty of play for the unnervin' unexpected and—it won't be!
Like the forbidden hooch, confidence has its deadly, high-powered bootleg imitation in Conceit. This often looks like the original, 100-proof bonded stuff—the difference is in the effect. Confidence steadies the ladder of Fame for you and makes the long climb easier. Conceit hides the holes between the rungs, with the results that you fall through.
And now, girls and boys, havin' got all that off my chest, here's a incident in the sensational career of Kid Roberts, which I would like to place before the jury as a good example of all the above.
Within a month after Kid Roberts has finished elevatin' the deaf-and-dumb drama by makin' that movie in which he knocked everybody cold includin' the exhibitors, we have signed for two bouts under the personal direction of Jimmy McManus, the Tex Rickard of his day. We are to get $150,000 for the first muss no matter what happens, and the same amount for the second—provided the Kid is still heavyweight champion. In other words, if we lose our first start, that's all there is, there isn't any more, as Ethel Barrymore was once heard to remark.
Jack Enright, a two-hundred-pounder from New Orleans, which had flashed to the front by the difficult process of winnin' all his brawls in a couple of rounds, and Marty McCabe, another tough bird, hailin' from Seattle, was the Kid's most persistent challengers. It has been almost a year since the Kid win the title, and in that time he hadn't defended it once. So either Enright or McCabe, both goin' great guns and fightin' ​two or three times a month, looked worth a bet against the champ to all the wise crackers. All but me. I figured the Kid could climb into a ring with the two of 'em and knock 'em both dead!
Followin' several weeks of felonious assault on each other in the newspapers, Enright and McCabe is matched to mingle for twenty frames, the winner to get first crack at Kid Roberts and the world's heavyweight championship. This mêlée attracted no more attention than the invasion of Belgium, and by the time the brawny young men clambered into the ring to toss gloves at each other you couldn't of bought your way inside the clubhouse had your name been Jack Rockefeller.
Me and Kid Roberts was among the important guests, jammed right up against the lower ropes with the workin' sport writers, and after the announcer has lashed the customers into a murderous rage by introducin' everybody but Christopher Columbus, his eyes falls on Kid Roberts. In another minute the Kid is bein' helped through the ropes in his dazzlin dress suit, without which he wouldn't even go to the corner for a newspaper after six p. m.
The announcer got as far as "We have with us to-night—" when the roar killed him off and he quit. The mob had been sittin' for hours waitin' for Enright and McCabe to start in killin' each other. It was on edge and didn't want to meet nobody. Again, Kid Roberts hadn't defended his title for a year, and no champion can hold his popularity which don't fight early and often. The Kid's dress suit hit 'em all wrong, too. They wanted to see him in a business suit—fightin' ​trunks and four-ounce gloves. So that Kid Roberts, standin' there white and hard-faced, heard the thing that every champ from Jem Mace to Jack Dempsey has heard sooner or later from the fickle mob—the long-drawn-out, vicious "Booooo!" drownin' out the cheers of the hysterical.
And, listen—don't think that stuff don't hurt!
This was all new and very painful to the Kid. He'd been used to a thunder of cheers wherever he showed his face. The raspberry was a fruit he had never tasted before, and the darn thing went to his head. Anyways, he stood lookin' out at the roarin' Atlantic of faces for a minute, curled his lip like he was sayin' "You poor fatheads!" and then, walkin' to Enright's corner, picked up his bandaged hand and shook it, politely wishin' him luck. He done the same thing to McCabe. Neither of 'em give him a tumble.
Back beside me, the Kid sneers: "Did you hear those fools jeering me?"
I hunched my shoulders and settled in the seat. "What do you care?" I says. "Now—"
"I'll win my next fight with a punch!" he goes on, smilin' nastily. "Just to show them the difference between a champion and"—he nods at Enright and McCabe—"and those thick-skulled bruisers there!"
"Well, les' forget it now and watch this one," I says, as the handlers begin scramblin' out of the ring. But I was bothered! The Kid had never done no braggin' before. Just the opposite—he'd concede a cripple a chance with him till the thing was over. This stuff was all new. I gazed at him sidewise, and he was lollin' back in his seat watchin' Enright ​and McCabe, one of which he'd have to battle within the next six months, like they was a couple of amateurs in a gym. When he taps a yawn back into his mouth, I got a chill. Before we filed out of that clubhouse I was chilled to the bone!
With a sigh of pure joy, the crowd has leaned forward at the bell, breathin' hard and set for a long, tough battle, with the result a toss-up. A man-killin' slugger against a master boxer. Scheduled for twenty frames, seven or eight rounds of bloodcurdlin' millin' before one of 'em hit the mat seemed a cinch. As they came to the center, McCabe was short with a straight left, and Enright put a wicked right to the head, scrapin' the lace of his glove on the skin as he flicked it away.
"This guy's a dirty scrapper, Kid," I whispers.
"I'll make him clean!" scowls the Kid. "It won't even be a contest when I get him. Look, he's as open as a novice—I'll stop this fellow with the first one I try!"
Again I felt a nervous shiver, but I got no chance for a comeback because the gladiators was goin' to it with a right good will, as the sayin' is. Stung by the mob's yells, McCabe shook himself and begin dancin' around the clumsy Enright, stabbin' him in the face with a long, punishin' left. A few seconds of this and Enright's features is gory and purplin', and one eye has observed the early-closin' law. He missed a couple of vicious right swings, and then, followin' the shriekin' advice of his handlers, he begins to bull his way in to close quarters. This early and prob'ly unlooked-for success made McCabe a bit too ​confident. He let Enright come in and, shiftin' his attack to the body, grinned jovially and pounded the wind with one arm free, the other protectin' himself. As the referee run over to break 'em, Enright's terrible right come up in a half circle, smashed through a openin' and clipped McCabe on the chin. McCabe's knees sagged, and a goofy look spread over his face. The mob's yell rocked the buildin', Quick as a flash, Enright's left flicked up around McCabe's neck, the glove droppin' with a thud just as the pantin' referee shoved 'em apart. McCabe fell with a crash, his face hittin' first.
He was still there at "ten." He was still there half a hour later when the disgusted, grumblin' crowd had milled out of the clubhouse. He was still there two hours after that, when another kind of a boxer—the undertaker—come to take him and his broken neck away from the perspirin' medicos and the dumfounded, white-faced club officials.
"Well," I says to the Kid as we climb into his car on the en route to the hotel, "d'ye still think Enright's a set-up?"
"Why not?" he says. "This tragedy to-night doesn't change my opinion a particle! I grant you Enright can hit—that short right uppercut that literally tore poor McCabe's head off would have felled an ox—but he isn't going to hit me with it, that's all. I've stopped a dozen men who could hit as hard as Enright, haven't I?"
"As hard—yes," I agrees, noddin' my head and gazin' out at the town generally. Then I looked back at him. ​"Kid," I says, "since we first hooked up three years ago till we win the heavyweight title, we have took 'em all on regardless of color, weight, religion, or rep. We have ducked nobody. The only reason we ain't gone to the post with the Rock of Gibraltar is because they is no way to get boxin' gloves on it! I know you can take Enright, and I think you can stop any heavy which ever rubbed a foot in rosin and stop 'em the best day they ever seen. Nevertheless and but, we ain't goin' to fight Enright, and the newspapers can howl their heads off!"
Kid Roberts laughs good-naturedly. "Why—because he killed McCabe?" he asks, like he's humorin' a child.
"Exactly!" I says. "Because he killed McCabe, he likewise murdered his chance at the heavyweight title."
"Why, you fool!" says the Kid, becomin' excited, "do you think a thing like that would ever happen to Enright again—that he'd kill a man with a punch? It was an accident—an unfortunate accident, pure and simple. He—"
"The same kind of a accident as sunrise is!" I butts in. "Look here, just what do you think happened in that ring to-night? Just tell me how you got the knockout punch figured."
"There's nothing difficult about that," says the Kid. "You saw it. They were clinched when Enright landed a right uppercut, McCabe going down as the referee broke them. In falling, the poor devil's head hit a poorly padded bit of ring planking and, as the newspaper boys figure it, his head struck with sufficient ​force to break his neck. Same thing that killed Luther McCarthy, you know. I'll never forget Enright's expression—he was thunderstruck!"
"Thunderstruck, your great-grand-aunt!" I snorts. "He was scared stiff—he thought somebody was wise. The rat!"
"Say, what are you gettin' at?" says the Kid, interested at last.
"This," I says. "Marty McCabe wasn't killed by hittin' his bean on nothin'. He was dead when he started to fall!"
The Kid's face is a movie. "I suppose," he says, with a sarcastical smile—"I suppose that Enright had a revolver concealed in his right glove and shot him—that it?"
"No," I says, "Enright had a rabbit punch concealed in his left glove and cracked his neck!"
That removed the sarcastical smile.
"Now," I continues, watchin' the amused sparkle in this big, handsome kid's gray eyes turn to a murderous steel glint, "if you'll gimme your undivided attention, I'll tell you what come to pass in that ring to-night. In the first place, let us take the rabbit punch. You've seen 'em kill rabbits by holdin' the intelligent animal up by the ears with one hand and hittin' him sharply on the back with the edge of the other, result—one dead rabbit. Now, it ain't a million years ago since this was a perfectly legal way of endin' a box fight, but the rabbit punch has been barred by law in most places and by public opinion in all. Next we have that clinch to-night which ends with the decease of Marty McCabe. Enright, a wild swinger, throws ​that right uppercut into the air without a idea in the wide, wide world where it's goin' to land. Of course, he has hopes. As it happened, it caught McCabe on the chin and dazed him, but Enright, with his head buried under this guy's arm, didn't know where it went. All he knows is that he's licked if he don't get away from the terrific body punishment he was gettin', so he flicks up his left and drops the edge of it sharply on McCabe's neck. That's what finished McCabe—the rabbit punch, Kid, not the right uppercut! You and the newspaper guys is watchin' the fight. Me, I'm watchin' Enright, because you're goin' to fight him and I want to see everything he's got. And that's why we don't box that murderin' yellah dog."
We was at the hotel by this time, but the Kid don't make a crack till we get up to our rooms—just keeps shakin' his head.
"My God," he says to me fin'ly, "when I get out of this game I'll be the happiest man in the world!"
"I'll be the unhappiest," I says, "because I will then have to drive a truck!"
He throws over my shoulder a arm which in three years has turned him in close to a quarter of a million. "You'll quit the ring when I do," he grins, "and come in as an equal partner with father and me in whatever we undertake."
"I'd make a wonderful pillar of Wall Street," I says. "Nope, Kid, your intentions is great, but your judgment is terrible! When you step down I'll get me a battler or two and continue on."
"When I step down," he repeats. "That brings us back to Enright. We have a fifty-thousand-dollar for​feit up to meet the winner of the Enright-McCabe fight, and Enright won—don't forget that."
"That's out, now," I says. "Enright will be on his way up the river in another month and—"
"Look here," he butts in. "I've thought this all over. How can you prove that he deliberately killed McCabe? Apparently nobody saw that rabbit punch but yourself."
That was it—how could I prove it?
"Listen to me," says the Kid after a minute. "There's nothing we can do about this but to keep quiet. We'll go down to-morrow and sign articles with Enright. They say I'm a moving-picture champion, eh? Well, you get me Enright, and I'll make him wish he'd never laid eyes on a boxing glove!"
"Hey, look here," I says, pretendin' to frown. "D'ye know you're gettin' terrible tough lately? I never heard you do no ballyhooin' about yourself before. What's the idea?"
Instantly he's embarrassed as a chorus girl without a telephone.
"Forgive me, old man," he says. "I can imagine how that must sound. I'll need two years in a finishing school after I quit this game before I'll dare attempt a drawing room!" Then he grins: "Say—it wouid be rich if Enright knocked me out, wouldn't it?"
You see what a kid he was.
Well, of course they didn't hold Enright for McCabe's death. Unavoidable accident and the like, and columns was wrote showin' they is eighty-six times ​as many guys killed playin' football each year as they is in the box-fight game. What that proves I don't know. Anyways, in a week we sign to fight twenty frames with Enright for the world's heavyweight championship, and when we're comin' down in the elevator from the newspaper office, Red Samuels, Enright's pilot, says to me: "That was a tough break we got with McCabe—him dyin', eh?"
"Terrible tough," I says. "And if that burn of yours tries to rabbit-punch the champion, you'll get a tougher one. They'll all be watchin' him this time!"
He gets as white as cream, and I whispers somethin' to a newspaper guy. As I'm leavin' the elevator, the sport writer turns to Enright and says: "What's this I hear about you not enterin' a ring without a rabbit for a mascot?"
Sweet Mamma—you should of seen Enright's face!
They is nothin' like givin' the other guy somethin' to worry about. It all helps.
We are due to go in trainin' for Enright within a few weeks, and durin' that time the Kid got no peace from his father and the beautiful Dolores Brewster. Both of 'em seemed to have the idea that Kid Roberts was goin' to his grave if he climbed into a ring with the man-killin' Enright, and they begged him to call it a day and retire a undefeated and still livin' champion. The newspapers helped their arguments a whole lot. They was daily pictures of Enright, now the "sensational young challenger for the world's heavyweight championship." Kid Roberts would be lucky to go three rounds with this baby. He'd been away ​from the ring too long, and bein' in the movies had softened him up. Anybody which could get past the first couple of rounds with him would take him. They never come back, etc.
All this stuff might of got my goat, only I had seen every word of it printed before about the guy Kid Roberts had took the title away from. You've seen it too. It never changes. The only difference is in the names.
The night before we're leavin' town for the long trainin' grind, we have a farewell dinner at Senator Brewster's home on Fifth Avenue. The Sen's igloo would make Buckin'ham Palace look like a stable. The Kid's father is there, lookin' like the king of the world with his fine big handsome head of steel-gray hair and class engraved on him from toe to forehead. Here's a guy which used to make 'em sit up and beg on Ticker Boulevard, and now he's just dubbin' along here and there—and waitin'. Across the long table is Kid Roberts and Dolores Brewster—the collar-ad guy come to life and talkin' to the magazine-cover girl! Every time I look at Dolores the room begins to wiggle and wobble, so I gaze down at my ballroom armor and wonder how in the Hades I ever come to be sittin' in with a swell mob like this.
"It isn't often I try to advise you, Kane," says old man Halliday, "but I do wish you would drop this—eh—this boxing business now. You've done about all you set out to do, and to say that we're all proud of you, boy, is rather weakly expressing it. It isn't necessary for you to continue longer in this beastly—"
​"Yes, Kane, do give it up now!" chimes in Dolores, presentin' the Kid with a glance for which I would of give up a leg. "Please don't fight this—oh, this terrible brute who killed a man! I—"
The Kid grins and holds up his hand. "Just a moment, both of you," he says. "I am to receive three hundred thousand dollars—pardon the vulgar mention of money, but in my case it is obviously the incentive—for engaging in two bouts, the first of which is with this Enright fellow. I am taking no more risk—perhaps less—with him than I have in the other bouts I've engaged in. The three hundred thousand means a fair start back for father and"—he smiles at Dolores—"and at least that you may have a maid, a modest shopping account, a—"
"Look here, son," interrupts old man Halliday, "I appreciate the force of your argument, but I do not want my son killed to make a—well, to make a Roman Halliday, one might say!"
"Good heavens, dad, what an atrocious pun!" says the Kid. "Consider your case lost!"
"You know it will not make any difference to me whether or not we have—I mean, I have servants or a shopping account, or—or anything," says Dolores, whose old man has six dollars for every salmon in the Columbia River, "I'd love to make my own gowns and cook and—and everything!"
"Ha, ha, ha, ha!" remarks her father, old Senator Brewster. "And yet they say prohibition has removed all the humor from dinner parties!"
Old man Halliday tries his luck again.
"At least, Kane," he says—"at least you might hold ​off for a bit—postpone this bout with Enright. If the break comes in Mexicali Oil—you recall that stock I spoke to you about the other day?—if, as I say, the break comes, we may not need your three hundred thousand so imperatively."
"Dad," says the Kid, still grinnin', "just how much money have you put in Mexicali Oil?"
"About every penny I possess," says the old man, calmly knockin' the ash off his cigar.
The Kid throws up both hands and makes a face. "You're incurable, dad," he says, pretendin' to be sore—and then he turns and laughs to the others. "Now do you see how necessary it is for me to earn that three hundred thousand? Dad will have us both broke again in a couple of days!" We've all got up from the table by this time and the Kid throws his arm affectionately around his father's shoulders. "Father," he says with a wink, "I'm going to invest my end of the purse for this fight in a stock that in the matter of returns will make your wildest plunges of the old days seem tame. I expect at least three to one for my original investment!"
"What is the stock called?" asks the old man. "I'll look it—"
"You won't find this listed anywhere!" the Kid shuts him off. "Now, dad, don't ask questions. Wall Street is your game, mine is boxing—temporarily at least. You stick to your operations and I'll stick to mine, and after I've fought Enright we'll see who's ahead!"
The old man nods. "Very well, Kane," he says, "I won't interfere again."
But he did.
​Well, all this stock business and the like was Russian to me, and I was glad when Senator Brewster made the crack that all us strong men go into the library for coffee and a smoke, leavin' the Kid and Dolores to play tiddledywinks or the etc., as the Kid was blowin' for his trainin' quarters the next day and they might not get a chance for another game for some time. As the hour come to leave, I am greatly surprised to see that the lovely Dolores's face shows signs of the weeps as she comes to the door with me and Kid Roberts, sendin' the butler away. She's still pleadin' with the Kid to pass up Enright.
"Now, dear, you must stop worrying," says the Kid, pattin' a ivory and satin shoulder. "I never felt more confident of victory in my life than I do regarding this bout! You've heard your father and mine talk until you have the idea that this Enright is some sort of superbrute—a human gorilla who will tear me to pieces. Nonsense! I'll tell you something, Dolores, to set your fears at rest. I meant to keep this as a surprise, and I don't want you to tell father or the Senator. I'm so sure that I will defeat Enright without extending myself that I am going to wager every penny of my end of the purse—$150,000—that I will win inside of six rounds! I expect to get odds of three or four to one. That's the investment I had in mind when I told father I was plunging in a stock that would make his Mexicali Oil seem tame. Would I do that—risk everything—if I had the slightest doubt as to the outcome?"
I'm sorry, boys and girls, but I can't tell you what Dolores said, because I nearly broke my neck staggerin' ​down the steps in a swoon! Bettin' on the round with a tough nut like Enright, hey? Woof!
The minute old man Halliday has said good night. After we get to the hotel, I dragged the Kid in my room and shut the door.
"I ain't no keyhole hound," I says, "but bein' on the steps up at the house like I was just now, I heard you tell Miss Brewster you was goin' to bet your end of the Enright purse that you'll stop this guy in six rounds."
"Well, keep it quiet," he says after lookin' at me for a minute. "I don't want my father to know anything about it—yet."
"You don't want—you don't mean to tell me you actually intend makin' a sucker bet like that, do you?" I gasps.
"I was never more in earnest!" he says, bangin' his fist down on the bureau. "The minute you collect our money, three days or whatever it is before the fight, you get it down—you'll know where—on me to win by a knockout inside of six rounds. I want every cent of it covered when I step into the ring!"
"A hundred and fifty grands!" I breathed. "You're cuckoo!"
"Not at all," he says impatiently. "Good Lord, I never was surrounded by so many crape hangers in my life! After this fight I expect to have something like half a million dollars, for I'll stop Enright in a couple of rounds as sure as my name is Halliday! Or maybe," he adds, suddenly turnin' a hard stare on me—"maybe you think I won't?"
​"Look here," I says. "You'll win on the bit, but, Kid, don't try to call the round on this guy; don't do it! For one thing, he'll be in there to stay, and they's nothin' in the world harder to stop than a tough tramp which won't try—won't open up, but just dogs it to keep on his feet for a certain number of frames. He'll curl up in a knot and you'll break your hands on his head—you'll never see his jaw from the first bell! If you got to bet at all, bet ten grands—ten thousand bucks, that's—"
"I'll bet it all—minus yours if you want your share taken out first!" he interrupts coldly. "Your confidence in me is certainly encouraging. Just figure how much you have coming, and—"
"Oh, shoot the piece as far as I'm concerned," I says. "You know I'm with you whether school keeps or not. But, look here, we both know you'll murder this goof, but suppose you can't knock him stiff for seven rounds, even—why, you're broke, ain't you? Ain't you slipped your old man the rest of your roll?"
"Yes," he says. "I have at this minute about five thousand dollars. The rest I've given father, and he has it tied up in that oil stock—which means that's gone! It's all or nothing this time. I'll show them whether or not I'm through as a fighter—I'll step out of that ring still champion and worth half a million, or just a heavyweight boxer without a penny, one or the other. Eh—good night!"
With that he slams out of the room.
The next afternoon we have two callers before train time. One is Jimmy McManus, the promoter. After ​hemmin' and hawin' all over the place, he comes out flat with a offer of a $25,000 bonus for us if we let Enright stay fifteen rounds so's the movin pictures of the muss will be worth somethin'. The newspaper guff about the Kid bein' through hadn't fooled Jimmy. Kid Roberts escorts James to the door politely and tells him to give his twenty-five thousand fish to the Red Cross, because he is goin' to do his best to stop Enright with a punch, and to Hades with the pictures.
The second caller made James McManus and his $25,000 bribe look like a piker. It was no less than Senator Brewster himself. The Kid apologizes for goin' right on with his packin', explainin' that we got but a scant forty minutes to catch a train. The Sen clears his throat a couple of times, gives me a four-dollar cigar, and says maybe we ain't goin' to catch a train.
"I'm afraid I don't understand, Senator," says the Kid, lookin' up quickly from his suit case. "There's nothing wrong, is there? Dolores—"
"Nothing wrong, no," grunts the Senator, puffin' smoke heavy. "Look here, Kane—according to your own statemient, the only reason you're going through with this Enright fight, and the one after that, is because of the $300,000 involved so that you can quit the ring with a competence, that right?"
"Exactly!" says the Kid, slammin' shut the suit case.
"Well, Kane," says the Senator. "Eh—I've had a conference with Dolores, and as you probably know she's all cut up over this thing of you going on fighting—eh—especially this Enright bout. You know, my ​boy, all champions must go down to defeat sooner or—"
"Mr. Brewster—please—we've gone all into that, and my train—" The Kid breaks off, frownin'.
"Oh, damn the train!" bursts out the Sen. "See here, Kane, step out now—retire from the ring as you are, an undefeated champion, cancel this Enright bout and—and I'll make you and Dolores a wedding present of $300,000, the exact amount you—"
Somethin' in the Kid's face must of stopped him because he broke off short. The Kid's eyebrows has come together in a hard, straight line, but in a instant he's grinnin'.
"Senator," he says, "I know you wouldn't deliberately insult me for anything in the world. Eh—I can see you're a trifle wrought up and—oh, get thee behind me, Satan!" he winds up, gives the Sen's hand a warm shake, grabs his suit case and rushes for the door. "Come on!" he calls to me (I'm in a trance). "Good-by, Senator, and good luck—back in a month!"
Passin' up a total of $325,000 in less than a hour without turnin' a hair! Deliberately passin' it up and takin' a chance of gettin' his head beat off—for nothin' if he loses his bet, instead.
Woof—tie these college guys!
Accordin' to our contracts, both us and Enright has got to wind up trainin' near the scene of the battle. Me and Kid Roberts come down from the Maine woods and took our stand at Long Branch, N. J., where we'd trained for many's the brawl. The next day the sport writers and camera guys swoops down on us in droves, fresh from Enright's camp. They ​stuck around and watched the Kid work out with Dynamite Jackson and a couple other handlers, shook their heads, breezed back to New York, and predicted a new heavyweight champion when Kid Roberts and Jack Enright went to the post. The Kid was slow, fat, and wind-broke. Enright, in wonderful condition, was murderin' his sparrin' partners, etc., and so forth.
I don't know nothin' about how Enright was. I never visit no rival camps before a fight, but I do know that Kid Roberts was far from the young man which win the world's heavyweight championship in three rounds, just one year before! For the first time since I'd been his pilot I couldn't do nothin' with him. He went to bed and got up when he felt like it, eat what he wanted, clowned his gym workouts, and did his road work in a automobile. To all of my threats and pleadin's he answered that he wasn't goin' through no weary trainin' grind for a scrap which wouldn't last over a couple of rounds.
About a week before the quarrel I suddenly got word from no less than Dolores Brewster that she's got to see me at once on a matter of life and death connected with the fight. Also, I am not to let the Kid know about her message.
The most beautiful representative of the adjoinin' sex that I, you, or anybody else ever seen is much excited. The first thing she wants to know is whether or not the Kid is still goin' to bet his end of the purse that he'll flatten Enright in six rounds. "When does he get this money?" she wants to know.
"I collect it," I says, "three days before we step into the ring.
​"Splendid," says Dolores, lookin' greatly relieved about somethin'. Then she puts everything she's got on a smile, curls a wicked eyelash at me, pulls her chair closer, and whispers: "Will you do something for me if it—if it means the happiness of Kane and myself?"
"Lady," I says, a bit dizzy, "I will start by pushin' over the Woolworth Buildin', if that will be of any help!"
"You can do more than that, if you will," she says, thrillin'ly and throws the smile into high. "Listen!"
I listened. I listened for half a hour, argued for twenty minutes of the other half, and spent the last ten minutes of that hour half promisin' to do the slight favor she asked, knowin' full well that the best I could hope to get out of it was the worst of it.
Dolores had doped out that if Kid Roberts failed to stop Enright within six rounds he would lose his hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar bet and be broke. If he went broke, he would be forced to keep on fightin' for another bank roll instead of quittin' the ring and settlin' down with her as advertised. Therefore she wanted me to bring her our end of the purse instead of bettin' it for the Kid when I collected it. If the Kid stopped Enright in a round or two and then looked to me for his winnin's, Dolores would take all the responsibility and blame, figurin' that the Kid loved her enough for her to get away with murder—which he undoubtedly did. If, on the other hand, the Kid failed to knock Enright dead in the stipulated time, why, he'd still have his $150,000, which would certainly be a pleasant surprise.
​I says I would think it over, and that's what I did, with the results that a couple of days afterward I called upon the charmin' Dolores with a mysterious-lookin' and bulgin' little black satchel in my hand, like the kind usually wore by bank messengers. I laid it on the table in front of her without a word and, hearin' footsteps approachin' the room, Dolores shoves the bag into a little wall safe, swiftly spins the combination, and writes me a receipt for $150,000. That windin' up the business of the meetin', I took the air.
At the risk of losin' my lady readers, I have got to say that they was nothin' in that satchel I give Dolores but newspapers. I had figured the thing about like this—if I failed to bet the $150,000 and the Kid did stop Enright in six rounds, he would look to me to hand him back his winnin's at three to one or better. Then would come the heavy crash! And whilst he'd prob'ly forgive Dolores, he would never under no circumstances forgive me. On the other hand, if I bet it and he lost, we'd still be friends because I'd only be carryin' out his orders. On top of all this, they was always the chance that Kid Roberts would stop Enright in a round and by not bettin' his dough for him I'd be gippin' out of a fortune the whitest guy which ever lived.
To absolutely refuse to give Dolores the jack might bring her to the camp to upset the Kid on the eve of the fight, so I played safe and took the hundred and fifty thousand fish down to Wall Street—the best place to handle a bet of that size on anything.
​I stopped in old man Halliday's office to leave the dough with him whilst I scouted around for the sportin' men.
"Well," he says, suddenly, "perhaps I may be of service. There appears to be a great deal of interest in the fight down here—I've heard talk of large wagers in several offices. Maybe I could place the money with less difficulty than yourself and—"
"Say—that would be great!" I butts in. "If you'll take the thing off my hands, I'll be tickled silly. Besides, it'll look better—you layin' the jack instead of me. If I go around bettin' any such money as this that the fight won't go six rounds, the wisenheimers is liable to think the thing's framed."
He nods and, puttin' the sugar into his safe, wrote me a receipt for it. I sure had plenty of receipts that day for $150,000!
When I got back to the camp, the Kid is stretched out on a sofa readin' a newspaper. The first thing he says is did I get his money down. I says I have gave it to a Wall Street bettin' commissioner to place the way he told me, and he says that's fine. Then he calls me over and shows me the paper.
"As I expected," he says grimly, "the bottom has fallen out of Mexicali Oil—remember, that's the stock my father has all his capital in?—so he's whipped again! Poor dad," he goes on pityin'ly, "he's too old now to match his wits against those wolves. The steeltrap brain is rusted! I wish I had made him sell out and bet his money with mine." He jumps up. "Well," he laughs, "we'll have plenty of money after this fight! But I'm sorry for dad. This thing must have been an ​awful shock to his pride." He nods to the paper. "Poor old pater—they never come back!"
Well, fin'ly the night comes when we shoulder our ways down a aisle of close-packed, yellin', fight-mad fans and climb through the ropes opposite Monsieur Jack Enright (which the sport writers has now christened "Killer" Enright). We continued right on over to his corner and examined his bandages, and Enright kept his eyes on the floor, scowlin' and very serious.
"Cheer up, it's all fun!" I says to him, after his goat. The sport writers laughed, and the telegraph instruments ticked that down into history.
"We come here to fight—not talk!" snarls Enright's manager.
"You'll get what you come for, guy!" I says. "And I have also told the sport writers all about that rabbit—punch of yours, Enright, so watch your step for the few minutes you'll be in here!"
And then we left him.
They was little time wasted in fussin' around. The champ got a fair hand when he was introduced—when it come Enright's turn they rocked the buildin' with cheers. The men posed for a couple of flashlights, and then—the bell.
The first round wasn't a minute old before the thickest dumb-bell in the abattoir knew that Kid Roberts had gone back eighty-seven miles and that Enright had the chance of his lifetime if he kept his head. The crowd was with the "Killer" almost to a man; they wanted to see a new champion made. They booed ​and razzed every miss of the Kid's and cheered themselves hoarse at Enright's every lead. They shrieked and howled for Enright to muss the Kid up, murder him, knock him dead, goal the big stiff!
Now, all of this was new to the highly sensitive and proud-spirited Kid Roberts. It got under his skin, murdered his usual cool judgment and perfect timin'. He was carryin' at least twelve pounds excess baggage around his waist line, he was slow, and his anxiety to finish Enright swiftly and cop the heavy bet, added to the hostile attitude of the mob, made him careless and wild. The results of all this was that Enright took the first three rounds by a wide margin, usin' a wicked right hook to the face and poundin' the body with both hands at close quarters with deadly effect.
The Kid rushed out to end matters in the fourth round and unluckily run into a right smash to the head that drove him against the ropes, goofy. The mob went crazy, yellin' for Enright to finish him and, still dazed, the Kid begin tradin' wallops with one of the hardest hitters that ever stepped into a ring. It was easy to see that Enright carried the heaviest guns; and after he drove two murderous smashes to the heart, I yelled for the Kid to clinch and hang on till the bell. But Kid Roberts was champion, and with the idiotical pride that's licked many's the champ before him, he shook his head and stood toe to toe with Enright, givin' swing for swing and hook for hook. Again I bellered for the Kid to box Enright, which knew nothin', and not to slug with him, and this time he took my advice as his head grew clearer. He began stabbin' Enright's ​face with his long, snappy left and crossin' his right to the head. Enright had enough of this inside a minute, and was hangin' on at the bell, lookin' wildly to his corner for advice. Nevertheless, the crowd cheered him to the echo when he floundered to his corner and booed the Kid as heartily when he sunk down wearily on his stool.
Four rounds and Enright still on his feet and a hundred and fifty thousand berries gone if he stays two more!
Round Five was tame compared to the others. Actin' on my advice, Kid Roberts saved his strength for the final effort in the sixth round and made no attempt to carry the battle to Enright. Payin' no attention to the frantic howls of the mob to open up and take a chance, the champ danced lightly around the clumsy Enright, pepperin' him with left jabs and occasionally sinkin' a torrid right to the wind, clinchin' when the goin' got rough. They was wrapped in a fond embrace on the ropes at the bell.
The sixth round was one that will be recalled by anybody which was there when they have forgot their first names! The sound of the gong hadn't quite died out when the Kid was on Enright like a famished tiger. He ripped a left and right to the face, drawin' the blood in a stream and, as Enright vainly tried to dive into a clinch, the champ switched his attack to the body and soon had Enright's side a large blotch of crimson. Enright begin swingin' wildly, when a left hook caught him square on the button and he fell in a heap. He was so badly dazed he never waited for no count but come springin' up mechanically, both arms ​curled protectin'ly around his jaw. It would of been a easy matter for the Kid to step aside and measure him, but he lost his head and wasted a dozen haymakers on Enright's neck and shoulders.
The crowd was now all composed of lunatics, and I died a million deaths as the seconds slipped by with Enright still on his feet and the entire bank roll dependin' on a knockout in this round.
Enright, seemin'ly gettin' stronger on punishment, followed the advice from his corner and stepped into the Kid, workin' both hands fast. Again the Kid dropped him, with a glancin' right this time, and again Enright bounced up, after a count of four. Tough? They didn't make 'em any tougher than this baby! Both landed hard rights to the head and then the Kid was short with a left to the jaw. Enright put a wicked right to the body and brought a fresh roar from the crowd when he doubled the Kid up with a left smash to the same place. I had a watch in my hand and I yelled to the Kid that they's less than a minute to go and to knock Enright dead or we're broke. He shook himself desperately and slammed Enright all over the ring, but this guy curls up, bends almost to the floor, leaves nothin' uncovered and takes it. His idea now was to weather the storm and stick out the round—nothin' more. Crazy with the thoughts of what he was losin', the Kid deliberately stepped away, droppin' his hands to lead Enright on. Enright's head peeped over his bent arm and like a flash the Kid shot a terrific right to the jaw, droppin' him like a poled ox. And the very instant that big tramp hit the floor for a sure knockout, the bell rung, endin' the sixth round ​and endin' Kid Roberts's hundred and fifty thousand bucks! The gong had saved Enright—he'd stayed the six rounds.
Well, it was a funeral in our corner as the Kid slowly slumped down on his stool and bent his battered head in his hands. They was nothin' for me to say—nothin' to do but pat the Kid on his quiverin' back and whisper to him like you do to a baby or your girl, as the handlers frantically worked over him. After all his struggles to pile up a roll, he ain't got a nickel. Havin' bet and lost his end of the purse, he's fightin' Enright for nothin' from now on. His old man has evidently been cleaned out by the bust and Dolores Brewster is now out of reach till he can climb back again.
"Listen, Kid!" I pants in his ear. "Stall it out with this guy till the fifteenth anyways, and maybe I can bull McManus into thinkin' we deliberately let Enright stay for the pictures—see? Maybe I can make him give us that twenty-five grand bonus he offered, and we'll have that anyways! Hang on to him till you're stronger and—"
The Kid looks up for the first time, like a guy just comin' out of ether. His glassy eyes swings around on the mob which is still poundin' their seats and howlin' for Enright to knock him dead.
"I'm not thinking how long I can stay," he says in a husky snarl, "I'm thinking how quick I can win! I was a fool and, like all fools, I've paid the price—lost everything—may lose my championship too. Stay fifteen rounds? I can't go two more rounds! I've punched myself out on this fellow—no condition—should have trained—knew it all—" His head swings up, and he ​glares over at Enright's corner with his one good eye. "Mister Enright," he mutters, "you represent Fate! I've knocked you down a couple of times and you're still there—grinning at me. Well, here goes for my last try against you—there will only be one of us when the bell rings for the end of this—"
The gong cut him off.
Sensin' the end, the mob is standin' on their seats when the men come together. Enright missed a left swing, but connected with a right that bent the Kid's already tremblin' knees and laid his cheek open a good four inches—the ensuin' gore makin' it look much worse. This would of wound it up for a guy with less heart than the Kid, but it acted on the champ like a tonic. He was hurt, busted, and, for the first time durin' the muss—mad. Before, he'd only been anxious to end it quick to win his bet, now he wanted Enright's heart! He knew he only had one flurry, one flash left in his tired, achin' body, and he sailed in to kill or get killed. He rushed Enright to the ropes and, pinnin' him there, drove a smashin' left to the wind with a "plunk" that was heard in the last row.
A minute before the mob had been callin' the Kid a bum, now they are with him to a man because he's out in front. Such is life in the prize ring and—anything else! On the break, Enright swung a wild haymaker that landed high on the Kid's head, but that was the Killer's last effort. As he rushed in, both hands swingin' wildly, the Kid stepped to one side and hooked his right flush to the jaw, tumblin' Enright to the canvas. Enright's handlers yelled for him to stay down, but he shook his head and staggered to his feet. The ​fast weakenin' Kid measured him with a left and then crashed him to the mat with another right hook. Enright never moved a muscle whilst he was counted out, the Kid standin' over him lookin' at the hysterical crowd, which is now tellin' each other at the top of their voices that he's the greatest champion that ever lived.
We are still world's heavyweight champion—but we ain't got a nickel!
Dolores and Senator Brewster is at the hotel when we get back, and when I seen her with the satchel I had give her in her hand I turned pale. The Kid shakes the Senator's hand, kisses Dolores, apologizes for his battered appearance, like that was of any importance, and then he begins to tell her he ain't got a dime in the world.
"Yes, you have, Kane dear," butts in Dolores, her eyes shinin', "I saved it for you—your hundred and fifty thousand is right here!" And she puts the satchel on a table.
Woof! Can you imagine my sensations right then? I am wonderin' which window I'll leap out of when Dolores opens that bag and sees nothin' but newspapers. The Kid looks kind of bewildered as Dolores begins strugglin' with the catch on the satchel.
"Just a minute, Miss Brewster," I says in a kind of muffled voice, steppin' forward. "Don't open that bag—it—eh—they ain't a nickel in it!"
And then, whilst the Kid looked from Dolores to me, his suddenly hardened features gradually softenin' and her usually soft eyes gradually hardenin', I told ​'em how I had fooled Dolores and bet the Kid's money like he told me. How I'd met his old man in his oifice by chance and gave him the entire roll to bet that the Kid would stop Enright in six rounds. I wave old man Halliday's receipt for the jack at the busted Kid.
Nobody said nothin' for a minute—the toughest sixty seconds I ever spent in my life! Then Dolores spoke, her eyes scorchin' me. "Oh!" she kind of flung at me. "And I trusted you!"
Never in her life will that girl believe I'm not crooked!
"No!" says the Kid suddenly, throwin' an arm around me. "You must not misjudge him, Dolores, you must not be angry. I'd stake my life on this man's honesty—frequently have—and he did right! He followed my instructions to the letter—"
A knock on the door interrupted him, and old man Halliday walks in, grabs the Kid and they hug each other. "Still champion!" says the old man, his chest out a extry foot.
"Still champion, dad!" smiles the Kid. "But we're back about four years. I'm penniless, as you probably know. Of course, you placed the money?"
"Yes," says the old man, "I placed it—I placed it in Mexicali Oil and, as for being penniless—" He laughs, kinda hysterically. "You're rather hard to please, Kane. I should say, roughly, that at this minute you're worth half a million!"
"Holy mackerel!" I yells and fell into a chair. This stuff is tough on the heart! The rest seemec speechless.
​"But—but—" stammers the white-faced Kid, "the bottom fell out of Mexicali Oil—I saw it in the newspapers—"
"Some days ago, of course," beams the old man. "I—ah—we attended to that, and that's when I bought—with your heaven-sent hundred and fifty thousand! The money was brought to me to wager for you and, taking your advice, I stuck to my own game. The long-promised gusher was brought in this morning and when I ceased operations this afternoon I held certified checks to the tune of some four hundred and eighty thousand dollars and—well, have you seen this?"
He hauls a extry from his pocket, and on the front page in large type it says:
J. A. Halliday Comes Back! Ex-Wizard of Wall Street Wins Fortune in Oil. Wild Scenes on Curb!
In a adjoining column is:
Roberts Stops Enright in Seventh.
"Well," says the Kid, kinda dazed, "all this is too much for me—I'm—I'm bewildered!" He grabs his father's hands and his eyes is very damp. "Dad," he says, "I—you make me feel—eh—futile! The old master, eh?" He straightens up and looks from one to the other of us. "You must excuse me," he apologizes, "I'm a bit used up. I've just come through ​the hardest battle of my career, and I took a lot of punishment—but—I'm still champion!"
The old man nods and picks up the paper, gazin' at the glarin' headlines.
"Now that," he says, with the grin of a kid, "that is exactly the way I feel!"
The bell.