# The Leather Pushers (1921, G. P. Putnam's Sons)/Round 10

There's prob'ly no other competition in the world, sportin' or otherwise, which draws a human gatherin' as miscellaneous and interestin' as a prize-fight crowd. Whilst waitin' for the gladiators to enter the bull pen the next time you go to a mill, sit back and look around at the customers, and you'll find every trade, art, gift, science, business, profession, sex, and color represented by one member at the least. Bankers and bricklayers, doctors and dock hands, millionaires and mechanics, accountants and actors, etc and etc., jostle, kid, and argue each other purple in the face over the merits of their respective favorites.
To a guy which thinks the Human Race is easily as excitin' as the one with the chariots in "Ben Hur," the crowd at a box fight is generally worth the price of admission whether the bouts themselves is quiet or riots. Taken as a mass, the fans is always with the boy which is winnin' unless his charmin' vis and vis is a large local favorite or a unusual glutton for punishment. The bird which can hit like nitroglycerine and the tough baby which adores chastisement is the twin gods of the mob. The remarkably clever but light-tappin' boxer, flittin' about the ring ​like one of them classical dancers to avoid the gruel, and the faint-hearted or glass-jawed bimbo which can't take it and dives into a clinch when shook up, is the pair the gang wants assassinated, and them two gets the raspberry from the minute they're introduced to the attendance till they sneak or are carried from the ring.
The quaint custom of givin' the raspberry to a unpopular boxer prob'ly originated at the ringside of the One Round David-Knockout Goliath battle, which terminated in Dave knockin' his heavier opponent's head off and thereby becomin' one of the first world's champion scrappers. For the benefit of them which thinks of the raspberry merely as a fruit, I will explain that in our set the term "raspberry" means a continual uproar of violent, insultin', uncalled for, vociferous vocal abuse. It's the nightmare of the high-strung, inexperienced fighter, and, made nasty and incessant enough, will shake the nerves of the hardest boiled veteran. It's caused scores of green kids to lose heart and go down to defeat before guys they could of knocked stiff with the greatest of ease on a vacant lot. When you have stopped a terrific right cross with your features, and drag yourself up off the canvas tryin' to peer through the crimson cascade that's drenchin' 'em, it don't assist you a particle to hear a few thousand maniacs callin' you a big burn and implorin' the other guy to murder you!
With all its faults, however, the typical American fight crowd is rarely anything more vicious than a gang of noisy, overgrown kids out havin' some fun. As a whole, it's extremely fair in its judgment. If it has ​the human weakness of trailin' with the winner, it's also quick to resent unfair tactics and will razz its local favorite with as much enthusiasm as it will the visitin' boxer at the first sign of foul fightin', No matter how slovenly a exhibition a novice may put up, or how loudly the mob has jeered him whilst he was in there tryin', he's sure of a warm and rousin' send-off when he leaves the ring if he's showed heart enough to stand up to his beatin' like a he-man. And with all its bedlam of "Knock him kickin', kid!" "Go on, you big dumb-bell, put him out!" etc., the gang is a soft-hearted bunch underneath. A appeal for funds for any cause in the wide, wide world made from the ring by the hoarse-voiced announcer will bring a shower of dough from all parts of the house without hesitation or question, as all our standard charities know.
You can make a interestin' study of character by lookin' over the different types around you durin' a particularly excitin' scrap. There's the guys which flinches mechanically with every thuddin' wallop that lands on the battlers, and the ones which snarlin'ly grits their teeth and shoves out their own jaw without hardly knowin' it when one of the fighters stops one with his chin; the boys which goes cuckoo and is hoarse for days afterward, and the cold-eyed babies which don't bat a eye or let a peep out of 'em no matter how thrillin' the thing gets. The blown-in-theflask fan, however, is the bird which gets as close to the ring as his bank roll will take him, beams on one and all, sits back with a sigh of undiluted joy and bawls: "Go on, you tramps, git mad and knock each other out. Less see somethin' fall!"
​To this bozo anything short of a murder is a burn fight. He craves blood and knockdowns, or his money back. Caterin' to this type of guy's peculiar and exactin' taste almost cost Kid Roberts the world's heavyweight championship.
It seems to be a iron-bound rule in the modern American prize ring that a new heavyweight champ be allowed at least a year to stall in before defendin' his title, durin' which time he can grab off slews of sugar by appearin' on the stage and in the movies without a single moan from the only guys in a position to make him fight, to the i. e., the sport writers. Title holders in every other class has got to go to the post regularly every couple of months against a logical contender, or be roasted a rich brown in the newspapers as "cheese champions," and the etc., but the reignin' emperor of all the heavies is always apparently typewriter proof.
In the case of Kid Roberts, how the so ever, they was really no heavy in sight at the time he win the title which could of gave him as much as a brick workout. He'd flattened all the good ones on his way to the top, and it was nearly a year later before we signed to step twenty frames with Jack Enright, then a sensational newcomer. This was the first of the only two bouts the Kid ever fought as champion and his next to final battle in the ring. Meanwhile, we assassinated time by givin' exhibitions with the circus I spoke of before and appearin' in a movie at Loose Angeles, Califilmia, for more large gobs of jack. I'll tell you about the Kid's last two brawls the next time ​we get together—this evenin's talk will be devoted to his one amazin' adventure as a movie hero.
Movie cameras shootin' at the ringside of a regular prize fight, by the way, has never made no hit with the battlers, though, of course, the sugar they get therefrom has. The presence of the camera filmin' a man's every move has a tendency to make him want to pose, and, caught off guard for a fatal second as a result, he may be knocked stiff.
On the ways out to the State where all the good little actors hope to go, the streets bein' paved with gold and all the angels wavin' movie contracts, me and the Kid is kept supplied with giggles by Knockout Burns, a tough old war horse which I brung along to keep the champion in condition. It was the first time Knockout had ever rode in a Pullman where the doors was on each end instead of the sides, and he spent most of his time on the observation platform markin' off the various slabs on his time-table as we breezed through 'em, remarkin' that like as not the engineer would hold a couple of these burgs out on him if he didn't check them up. The first night he crawled in to his upper berth he laid awake two hours waitin' for a Chink to come along with the hop layout he figured went with it, and, not bein' able to sleep, he spent the night heavin' the gallopin' dominoes with the porters, winnin' $180 by daylight. In the diner, when the waiter tells him his oysters is out in the kitchen gettin' stewed, Knockout puts forty grouches in good humor by askin' is they any objection to him goin' out in the kitchen and gettin' stewed with 'em. Goin' through Arizona, the Kid remarks that ​we're skirtin' the largest copper State, and Knockout says he always thought the largest coppers come from Ireland. And when we hissed through Yaggy, Kansas, this dumb-bell claims that they ain't no place in the world actually had a handle like that, but that's prob'ly the name the town fights under.
This guy win the cement hairbrush, hey?
When we fin'ly docked at the Land of Flowers and Sunshine, Sweet Mamma, how the rain was comin' down! We swum out to a taxi and Knockout Burns points out the cloudburst to the guy at the wheel, askin' him if this was a sample of the delicious climate which all the Californians raves about when they come East for a slummin' trip. The chauffeur shakes six gallons of rain out of his hat and looks up at the sky whilst the drops bounce off his face. "Hump!" he remarks. "Darned if we ain't havin' a high fog!"
Bloodshed was avoided by throwin' Knockout into the back of the cab and slammin' the door.
But it was all different the followin' morn, and as we rolled out to Hollywood in the beautiful warm sunshine and the comely tourin' car the movie company sent to the hotel after us, passin' through rows of shelterin' palms, bloomin' flowers, dumfounded tourists which has never been nowheres, but which repeats over and over: "I never seen nothin' like this in Europe!" and dazzlin' movie queens which looks even better off the screen—well, even the hard-boiled Knockout Burns leans back in the cushions and gasps: "Say, this slab's a dude of a burg, hey?"
Fin'ly we get to the studio, and they is a good-sized ​mob on hand to lamp the world's champion. As outside the ring, Kid Roberts looked like anything in the world but a prize fighter, half the witnesses pegged Knockout Burns for the title holder, and this big bozo stood up in the car and took eight bows before I yanked him down in the seat. We hold a short reception, and then over comes a little guy entitled Cuthbert Van Dyke, whose name I hear is really Luther O'Brien and who's knowed around the lot as "Joe." He walks right up to Knockout Burns and grabs his hand. "Well, well, well," he says. "This is certainly a treat. So this is the famous Kid Roberts, eh? Well, well, well! How d'ye like California?"
"Fried!" says Knockout with a goofy grin. "What time does Charlie Chaplin come to work?"
At this critical point, whilst the hysterics is at their height and Van Dyke's face is redder than fifty cents' worth of tomatoes, Kid Roberts steps into the breeches and introduces us all around. Van Dyke turns out to be the guy which is goin' to direct the Kid's movie, and he seems dumfounded at the way the boy handles the President's english, and likewise because the champ looks and acts like he was more used to a dress suit than fightin' trunks. Amongst the others which shares our charmin' director's surprise is Nada Nice, which is carded to be the Kid's leadin' lady in the forthcomin' thriller. The fair Nada had evidently expected to be at the loss how to put a world's champion prize fighter at his ease, but before they talked ten minutes Kid Roberts—late of Yale and Fifth Avenue—was tryin' to make Nada feel comfortable.
They is not the slightest doubt that Nada Nice was ​all her name suggested. Yes, boys and girls, Nada was a pulse quickener of the first water, and it was comical to watch Knockout Burns, lockjawed for once, gazin' at her with his mouth as open as a Memphis crap game and his eyes a foot from his head. The beauteous damsel favored the battle-scarred: Knockout with a scornful quirk of a too red lip, and trained her heavy guns on Kid Roberts, which never give her a tumble, thereby allowin' Nada to enjoy a sensation she prob'ly hadn't had since she was fourteen years old. You see, the Kid was signed up for all of it with Dolores, which could of spotted Venus five cans of complexion cream and then made the noted model look like a overworked dishwasher! If you owned the Pacific Ocean, would you get a thrill out of gazin' upon a glass of water? Well, that was the Kid's position—get me?
How the so ever, in spite of the fact that Kid Roberts showed no indication of gettin' chills and fever from watchin' Nada, I felt they was a bust comin' before we got through elevatin' the deaf and dumb drama. I knew Nada wouldn't be happy till the handsome world's champion got lured into gettin' personal so's she could bawl him out, and thus get revenge for him askin' her what she thought of Wagner's Rheingold and tzappin' her into answerin' that she had favored Budweiser before Keeley went crazy and cured the entire country. Then again, Knockout Burns was overboard over her and would have to be disposed of, and I had caught Van Dyke frownin' heartily at Nada every time she tried out a grin on the Kid. On the top of all this, they was a ​chance of Dolores Brewster herself comin' to California to spend the winter, and she was just broad-minded enough to go up in the air sixty-four miles the first time she seen the Kid and Nada clinched, movie or no movie! So you can see that things was set for a jam, and said jam was had, but it was a twist which had never entered my dome which caused it.
Well, after we have decided to adjourn the mutual admiration society, we trip over to Van Dyke's office for the purposes of havin' the scenario of the Kid's movie read at us. The picture is called "The Knockout," and they is apparently everything in it but the battle of Bunker Hill and the landin' of the Pilgrim family. Action? You tell 'em, camera, I'm overexposed! Van Dyke and his merry men, includin' the composer of the thing, seemed to think it a wow, but Kid Roberts begin waggin' his head after the first few seconds, and his lip begins to curl.
"What's the idea?" butts in the director on the author's readin', speakin' to the Kid. "Don't it hit you?"
"A bit absurd, don't you think?" says the Kid politely. "That—eh—throwing those fellows over the cliff and—"
"Never mind, Kid," pipes up Knockout Burns, with a wink at Nada, "what do you care? It's all fun!"
"All fun!" howls Van Dyke, jumpin' up and glarin' at him. "D'ye know that it's gonna set us back about sixty thousand berries to shoot this? All fun, eh? You try to clown this, you dumb-bell, and—"
"Burns, shut up!" orders Kid Roberts, smilin'. "Pay no attention to him," he goes on, turnin' to the enraged ​Van Dyke: "Go on and read the rest of this idiotic—eh—this story. I'm anxious to hear the climax."
"Sure!" says Knockout Burns, waggin' a finger at Van Dyke. "Quit holdin' out on us. I don't think they's enough murders in it myself. In the, now, Births of the Nation, they was—"
I clamped both hands over his mouth and, chokin' back a howl, Van Dyke smoothes his hair, turns to the Kid and continues.
"Now," he says, "here's the big wow! You're fightin' the English champeen, and, as you remember from what has gone before, your life, honor, and the woman you love is at stake—see? One of your seconds has been bribed by the Secret Twelve to slip dope in your water bottle—see? All right, now you come up for the last round, suddenly dazed and groggy—see? The crowd is goin' cuckoo—you get floored twice—stagger around helplessly, about to be knocked cold—see? Then Miss Nice appears in your corner—there's a shot showin' her fightin' her way through the mob down the aisle—see? As the Englishman is about to knock you stiff, you see her—your face brightens up—Wam!—you knock the Englishman through the ropes—the Secret Twelve is beaten—the girl's father is saved from the chair—you win her and the champeenship of the world!"
Van Dyke stops, breathless, and Knockout Burns stirs in his chair.
"And then what?" he says.
Four guys grabbed our charmin' director, but not before he had throwed the telephone book at Knockout's head. "Take 'at big stiff outa here, or I'll cook ​him!" shrieks Van Dyke, reachin' for his back pocket—and Knockout Burns breezed.
Bright and early the next mornin'—that is, the mornin' was bright and we was early—we start shootin' "Kid Roberts, Undisputed Champion Heavyweight Boxer of the World, supported by a Super-Cast in the Super-Production, The Knockout. The Greatest Moving Picture Since Mona Lisa Disappeared!"
Both me and the fascinatin' Knockout Burns was drafted for this frolic, prob'ly to keep us quiet. I took off the exactin' role of a spectator in the big fight scene. They hired a regular actor to play the Kid's manager, on account of 'em havin' several important scenes together. Can you imagine that, with me right there in person? Knockout Burns was one of the supers of the Super-Production. That day we also had the pleasure of meetin' the assistant villain, to the viz., the guy which the Kid was scheduled to knock for a row of ash cans in the film brawl. Accordin' to the recipe for the movie, this bimbo was merely a slight ingredient, but before we got through he promoted himself to actin' chief scoundrel and ruffian plenipotentiary.
Van Dyke comes over to us, plastered with grins.
"Well, we're certain lucky!" he says. "I got Young Hamilton to play that fight scene with you, Kid. I wanted a man who looks like a fighter—in fact, who is a fighter—and yet has sortie intelligence—no offense, Kid, no offense—and I got him!"
"If you wanted a guy which looks like a fighter and is a fighter, what's the matter with me, hey?" says Knockout Burns.
​Van Dyke snorts.
"He's also got to look like a human bein'!" he answers. Then he turns to us: "Of course you know Young Hamilton?"
"I'm afraid not," says the Kid.
"I think I smacked a guy down in a round at Butte last year by that name," remarks Knockout.
"You never smacked this baby down!" says Van Dyke. "Young Hamilton was amateur heavyweight champ of the Coast for two years—up to last year, in fact—when somebody picked him for a type in a picture and since then he's done pretty well for himself on the different lots. He's just finished a picture with Stella Sweetish and I'm gonna sew him to a contract when he gets through with yours. But the point is Hamilton was never stopped as a amateur, he's always in condition and he can give you a pretty stiff argument for enough footage to make it look good. And this here prize fight has got to look like a fight, get me? Boxin' fans all over the country are gonna flock to see this picture and you and me knows that the rest of the filum will run for the end book—what they're comin' to see is the heavyweight champ action with gloves on in a ring! Unless this fight knocks 'em off their seats right into the aisles, they're gonna laugh me to death, and it won't do you no good either, Kid. Well, I'm gonna drive them cuckoo with this box fight you can bet your left lung on that part of it! Fight scenes is my dish—I made my reputation on 'em and I'm gonna goal 'em with this one. Two weeks after I release this baby, they'll have ​forgot whether Griffith makes movies or biscuits! Now—wait a minute, here's Hamilton."
He calls across the lot and Monsieur Hamilton steps away from some girls he was chattin' with and strolls over.
I liked this bird at the go in and I know the Kid did. Perhaps if it hadn't been for ravishin' Nada Nice we might of all become pals. It only goes to show how a good-looker can ball everything up, as Adam was heard to mutter on the ways out of the Garden of Eden.
Except for the telltale dent in his beak, Hamilton looked no more like a pug than the Kid did—in fact, they was much the same type. He was every bit as big as Roberts, about the same age, and with all his disarmin', white-toothed, kid grin he had a rugged business-like appearance. Hamilton looked genuinely tickled to shake hands with the world's champion and said so, and him and the Kid was gettin' along first-class, with little Van Dyke rubbin' his hands together and tellin' 'em to get used to each other, when along come Nada. Without no preliminaries she hooks her arm in Hamilton's, flashes him a dazzlin' smiile, and, completely ignorin' the rest of us, tells him to come on and show her the breathin' exercises he was tellin' her about. Hamilton gets a bit red, stammers a apology, hesitates—and she drags him off, flickin' a short, cold glance at the Kid. Van Dyke looks after 'em, frownin'.
"Eh—don't mind Nada, Kid, she's always that way," he says. "You know these stars—gotta humor 'em. ​Eh—she's just like a baby—don't mean a thing wrong by that—eh—maybe a bit peeved over—well, I gotta run along. Be in callin' distance!"
And he beats it.
Right away I get a chill. I was wishin' Miss Dolores Brewster was in Loose Angeles, believe me!
Knockout Burns clears his throat.
"This Hamilton guy," he snarls. "Where does he rate that stuff? Amateur champ, hey? Well, there's one bozo I can take and I'm tellin' North America that me and that bird will go to the post before we knock off work here! Where does he fit to grab off that Jane, hey?"
Poor Knockout Burns. The only guy which didn't figure at all!
Still lookin' after Hamilton and Nada, the Kid has a odd, half smile on his face.
"It must be that this Nada person thinks you don't like her, Kid, hey?" I remarks uneasily.
"No," says the Kid, suddenly showin' astonishin' shrewdness. "It's because she thinks I do!" Then he laughs and speaks kinda to himself: "This will amuse Dolores—Lord, I'll have a book to write her to-night!"
I guess he was safe, hey?
Well, boys and girls, I got to admit that, as a movie star, Kid Roberts was a wonderful box fighter! The boy screened as well as Mary Pickford's husband, but he was no actor and that was that. This make-believe stuff hit him as bein' the height of ridiculous, and he'd come in for his rub-down after a tough day before ​the camera, cussin' me for signin' him up as a matinée idol and remarkin' that never before in his life had he felt like such a darn fool. They had a terrible time gettin' him to use make-up, and when Nada Nice first throwed her soft arms around his manly neck, as per the scenario, you could see the glow from the Kid's face in Brazil. This brung a sneer from Nada and a involuntary giggle from Hamilton—his first mistake.
But it was in the fight-scene rehearsals that Kid Roberts showed he was not born for the movies. The champ had never stalled in his life and he couldn't stall now—that is, he couldn't pull the wallops he sent at Hamilton or flop to the mat as if he'd been floored with a punch and make either of 'em look like the real thing. He was no faker, and of course he was careful not to hurt Hamilton, with the result that many's the foot of film was throwed away on bouts which wouldn't of give a fight fan any more thrill than you give a ex-manicurist when you ask her can you hold her hand. Van Dyke tore his hair and raved all over the lot, but they was nothin' stirrin'. The Kid wouldn't take advantage of Hamilton and tear into him for real and he wasn't enough of a actor to fake the thing well, so, as the French remarks, what would you?
Right here I would like to say that this Monsieur Hamilton was far from a set-up for any man. Big, rugged, fast, in perfect condition, and a two-handed puncher, he looked capable of extendin' the Kid in any kind of a fight. As far as that part of it goes, they's plenty of husky, clever guys, which never ​fought for pennies in their lives but could make things interestin' if they had to for any of our champs from fly-weight to heavy—as many's the professional leather pusher has found out!
One mornin' Kid Roberts and Young Hamilton is rehearsin' this fight scene with Van Dyke dancin' around 'em bellerin' for action and screamin' that they're mixin' it like a pair of room-mates, when suddenly the little director stops in disgust and calls it off for the day. I thought the boys was goin' unusually good, but Van Dyke wanted a murder. As the Kid passes me on the ways to the shower, I notice a small lump on his right cheek bone and, in some surprise, I remarked on it.
"This fellow is tough!" grins the Kid, noddin' over his shoulder at Hamilton. Van Dyke grabs his arm.
"Look here!" he says, lowerin' his voice. "There's no use of us wastin' time and money rehearsin' this thing any longer. I'm gonna shoot the fight scene in a couple of days, and when I give you the office I want you to knock Hamilton stiff—get me? No fakin' this time, understand; let him have it! It ain't gonna kill him and he's gettin' well paid for it. I'll get a coupla good shots out of the thing, anyways!"
The Kid shakes the hand off his arm and regards him coldly.
"You're a poor judge of type, Van Dyke," he says. "Of course, I will do nothing of the sort!"
Van Dyke give a short, nasty little laugh as the Kid passes on.
"Nevertheless," he says, presentin' me with a funny look. "Nevertheless, he's gonna knock Hamilton out!"
​At this interestin' point Knockout Burns come slouchin' up with aold sweater throwed over his shoulders, ready for his daily workout with the Kid. He sees Hamilton, also in ring togs, talkin' to Nada Nice, which same is lookin' up into the big fellow's face like it was the Garden of the Gods and she was gettin' her first flash at it. Knockout growls and his thick upper lip draws away from the snaggled teeth underneath.
"Look at the big goof," he sneers, talkin' to me, but purposely raisin' his voice. "Always posin' in front of some skirt! I wisht they'd let me step a couple of frames with that bozo—you can tell Russia I wouldn't hold him up like the Kid does. Maybe I ain't no world's champion or the like, but I'm champion of that guy, anyways!"
A couple of birds looked around curiously and a camera man laughed. I seen Nada's eyes sparkle as Hamilton stared at Knockout Burns and then back at her. He forced a smile and just for a instant a look flashed in Nada's eyes—the look that is a woman's way of callin' you whatever particular name makes you want to kill! Hamilton walks over to Knockout Burns and deliberately looks him up and down.
"Ah—like to—ah—warm up a bit, while you're waitin' for your—ah—master?" he says, coolly enough.
Knockout Burns tore the sweater off his shoulders with one snatch, licked his lips, and says "Aaaaah!" with the relish of a rummy downin' a suddenly discovered shot of bonded hooch.
Right then I went off Nada Nice for life! For from that minute this Young Hamilton, which both me ​and the Kid was beginnin' to like, was changed from a good guy to a nasty, grand-stand playin', insultin' fathead which wasn't cured till—but wait!
Into the ring where a little while before Kid Roberts and Hamilton had been rehearsin' their phony fight climbs Nada's boy friend and Knockout Burns. Carpenters, camera men, supers, electricians, and what not dropped what ever they was doin', of course, and crowded around 'em, and they was plenty more come a runnin' from all parts of the lot. Nada, how the so ever, took the air.
Well, I figured here was a good opportunity to see what Hamilton—really had and just how much of a chance the Kid was takin' with him. Knockout Burns was a tough old battle-scarred veteran of hundreds of gory mêlées. He packed a wicked right and had stopped a lot of good men before Kid Roberts cut him short with a one-round knockout on the champ's way to the top. I decided I'd stop the bout the first time Hamilton looked in trouble, as I didn't want the young man punished by anybody connected with us. With that in mind, I hopped over the ropes and asked 'em both if they was any objection to me refereein'. Knockout laughed, and Hamilton, after a glance at me which was very brief but likewise very penetratin', shrugs his shoulders and says it was O. K. with him.
Van Dyke, chargin' into the ring with a gang of huskies, stopped the fight in the second round whilst I was tollin' off the fatal seconds over a dazed and battered heavyweight, which, restin' on one knee, ​was waitin' to hear "nine" before resumin' a hopeless argument. The heavy's name was Knockout Burns.
Boys and girls, you ain't no more surprised than I was. Any doubts I had with the regard to Young Hamilton's ability as a box fighter vanished in the first round of that short brawl. The ex-amateur champ made a monkey out of Burns—made this tough bird look absolutely silly. He glided around the enraged Knockout, pepperin' him with stingin' rights and lefts, bringin' him up gaspin' with vicious smashes to the heart and wind, feintin' him into futile knots, pickin' off his well-meant returns whilst they was still in the air, and then, goin' out to finish his man in the second round, he floored him twice before Van Dyke stopped it. Half a dozen guys was required to hold Burns, which raved, cussed, and begged to have the bout go on. He bellered that he wasn't hurt, that he was just gettin' warmed up, and that he always looked bad in the first couple of rounds on account of not bein' a boxer, but a slugger—all of which was true. But Van Dyke waved him away, threatenin' to bar him from the lot if he didn't get off the scene. However, when I caught the little director's eye, he looked to me to be tickled silly.
Kid Roberts was very sore when he heard about this muss and bawled out Knockout Burns to a farethee-well, promisin' to can him if he started anything with anybody else whilst we was there. Then the Kid apologized to Hamilton for Knockout's runnin' amuck, and Hamilton, no longer the laughin', good-natured kid, smiled faintly, murmured somethin' about bein' ​able to take care of himself, and walked away. Kid Roberts raised his eyebrows, but says nothin'.
As the time drawed near for the filmin' of the large fight scene, the indications was that a excitin' time would be had by all. The Kid's nerves had been about shot to pieces by the constant abuse of little Van Dyke regardin' his actin' and the deliberate, silent contempt with which Nada Nice treated him when they wasn't workin' together. Young Hamilton had got so upstage you couldn't talk to him at all, and it was plain and also amusin' to everybody on the lot that he had went cuckoo over Nada, which seemed to take that fact for granted—bein' the type of Jane which cannot understand why every guy she meets don't go out and commit suicide at the thoughts of havin' to live without her.
Knockout Burns kept after Hamilton every time they got within speakin' distance on the lot and the Kid wasn't around. He rode that boy from mornin' till night, darin' him to slip out somewheres and go to the post with him again, callin' him a quitter and a big false alarm which he would murder if he ever got him in a ring for a finish fight. Lookin' back, I often wonder how Hamilton stood it, but stand it he did, contentin' himself with merely smilin' sarcastically at the blah-blahin' Knockout and never a word of a comeback. Frequently the Knockout's remarks got so raw that I shut him up myself, but beyond a tightenin' of jaw and a glintin' of eye once or twice, Hamilton never give him a tumble.
The day they're goin' to shoot the fight between the Kid and Hamilton, which winds up the picture, I'm ​stumblin' around through the scenes on one of the stages wishin' it was all over, when I hear the voices of Hamilton and Nada Nice. I am not no keyhole listener, but they was talkin' about Kid Roberts, and without no apologies I will tell you that I stopped for a earful.
"—It would be too crooked!" Hamilton's sayin'. "I don't want to even think about it, Nada. The way to do that would be to challenge Roberts openly and meet him in a fair fight, where he'd know I was doing my best to win. This way it's— Oh, it's all wrong! He'll be unprepared, unsuspecting—no, I don't want to do anything like that. If it wasn't for the fact that I've got to play my part in this thing to-day, pretend he has knocked me out, I'd—well, Nada, I'd whip him—a thing that I'm as sure I can do as I am that my name is Hamilton!"
"And be heavyweight champion of the world—with all the fame and fortune that goes with it!" breathes this vamp, and I can imagine the eye work she's doin' on friend Hamilton. "Well, do as you like," she goes on, in a voice that was like a kiss. "I don't want you to think I would suggest anything—er—wrong. But if I were a man and had this opportunity—"
Her voice trails off suddenly and I hear a new one—Van Dyke's.
"Hello, folks!" he greets 'em. "Nada—over on that drawin' room set for yours. I want a close-up of you and Kid Roberts before he starts for the ring. Hurry up, I'll be right over—got somethin' to tell Hamilton."
I hear Nada trippin' away and then Van Dyke again.
​"Hamilton," he says, almost in a whisper, "look out for yourself in this fight with Kid Roberts. I got this straight from headquarters and it's no josh. This big stiff is sore at the way you trimmed his sparrin' partzer, and, well—you know how Nada's acted—and he's gonna try and deliberately cut you to pieces to give the gang a laugh! Watch your step and—"
Hamilton cuts in.
"All right—thanks!" he says. "I'll watch out and—you watch me! This is better than I hoped for and I'm going to give this fellow the surprise of his life!"
On top of Hamilton's retreatin' footsteps come Van Dyke's short laugh, and then I stepped from behind the scenery, right into him. He changed colors like a lizard and greatly reminded me of one, for that matter.
"What's the big idea?" I snarls. "Come on, make it snappy and don't stall—I heard the whole layout! Are you tryin' to frame Kid Roberts, you little rat? You know the Kid's got no idea of knockin' Hamilton's head off. Why, he'd no more hurt that guy than he'd—"
"That's what's the matter!" butts in Van Dyke excitedly. "That's exactly the trouble! But if Hamilton comes at him doin' his best, why, the Kid will have to knock his head off, won't he?"
"He might have to stop him—yes," I admits. "But—"
"But nothin'!" says Van Dyke. "You got some brains, ain't you? You know what depends on this fight scene bein' a riot—why, it's the kick to the whole picture! If it flops, good-bye money, my reputation, yes, and a good part of your champ's rep, too. Fight ​fans out in the sticks which never seen Roberts start, and never will, are gonna see him in this movie, and if he looks bad, you know what they'll say. Another thing, what happens to your percentage of the picture's earnin's if the thing's a bust? And a bust it will be if the Kid and Young Hamilton don't put up a rip-roarin', two-fisted, he-man battle! You seen them rehearse time after time and you also seen how terrible they both was in the scene—each scared to death he'd muss the other one's hair. D'ye think I'd release a bust like that with my name on it? Not on your life! I'm gonna shoot a fight to-day that will put a permanent marcel in their hair! What d'ye suppose Nada's been cuttin' Roberts and eggin' Hamilton on for? What d'ye suppose I told him the Kid was out to take him for, heh? What d'ye—"
"Wait a minute!" I says. "D'ye mean to tell me that Nada Nice has upstaged the Kid and lured this poor boob Hamilton on at your orders?"
"Nada knows the situation," he stalls "Why shouldn't she do what she can to help me? I made that girl! I'm her director, ain't I?"
"Well," I says, after a bit, "you certainly win the tissue-paper nail file! In order to make your movie a success, you take a chance on Kid Roberts gettin' his head—" and then I stopped.
"The Kid ain't takin' no chance at all!" he sneers, readin' my thoughts. "Why, he should dispose of this guy with ease—he's champion of the world ain't he?"
"Yes, but—" I begins, but get no chance.
"And another thing you wanna remember, fellah," ​goes on Van Dyke, "is that this ain't only my movie, it's yours and his also! Of course, if you think your champ will get mussed up and you wanna crab this thing, go to it. If you tell Kid Roberts, it's all off, because the big—because he'll refuse to knock Hamilton dead. This Roberts is a hot sketch for a fighter, anyways!"
"But look here, Stupid," I says. "If I don't wise the Kid up, how d'ye expect him to put up a sure enough battle?"
"Hamilton will take care of that part of it," grins Van Dyke. "When this baby steps into that ring, Kid Roberts will have to fight!"
What was I gonna do? If I crabbed the thing, the story that Kid Roberts had refused to box Young Hamilton, the ex-amateur champ, etc., would travel from California to Florida overnight. I shut up and walked back with Van to the others, through with the movies—jack or no jack!
We breezed over to where the Kid, Nada, Hamilton, and the rest of the gang is waitin' and after some close-ups of Nada in the Kid's arms have been shot, Van Dyke gives Roberts and Hamilton their final directions for the battle. With a wink at Hamilton which the Kid don't see, Van Dyke remarks that he hopes the champion won't lose his temper and knock Hamilton for a goal. Kid Roberts innocently grins and turns to the scowlin' ex-amateur champ.
"Don't mind him, old man," he says, "I'll be as careful as—"
Hamilton cuts him off with a snarl.
"Oh, never mind that stuff," he says sneerin'ly. ​"You do your best, Roberts—for I certainly shall!"
This was too much for Knockout Burns.
"Why, you big goof!" he yells, "Kid Roberts'll bust you in half! You're gonna try, eh? Well, if you want action I got a thousand bucks which says I can knock you stiff inside ten rounds. C'mon, less go, you four-flusher!"
"Shut up, Burns!" says the Kid, his quiet gaze never leavin' Hamilton's flushed face. "I'm very sorry you feel that way, Hamilton. Perhaps we had better postpone this scene until you're in better humor. It's rather dangerous for two big men to—"
Nada shot a meanin' glance at Hamilton, and her nasty laugh shut the Kid off right in the middle as Van Dyke butts in with:
"We don't postpone nothin'! I got a fight club leased for this scene and a mob of extry people gettin' five bucks the each—seven for the ones with dress suits—waitin'. C'mon, pile into them autos outside and forget it!"
Suddenly Hamilton pulls a mechanical smile, mumbles a apology, and offers the Kid his hand. They shake, but the ex-amateur champ was lookin' away when he done it—lookin' over the Kid's shoulder at Nada Nice.
A hour or so later Kid Roberts and Young Hamilton is climbin' through the ropes in a regulation ring at the old West Coast A. C. whilst a battery of movie cameras is grindin' out their every move and every move of a crowd which packed the joint to the roof. On a high stool beside the ring, and out of range of ​the cameras, Van Dyke is perched, directin' through a megaphone. Near by sits Nada Nice, chattin' with friends, ready to appear in the Kid's corner for the climax. She looked like she hadn't a care in the world—and prob'ly hadn't. All around the edge of the ring is the newspaper guys, tickled silly to come and get a real line on the champion's present condition; back of them the supers in dress suits and evenin' gowns, and behind them a bunch of society guys and their girl friends, invited with engraved cards by Van Dyke, and there out of curiosity to see a movie made. The supers is tryin' to act like society leaders, and the society leaders is tryin' to act like supers. Kid Roberts is grinnin' and chattin' with the newspaper guys, answerin' a fire of questions about his next fight and the like, but across the ring Hamilton is drawn and nervous, his eyes on the floor.
"Lights!" bellers Van Dyke, and a distinct hush fell over the mob. "Ready, camera—all right, Roberts, Hamilton—shoot!"
Clang!—the bell just like the real thing, and they're off.
Both men come to the center of the ring, touched gloves lightly, and begin sparrin', as they'd rehearsed over and over. Hamilton suddenly chopped his right to the head and then hooked the same glove to the jaw as the Kid started to back away. The champ boxed cautiously for a few seconds, landin' lightly with both hands, and Hamilton drove him against the ropes with a torrid left to the body. Lookin' surprised, Roberts clinched, and the wise newspaper guys begin to sit up ​straight in their seats. I can't remember when my throat was ever so dry before! They slid along the ropes, Hamilton fightin' with one arm free, diggin' his glove into the kidneys and short ribs. The referee, a assistant director, broke them on orders from Van Dyke, and the Kid put a slow left to the head, apologizin' when the heel of the glove scraped skin from Hamilton's ear. The ex-amateur champ's reply was a volley of lefts and rights that gave the Kid all he could do for a minute, and then Van Dyke shouts through the megaphone:
"Now, Roberts, you drop your hands and stagger away—you been doped, and here's where you get knocked down—that's good—that's fine! Hamilton, get ready to swing your right—don't watch the camera—you think you're on the verge of knockin' the champion out—that's right, try and look it! Now, Hamilton—cop him—on the chest will do; it'll look like a punch from here—ready now—all right drop your hands, Roberts, drop your—"
Kid Roberts obediently lowers his guard, and, quick as a flash, Hamilton pastes him—not on the chest, but square on the point of the jaw, and the Kid goes down like a log!
"Cut!" hollers Van Dyke. "That's great—wonderful! I'll give these birds a movie!"
Mutterin' apologies, Hamilton bends down and helps the Kid to his feet, whilst twelve assistants of Van Dyke grabs me and shoves me back out of the ring, which I had reached in one frenzied jump, hollerin' that nobody's allowed on the set whilst Van Dyke's shootin'. The crowd gives Hamilton a big hand as he walks to ​his stool, and Nada waves her hand to him. Van Dyke is grinnin' happily. Whilst Knockout Burns and the other handlers is workin' over Kid Roberts, I lashed out with both hands, clearin' a space and managed to crawl through the ropes to the Kid's side.
"Kid—this is a frame-up!" I panted in his ear. "I ain't got time to tell you all of it now, but knock this guy dead and knock him quick! He's tryin' to put you away, and—"
"Nonsense!" smiles the Kid. "The boy lost his head, that's all. I'm not hurt; the punch was too high, and I was falling when I got it, you know. Hamilton's probably sorrier than I am that he landed. The thing was an unavoidable accident. Forget it!"
Van Dyke comes over and shoves past me. "Everything's goin' fine!" he tells the Kid, slappin' his shoulder. "Now this is the last round. Remember, you get floored twice, then Nada appears at the foot of the ropes—you see her—get up, rush Hamilton, and knock the big bu—that is, he'll fall through the ropes like he was cracked—see?"
The Kid nods and Van Dyke calls Hamilton over. They's a mattress on the floor outside the ropes so's he won't get hurt when he goes through 'em, and Van Dyke makes him and the Kid rehearse the thing once more without the cameras. I thought they did it pretty well, and the society bunch clapped their hands off. Then Van Dyke calls for lights and cameras, the bell rings, and they begin the thrillin' climax.
Thrillin' was right!
The minute they met in the middle of the ring Hamilton throws all pretenses to the breeze and give ​himself up to the job of knockin' Kid Roberts for a row of silos. Van Dyke called out the rehearsed blows to him, but the ex-amateur champ, with murder in his eyes, paid no attention, and before the round was a minute old he had the Kid doin' his best, and everybody in the place knowed they was seein' a finish fight and not no movie! The Kid missed a left jab, and Hamilton opened a old cut over his eye with a vicious right, puttin' a straight left to the same place before the amazed Roberts could block. I had to admire this Hamilton's speed, even though I would of liked to cooked him then and there! Roberts brought him up standin' with a right to the heart, but a instant later Hamilton made the champ open his mouth and gasp with two hard smashes to the wind. Van Dyke now yelled hysterically for the Kid to take his first fall, and, backin' away from the rushin' Hamilton, Roberts slid clumsily to the floor. At once the house rocked with the boos of the excited mob, society bunch and all. The only way I can explain the thing that happened next is that Hamilton went cuckoo at the chance to knock out the world's champion—for he swung a wicked right to the Kid's head as he was gettin' up off the floor, sprawlin' the champ flat on his back. The assistant director, which was "referee," was nuts himself with the thrill of the thing and forgot to count, but the newspaper guys willin'ly obliged. The Kid took "nine," and when he come up they was everything but mercy in his hard, glitterin' gray eyes.
I hadn't watched Hamilton work for nothin', and when the Kid's anxious gaze searched and found mine in the mob I screamed over the din: "Make him lead ​to you, Kid!" and Roberts immediately feinted Hamilton into swingin' his right. As the punch started, the champ slid in under it and hooked both hands to the jaw, followin' that with a left to the body that all but doubled Hamilton in two. The ex-amateur star now begin back-pedalin' all over the ring with the Kid on top of him, jabbin' his head back and forth with his beautiful straight left and playin' for a openin' for his deadly right.
As per the scenario, Nada appears at the edge of the ring, wavin' her arms and shoutin' to attract the Kid's attention, but the Kid was terrible busy just then! Van Dyke swings his megaphone around and bawls somethin' in her ear. Nada smiles and at once begins yellin'—yellin' for Hamilton to knock the Kid out! Roberts stops dead, turns slowly and looks at her with a most peculiar expression on his face. The watchin' Hamilton plunges in with a right uppercut that buckled the Kid's knees under him and sent the mob insane. Likewise me! They mixed it furiously near Hamilton's corner and Van Dyke bellers for the ex-amateur champ to fall through the ropes. Hamilton sneers at him and hooked his left hard to the Kid's mouth, bringin' the blood. The place was now in a wild uproar and neither of 'em paid any attention to the bell, but stood toe to toe, sluggin' with both hands. Hamilton was the first to break ground and the Kid raised a lump on his jaw with a overhand right swing that sent him spinnin' to the ropes. He rebounded into a right that tore his ear and dove into a clinch, but the Kid jerked himself free and split the ex-amateur champ's nose with a left chop. Both then missed ​rights to the head and Roberts again put his left to the sore nose. Hamilton looked very tired and tried to make the Kid box with him, but Roberts was impatient to end matters and peppered his man with short, joltin' lefts and rights to the wind, wearin' him down so's to get a fair crack at the jaw. The chance come fin'ly when a smash over the heart doubled Hamilton up. The Kid coolly jabbed a openin' with his left, measured the punch-drunk ex-amateur champ and with a right uppercut to the button sent him crashin' through the ropes as advertised—and it wasn't on the side of the ring where the mattress was, either!
The mob is millin' out through the doors, havin' been furnished with somethin' to talk about for months, and we're all gathered about Hamilton which is sittin' on his stool, just comin' to life. Knockout Burns pushes through the jam to his side.
"Well, you big double-crossin' tramp!" he snarls at the beaten Hamilton. "Are you satisfied now, eh? Woof—what a proper pastin' you drawed for yourself! It takes a lickin' like that to show you false alarms where you git off. I bet you won't look at a boxin' glove again till the day you die. It's a good thing I wasn't in there with you, I'd of cut you to ribbons, just to be nasty!"
Hamilton looks up at Burns, starin' him steadily in the eye like he's tryin' to remember where he seen him before. Then his teeth comes together with a click, he gets up slowly and pushes away the guys which wants to help him.
"Put up your hands!" he says huskily.
"Why, you—" begins the astonished Burns—and ​never finished, for Hamilton shot straight out with his bandaged right hand and Knockout Burns sagged a second and then toppled in a heap at my feet!
So that was all settled.
"Roberts," says Hamilton, unsteadily, facin' the cold-eyed Kid, "I—I—was a fool! However, I guess I've paid for it. I—I—lost my head— No, damn it, I'll be square with you! I went in there determined to knock you out and I deserve all I got, but—I have never done anything like this in my life before—never tried to double-cross anyone and—and I feel rotten about it! Will you accept my sincere apology—please?"
The Kid looks him over and grins. "Why of course!" he says, shakin' his hand warmly. "It's forgotten, old boy. I don't blame you in a way—it was a big chance and then there was—" He looks around meanin'ly to where Nada Nice and Van Dyke is in earnest conversation. Van Dyke waves his hand and calls over: "A wonderful picture—wonderful! This thing will make you, Hamilton!" and goes right on talkin' to Nada again.
"By the way," says Hamilton, "I—ah—pardon my curiosity, but what is your real real name? I mean, I know it isn't Kid Roberts; all fighters adopt a ring—"
"I'm Kane Halliday, out of the ring," says the Kid.
"Cain?" hollers Hamilton, in a voice that made everybody look around at us. "By gad, no wonder you licked me!"
"Why?" asks the Kid.
​"Don't you know?" roars Hamilton. "My name is Abel—Abel Hamilton!"
No, boys and girls, Hamilton didn't wed the charmin' Nada Nice. You see, she happened to be Van Dyke's wife.
And, as J. Caesar remarked as he waded the Rubicon, there's that!