# The Leather Pushers (1921, G. P. Putnam's Sons)/Round 12

The idea that he was invincible took Napoleon from the island of Corsica to the throne of the world. The same belief took him from the throne of the world to the island of St. Helena.
As soon as the average guy gets to be champion of anything, whether it's pitchin' quoits or runnin' empires, his regard for himself reaches a point that's hard for the rest of us to understand. When he was battle-axin' his way up, the attempts of the other bird to beat him made him sore and in settin' out to take this one baby he incidentally shoved himself ahead of the entire field. But once he arrives at the top and some other guy announces he's out to shove him off, your champ don't get mad, he just laughs—laughs so hard he loses his balance and you don't have to shove him, he tumbles off!
Let us take the case of Kid Roberts, for the example.
After the Kid smashed Jack Enright down and out in seven rounds, Jimmie McManus was busier than a three-headed elephant in a peanut factory, scourin' the country for the second victim. Meanwhile, this Enright ducked up to Buffalo to gather what looked like some terrible soft jack. He made a overnight match ​with Knockout Pierce, a guy which nobody but Pierce's father and mother had ever heard of up to then, and which looked like a push over.
This brawl cost Monsieur Jacques Enright exactly $40,000, which was what McManus was goin' to tip him for his second quarrel with Kid Roberts. Knockout Pierce ended the fight a minute and a half before the bell in the first round with a terrific right hook to the jaw. Enright was out so long that when he come to the first thing he asked was whether or not the draft law had passed Congress.
Well, of course, that was the curtain for Enright and the fortunate young Mr. Knockout Pierce become the boy wonder of fistiana. Always a cold-eyed gambler, Jimmy McManus hesitated, however, about signin' him to meet Kid Roberts. The punch that knocked Enright dead might of been a fluke and James didn't want to hire nobody which the Kid would stop with his first feint. Immediately the typewriters opened up on us from all over the ex-Land of the Spree. We was accused of pickin' boloneys and bein' scared stiff of Pierce which had flattened the tough Enright in less than a round, whereas the champion had required seven frames for the same job. Nine out every ten of them sport writers knew in their hearts that it was the beatin' Enright had got from the Kid which softened him up and made him a mark for Pierce. How the so ever, McManus quit to the newspapers and signed Knockout Pierce to meet Kid Roberts in a twenty-round mêlée for the heavyweight championship of the wide, wide world.
A lot of weeks was throwed away like they always is before a championship fight, in selectin' the time, ​the place, and the referee for this quarrel. This wasn't our fault. Kid Roberts had about the same interest in who, where, and when he was goin' to box as I have in the price of putty at Budapest. Like all champions, he figured himself invincible. Understand, the boy didn't brag about it; Kid Roberts and conceit was as far apart as 6 and 6,000. He looked on himself as bein' unbeatable as calmly as he regarded the risin' sun—but also, with the same belief that it was a fact. From the time I bought his contract from Dummy Carney for a hundred fish when he was a nervous, green, preliminary boloney till the day he quit the ring, the Kid ducked nobody, drawed no color lines, or argued over weights, distance, or referees. He left everything to my judgment, and the tougher they come the better.
So, bein' around New York, and havin' no more interest in Knockout Pierce than he ever did in any of his comin' opponents, this delay in cinchin' the fight tickled the Kid silly.
For one thing, it give him some time to devote to Dolores Brewster—which would of caused Cleopatra to jump in the handiest lake—and for another thing, it give him a chance to do some campaignin' for her father, which at that time was runnin' for reëlection to the U. S. Senate. Dolores headed a committee of Janes, whilst the Kid had organized a bunch of his ex-playmates from sweet old Yale and went hithers and you about the State makin' speeches for Senator Brewster. By a strange coincidence, as we remark on the campus, the Senator was a former New Haven cut-up himself.
​Now I had no objections to Kid Roberts helpin' Senator Brewster to breeze home in front, because besides bein' a forty-six carat fight fan, as tamiliar a figure as the referee at all the big bouts, the Sen of course, was the Kid's comin' father-in-law and a allaround regular guy. But I did holler murder about the Kid neglectin' his trainin', stayin' up to all hours of the night campaignin' for the Senator, fillin' himself up with this fancy and fattenin' chow at these dinner parties Dolores was always givin', and chasin' back and forth to Long Island superintendin' the buildin' of the palace him and her was goin' to live happy ever after in. The long, tough years of the strict and monotonous trainin' grind, the early-to-bed and early-to-rise thing, duckin' the jazz and practically livin' like a monk, had all come to a end now accordin' to the Kid's way of thinkin'. He was enjoyin' himself with this political campaignin', seein' Dolores every day, and loungin' around in a dress suit after 6 p. m. where they was soft lights and music and good-lookin', blue-blooded Janes, instead of the reekin' din of a smoke filled fight club and the smell of blood and arnica. He didn't want to be bothered, and when Knockout Pierce come to New York to box Gunner Macy, Kid Roberts refused to go with me for the purpose of gettin' a line on Pierce's wares.
Well, I went—and I seen enough to keep me awake many's the night in the next few months! Knockout Pierce, a cold-eyed, snarlin', six-foot, 220-pound fightin' machine of bone and muscle, let Gunner Macy stay two rounds so's to give his first metropolitan audience somethin' to talk about. He presented the be​wildered Macy with a sparrin' lesson, let the Gunner crack him to show the sharps he could take it, and flitted about the ring like a startled ghost till twice the Gunner fell on his ear from throwin' wallops at Pierce that missed by fractions of a inch. Why, this baby was clever enough to of boxed ten rounds under a needle shower and never get hit by a drop of water, and oh, how he could sock! A curvin' round-armed right swing twenty seconds after the start of the third round sent Gunner Macy to dreamland and the customers went home swearin' they'd see the Kid Roberts-Knockout Pierce quarrel if it was staged on Mars.
Well, at that, it would of been well worth the trip!
A week or so after this a big show is put on at a theatre in the land of Newark, N. J., for the benefit of Thirsty Timbuctoo, Starvin' Siberia, Hungry Hungary, or Sufferin' Sebastopol. I forget now which one of our League of Poor Relations was goin' to get this jack. Anyways the Kid dropped everything, as he always did to help any charity, and appeared on the bill in a exhibition with a sparrin' partner.
I was sittin' in his dressin' room waitin' for him to come off, when the guy which keeps the yokels away from the stage door comes in and hands me a card. It says like this:
Joan Stillwell
The Newark Evening Yell
A woman sport writer is a bit new, I thinks. Still and all, I have never been no ladies' man—in fact I ​have ducked the adjoinin' sex all my life, thereby missin' a lot of fun and a equal amount of trouble. Whilst I am hesitatin', the doorkeeper butts in with the information that since he has been holdin' down his present portfolio he has seen more breath-takin' young women than Flo Ziegfeld ever did, but the girl which was waitin' to see Kid Roberts would of made Columbus forget what he sailed from Spain for. After hearin' this sensational piece of news, I figured it was no more than polite to see what the young lady wished.
I barely got time to smooth my hair when into the dressin' room steps what all the poets thinks Eve looked like, except, of course, she was dressed different. They is no more use of me attemptin' to describe Joan Stillwell than they is of me tryin' to cross the Pacific on a motorcycle. I may give you a faint idea of her when I say that, hard-boiled as I am, she looked as good to my startled eyes as Venus, $5,000 a week, a California sunset, all the peaches and cream in the world, the Prince of Wales's future, Rockefeller's bank roll, and Mary Pickford! A set of classy scenery in no ways concealed a—eh—figure which would of drove Helen from Troy to suicide, and I suppose when Joan reads this she'll laugh herself sick.
Anyways, boys and girls, by the time she had raised a pair of blue eyes which give me more kick than I ever got over a bar before the plague, I am as short of breath as I am of degrees from Oxford.
"Oh—pardon me, is Mister Roberts here?" she asks, gettin' a bit red under my dumfounded stare.
"He is for all I know," I says, with a goofy grin. "Look around—I'm dizzy!"
​She gazes at me closely for a second, and then she smiles. She knew she had goaled me all right—she'd probably watched 'em swoon away like that since her fifteenth birthday. Still out on my feet, I got her a chair and asked her what she wished, prepared to see that she got it if it was Niagara Falls.
"Why, I wanted to interview the champion for the 'Evening Yell,'" she tells me. "I intend doing some articles on him from a woman's viewpoint for the sporting page. I—I won't keep him long—just so I can get a few interesting facts about his rise to the top of his profession and that sort of thing, you know. You are his manager, aren't you?"
I am still in a trance, but manage to say yes.
"Perhaps you can tell me a few things while I'm waiting for him, then," she says, tryin' not to giggle, I suppose. "For instance, is it really true that he is a Yale man?"
Well, I was gettin' kind of used to this dazzlin' beauty then, and I cut loose with well-oiled and free-swingin' tongue on my favorite subject, to the viz., Kid Roberts. Whilst Joan of Newark listened with glistenin' eyes, I told her all the stuff you know about, and she seemed to be eatin' it up, only interruptin' now and then to ask a question about a date or the like and mark it down in her notebook. She seemed to think it marvelous that the Kid was due to marry into the family of a U. S. Senator and that his father had made such a wonderful comeback, and she asked me a lot about that. Well, I aimed to satisfy the girl, and I was as full of details as a income-tax blank.
​Whilst she's still cross-examinin' me, in comes no less than Kid Roberts himself. I was watchin' close, and I seen the deep breath he took before he gazed at me and then back to her with a sudden smile. Joan has stood up the minute he come in, and them sapphire eyes of hers showed that the Kid had registered heavy with our fair young visitor. Kid Roberts was a natural lady assassin, if they ever was one. Lookin' from one to the other of 'em give me the blues—not that I had my fears about the Kid forgettin' Dolores. It just happened to bring to my mind what a fat chance I had of ever grabbin' off for myself anyone like either Dolores or Joan, and right then and there I knew that nothin' less than a duplicate of 'em would do.
In talkin' about his future plans, the Kid tells Joan how tickled he'll be wken he has fought Knockout Pierce and retired, as whilst he liked boxin', he hated the prize ring and its "sordid, bestial atmosphere!" as he called it.
"Oh, I'm so glad to hear you say that, Mister Halliday!" says Joan, callin' him by his real name like he asked her. "I wish my little brother could hear those sentiments coming from you, the world's champion boxer. You know"—she smiles cutely—"you're a god to him; his room is literally covered with your pictures from the sporting magazines!"
"He is a boxing enthusiast?" asks the Kid politely.
"He's a little imp!" laughs Joan. "But the best-hearted, cleanest, and manliest little fellow in the world," she adds proudly, lookin' from me to the Kid like she would love to see somebody try and deny it. "Jimmy has designs on the lightweight championship," ​she explains. "He's a shipping clerk by day and "One-Round Stillwell,' or some such horrible person, by night at those awful clubs. Jimmy loves me, and ordinarily I can do anything with him—there's just the two of us, you know—but he is determined to be a prize fighter. Oh, I wish I could ask you—to—to—see him, Mister Halliday, and speak to him as you did to me," she winds up earnestly. "He's such a young boy and—"
"We'll both talk with him, Miss Stillwell," butts in the Kid, as she hesitates. "And I think I know of a perfectly harmless way of showing your brother what a little chump he is to throw away his best years in the prize ring. I'll be glad to help." He turns to me. "Find out where the boy is fighting, old man," he says, "and bring him over to see me. If arguments fail, I think he would be glad of a chance to make himself useful around the gym. We can even intimate to him that he's part of my—er—camp, and I think," he winds up, turnin' back to Joan, "I think that about a week of the hard and thankless work will cure him quicker than anything any of us might tell him. Want to try it?"
"I think you are perfectly splendid—thanks awfully!" says Joan, throwin' her smile into high. "You can find him at nights around the Aldine Athletic Club here. Most any of the men can point him out to you—in fact, he already has quite a swarm of admirers. And now I won't bother you any longer; good-bye and thanks, both of you, for everything!"
Gee, but that room looked empty after she'd went! ​"Kid," I says to Roberts, still sniffin' the perfume she left in the air, "for a damsel like that I would cut off both arms with my face wreathed in smiles!"
"You'd find yourself at a disadvantage, then, if you won her," he grins, gettin' into his citizen's clothes. "She certainly appears to be a charming girl, and I wish you luck!"
"Wish me luck?" I sighs—ain't love tough, hey? "Why, I got the same identical chance of makin' Miss Stillwell as I have of bein' elected the next king of England by acclamation!"
"Look here," says the Kid, stoppin' in the midst of combin' his hair and comin' over to lay his hands on my shoulders. "Don't ever let me hear you talk in that strain again! I've known you now for almost four years—we've been together, fair weather and foul. My success has rested more than once upon your honesty, judgment, and courage. You assume a hard-boiled cynicism, but you're a darn big fraud, old fellow, and the finer things of life have as strong an appeal to you as they do to the 'drawing-room set' that you pretend to ridicule. You're a he-man, with the heart of, no doubt, your mother, and if you had a single fundamental weakness of character you never could have hidden it from me, during what we've been through since I got into this infernal game! I know you better than you do yourself—far better—and if you were my brother I'm sure I'd boast of the relationship. So don't patronize yourself old boy; you're as good as the next one and better than most. If Joan Stillwell is to be the one, she is a very fortunate young woman!"
Even though I knew they was none of the above true, ​I found more difficulty with my Adam's apple for the space of a second than I have had in years. Likewise, I seemed to have got somethin' in my eyes.
"Kid," I says, fin'ly, "I—I—you big stiff!"
And grabbin' one of his shoes from the floor, I heaved it at him for the purposes of changin' the subject and—eh—gettin' control. . . .
Well, a couple of days after, me and the Kid is sittin' in the rooms at the hotel, when the desk phones up to find out will we see some reporters. As counterfeiters, yeggs, murderers, and the like is about the only human bein's in this wide, wide world which is tellin' the truth when they claim they don't like publicity, I says to send the boys right up. When I opened the door to let 'em in a few minutes later, I couldn't blame the Kid for givin' vent to a gasp of surprise. It looked more like we was going to be raided instead of interviewed! They was about fifteen young men filed into the room, and although I knew all the sport writers of the New York papers, these babies was strangers to me. A tall thin one coughs and says to me:
"Eh—I'm with the 'Post'—eh—did you give an interview to the Newark 'Evening Yell' the other day?"
"Sure!" I grins. "I told the story of the Kid's life to a young lady by the name of Miss Stillwell, which wanted the same for the sportin' page."
"For the sporting page, eh?" says the reporter, lookin' around at the other guys, some of which laughs out loud. "Clever girl!" he goes on, facin' me again. "She's losing time in Newark—that's a cinch!"
The Kid frowns, and I took a step toward this guy.
"Mister Roberts—eh—pardon me, Mister Halliday​—" says the reporter, "how long has Senator Brewster been a business partner of your father's, and is it true that the senator—eh—bought your father's seat on the Stock Exchange?"
Wow!
"What the devil are you talking about?" busts out the Kid, his face gettin' red. "You had better put your questions in less offensive language, young man, or—I say, what's the idea of all this, anyhow?"
The reporter grins and takes a folded newspaper from his pocket and hands it to the Kid. "Of course," he says smoothly, "you know that the Newark 'Evening Yell' is a party organ in this neck of the woods, and, naturally, your—eh—this rather amazing disclosure regarding Senator Brewster that you made to a member of its staff was a wonderful political weapon for them."
But the Kid, glancin' nervously over the newspaper, has suddenly let out a muttered, gaspin' cuss, and spread the paper out so's I could see it. Right smack on page 1 is a headline as big as Chicago:
Says Brewster Backs Wall Street Wizard
Evening Yell Gets Exclusive Story of New York Senator's Connection with J. A. Halliday.
Speculator's Son, "Kid Roberts," Heavyweight Champion, Admits Facts—To Wed Senator's Daughter!
Well I just flopped in a chair and watched the room go round and round. So Joan had doubled-crossed us! ​She'd pumped me dry—took everything I told her and twisted it around till it meant a darn sight more than was actually true. And here this other reporter had just tricked me into admittin' this was all facts! Can you picture what that article was goin' to do to the old senator, practically on the eve of election? I knew then how Samson felt when Delilah give him that haircut!
"I have nothing to say regarding this article," the Kid is tellin' the reporters, edgin' them over to the door, "except that it is a vicious mass of distorted facts and lying insinuations! I have no doubt that both my father and Senator Brewster will have a statement to make later. Good morning, gentlemen!"
"Fair enough!" says the thin guy, steppin' to the door.
"Is it true that you're engaged to Miss Brewster?" pipes up another one.
"None of your damned business!" barks the Kid, now on edge.
Nobody was slow gettin' through the door.
At that minute the phone rings, and the Kid, bein' nearest, answered. It was no less than Senator Brewster himself, and from the Kid's face and his chokin' interruptions, I could see the boy was takin' punishment! At last he hangs up and turns to me, frownin' and bitin' his lip. I am all set for the bawlin' out of my life.
"Well, go ahead and tie into me, Kid," I says gloomily. "I'm the dumb-bell which spilled the limas, and—"
"No," says the Kid, his face clearin'. "It wasn't your fault at all. You didn't fathom the girl's shrewdness, and I wouldn't have either. We've both ​already talked too much to a very clever reporter! Cloaking her real purpose under the request for an interview for the sporting page, our friend Joan Stillwell scored a notable victory for the senator's enemies. According to her rather peculiar lights, I suppose she did a good job!" He pats my shoulder. "Cheer up," he adds; "it can't be helped now. For your sake as well as the senator's, I'm sorry she bilked us—you were rather hard hit, weren't you?"
"I fell—sure!" I admits. "But that's all over now. I guess that stuff about her kid brother bein' a scrapper was the bunk too—hey?"
"Probably," says the Kid with a hard, short laugh. "Though that was a touch that approached art! We'll never see her again, at any rate. I'll wager she's laughing herself sick right now at the way she took us in!"
But we did see her again, and she wasn't laughin' either.
We was gettin' ready to go down and put on the feed bag, when once again the phone makes good and again the Kid answers it. This time he says: "Come right up!" in a funny voice, hangs up, and turns to me with a smile. "Stand a slight shock?" he says.
"Now what the—eh—what's the matter?" I hollers, jumpin' up. "Who was that?"
"Miss Joan Stillwell," answers the Kid.
Then there's a knock at the door, and I flung it wide open with a snarl. Joan was there all right and, sore as I was—I was more hurt than mad, anyways—I noticed she was as bewilderin' as ever! She's been ​doin' a piece of weepin' also, as I seen when she raised her veil and stepped kind of hesitatin'ly inside. Kid Roberts pulls over a chair for her with a stiff bow—mad or otherwise, the boy was always a gent.
"Well," I smeers, standin' beside her chair, "what are you figurin' on puttin' over now, hey?"
With that she buries her billion-dollar face in her hands and busts right out cryin'!
This was all different, and me and the Kid looks at each other in the greatest of surprise. The first thing I know I am pattin' a silk-clad shoulder and whisperin' sweet nothin's at where I guessed her ear was, and on the other side Kid Roberts is doin' ditto. A couple of fine, strong men, hey?
"I suppose you—you loathe me!" says Joan to me with quiverin' lips.
"Do I look it?" I says kind of sadly. The Kid smiles sarcastically, and this seems to get her goat.
"Won't both of you at least listen to an explanation?" she asks. "You don't have to believe it, you know."
"No," says the Kid, still smilin' politely but coldly, "we don't have to believe it. Eh—proceed, Miss Stillwell; I'm sure you will be interesting."
Her face floods with red at that, but she was game! Me—I'm completely gone again! I even managed to slip her a encouragin' look, and got a glance in exchange for it—that repaid me with usurious interest.
"I want you to know that I was innocent of any malicious intent when I got that interview from you," she says, the words just tumblin' out. "I was not trying to be cunning or clever or—or—anything! I wrote that interview as a straight sporting story, putting ​no value on the—the—political weapons you accidentally placed in my hands, beyond the fact that they lent color and romance to my yarn. But the sporting editor, with his horrid trained nose for news, sniffed out my story's news value and gave it to the city editor. With the aid of a rewrite man and the staff political writers, he did the rest! They showed me the proofs of my rehashed copy, and I stormed and pleaded to have it kept out of the paper, without avail. Why, that man actually patted me on the back and promised me a bonus for what he said was a shrewd piece of work on my part. I am not shrewd! I didn't mean to be—I—I hate that word—I—well, I immediately resigned, that's all! And now—"
The Kid reaches for his hat. "And now," he repeats after her, "will you come with me and tell all that to Senator Brewster, Miss Stillwell? It will help every one of us immensely if you will, and I, for one, believe your story without question."
"Why, I'll be only too glad to explain to the Senator," says Joan. "Of course I'll go."
"Just a minute, Miss Stillwell. Was that stuff about your brother bein' a box fighter—eh—was that level too?" I butts in.
"He's going to box at the Aldine Athletic Club to-night," she says. "But I suppose now you won't bother to—"
"You suppose wrong," I says. "I'll go over and see him, as advertised. And don't you let Senator Brewster bawl you out either. We're all apt to make missakes, as Eve remarked."
Well, that night, as they say in the movies, I eased ​into a ringside seat at the Aldine A. C. in Newark at exactly 9.30, and at exactly 9.33 Joan's brother, "Young Stillwell," climbed through the ropes to earn the fifty bucks he was guaranteed for a six-round preliminary with another boloney. At exactly 9.50 I had what I firmly believed to be the next lightweight champion signed to a contract puttin' him under my management for a term of three years, subject to sister Joan's approval. There is nothin' I like so much as speed!
The "lightweight" in the opposite corner from Young Stillwell must of tipped the beam at 150 if he weighed a gram, whilst Joan's kid brother looked well under 135. He was far from handsome, accordin' to collar advertisement standards, but he sure looked beautiful to me! This baby had a pair of shoulders on him like a heavyweight, the short, thick neck, square jaw, high cheek bones, thin lips, and beetlin', rugged brow of the natural-born fighter which craves no other weapons but his hands. His legs was the muscular limbs of the distance runner and as he flexed himself against the ropes whilst awaitin' the bell, his powerful arms showed a wonderful reach. That the mob was with him was displayed when he first jumped into the ring and shed his bath robe. The first time he looked at the guy he was goin' to fight was when they shook hands in mid ring and went to work.
It was a wow of a brawl whilst it lasted, but a minute ain't very long. Never in your life have you seen such a change as come over Young Stillwell with the sound of the bell. The grin left his thin lips like magic, and he licked 'em hungrily with the snarl of a short-tempered panther. The heavy brows drawed together, ​almost meetin' in a curvin', shaggy line as he shot off that stool like he'd been released with a spring. The other guy was tough and willin', but that wasn't enough. Stillwell hit him with everything but the club's license and the timekeeper, floorin' his man three times before the referee declared a armistice. His handlers dragged him to his corner, still lookin' back at what he left on the floor and still snarlin'. Joan's bloodcurdlin' brother wasn't satisfied with just a win—he wanted to finish his man. That baby was a fightin' fool!
Well, Young Stillwell liked to passed away when the club matchmaker banged on his dressin'-room door and told him that the manager of the world's heavyweight champion wished a word with him. This man-eatin' tiger was so timid that he couldn't speak.
I was already plannin' how I'd ease him along, teach him to hit from the shoulder, and knock 'em stiff with one wallop, instead of beatin' 'em down slowly with a hundred pulled from the ankle.
He nearly went cuckoo with joy when I told him he would get a chance to help condition Kid Roberts for his comin' championship battle with Knockout Pierce, as part of his own trainin', and I could of signed him to a agreement right then and there givin' me 90 per cent of his earnin's. But I give Young Stillwell a fair contract—in fact, what many's the pilot would call a sucker contract, with me the sucker.
Within the week Jimmy McManus, the fight promoter, called me and Knockout Pierce's manager into a conference, with the results that the date for the big quarrel was fin'ly set for two months later. Knock​out Pierce wanted to make it the same day, but ten years from then would of hit me better!
I rounded up Kid Roberts and told him to cancel all games he had scheduled with Dolores and Senator Brewster, because he was goin' to hit for the Maine woods immediately to ready up for Knockout Pierce. Before I was half-ways through he shut me off and begin to rave about the palace he had built on Long Island for him and Dolores. The last brick had just been laid a few days before, and nothin' would do but I must come right down with him and look it over. He was like a baby with a new toy, and bubbled away about the "blue room" and the "red room" and the gardens and this and that. He was less interested in the date of his fight with Knockout Pierce than a shark is interested in the price of ice skates. Before I realize it I am huddled beside him in his racin' car, burnin' the roads to Long Island.
Well, there is no use of me describin' the Kid's domicile, because that would make a serial itself. They seemed to be upward of a million rooms in it—rooms full of rugs which you sunk in up to your knees, and furniture which would of brought a pleased grin from Midas. They was a large, private swimmin' pool lookin' like pictures of the old Roman baths, a fully equipped gymnasium with a regulation ring and the etc., a ballroom that—exercise your own imagination, boys and girls, on the rest of the layout, and the wilder you guess the nearer you'll come!
Fin'ly we come to two big rooms joined together and Openin' into a bathroom as big as the average flat. ​There was a elegant view of the Sound from the windows, and it looked to me like there was every modern convenience in it with the exception of a airplane and maybe a private theater.
"A dude of a cave, Kid," I says admirin'ly. "Why—"
"I'm glad you like it," he butts in, throwin' his arm around my shoulders, "because—it's yours!"
Sweet Mamma! Can you imagine that?
Well, I don't know when I got the kick out of life like I did when Kid Roberts made that simple remark. In spite of the difference in our pedigrees and that it was only a accident which ever throwed us together at all, he was with me right to the end! He wanted me to come and live in his house with him, just like one of the family, and he must of knowed as I did that Dolores, which would be havin' the place filled with her society friends, would holler murder at the idea of a roughneck like me bein' a permanent ornament about the house. Yet for me the Kid was willin' to risk a jam with her. But I wasn't willin' to let him. I didn't want nothin' to come up which would start the faintest argument on my account, so after I thanked the Kid all over the place I explained to him that I'd be out of order there, or, at least, that I'd feel that way, and besides, I couldn't get out of the fight game with the ease that he was goin' to, because box fightin' is the only game I know. He broke in on me many times, tellin' me he'd take me in partnership with him and his dad, but I couldn't see that part of it either. Where in the Hades would I fit in Wall Street and society? Even whilst the Kid argued with me, my mind was ​wanderin'. Wanderin' back to Young Stillwell, which I was goin' to make lightweight champion of the world as sure as the ocean is damp and just as I made Kid Roberts king of the heavies. Kid Roberts was through after his fight with Knockout Pierce, but I had to continue on at the trade I was born to—and king maker ain't so bad a trade at that! You see, the story of Kid Roberts represents practically his whole career, but it's just a chapter in my life. Just a chapter!
I told the Kid about Young Stillwell and what I hoped to do with him, and when he seen it was no use to argue further he grinned and wished me luck, particularly in convincin' Joan that a box fighter ain't necessarily a bum. Well, on that point I had hopes, because I had managed to make the girl agree to see her brother box once, and I promised to tear up my contract with the boy if she asked me to after that. This come about in a odd way. There was what the Kid would call a incident happened which give me the delightful sensations of bein' a hero for a spell.
Havin' convinced Senator Brewster that she hadn't double-crossed us with that article in the Newark "Evenin' Yell," Joan was on one of Dolores' committees, campaignin' with her for the female vote. The senator's campaignin' manager, Mike Henderson, a wise old bird and a veteran at political tricks, took the angle that Joan's story in the Newark paper, which had been reprinted in New York, would do the senator more good than harm. He claimed the broadcast publication of the fact that his daughter was goin' to marry a box fighter would make a unqualified hit with the rough ​and readys, whilst the hint of his Wall Street connections, even though exaggerated, would do him no harm with that type of vote. Altogether, Big Mike was well pleased and had congratulated Joan in the Senator's office, prob'ly fallin' under the spell of them eyes himself. Joan would of gave a mummy a thrill! Senator Brewster, whilst not as enthusiastic as Henderson, had forgave Joan and was undoubtlessly interested in her.
But, anyways, Joan was speakin' from the back of a auto down on Tenth Avenue one night, with me and her brother along as bodyguards. We was right in the middle of the guy's territory which was runnin' against Senator Brewster, and there was some tough-lookin' babies gathered around the bus. The whole thing didn't take fifteen minutes, but that was long enough to close my right eye tighter than a drum and loosen a few odd teeth. Somebody made a insultin' crack, and Young Stillwell goes over the side of the car in one leap, both hands pumpin' fast. Joan let forth a shriek, and a guy jumpin' on the runnin' board copped the chauffeur on the jaw.
I flattened that baby with a chop on the side of the head, and then I figured that if Young Stillwell got badly hurt I would be out one comin' champion, whereas if I got beat up it wouldn't mean nothin'. Havin' got that settled I jumped into the strugglin' mass around the car, layin' about me right merrily, as the sayin' is. I ain't much of a gymnasium boxer myself, but if I do say it I fight a mean street brawl! There was two guys workin' on Stillwell, and I yanked him in back of me, pushin' him into the car whilst I buried my knee in the stomach of one of 'em and, with​out losin' position, socked the other one stiff with a right uppercut that not even Kid Roberts would of had to apologize for. The chauffeur had come to life by this time and started the motor, and after I have distributed a few more clouts where they would do the most good and—eh—stopped a few myself, I managed to jump back into the car again and we shot away, and that's all there was to that.
Joan wiped my face off with her handerchief and made a heavy fuss over me for "rescuin'" her, as she put it, whereas, to be frank with you, the main thing I was thinkin' of when I went over the top of that auto was that under no circumstances did I want my comin' champ beat up!
Well, I couldn't get Kid Roberts to come away from New York and Dolores, although four times we split up for good as a result of arguments over his ideas of trainin' for a championship fight. The best he would do was some mechanical boxin' and weight pullin' a few hours a day. There was times when I didn't even see him for days, and that's the way the two months went by till the day of the battle with Knockout Pierce and the last appearance in the ring of Kid Roberts.
I had Joan's brother set for one of the preliminaries. He was to go six rounds with "Shifty" Mullen—a tough boy—and I demanded and got $500 for him, more money than Young Stillwell had ever seen before in his life. As she promised, Joan was there beside me at the ringside, white-faced and tremblin', braced to see a bloody slaughter. The absence of his usual reception from the bigger, noisier, and nastier ​mob, the presence of his sister seein' him start for the first time, and the sullen glare across the ring of the rugged, experienced Shifty Mullen, all bothered this young wildcat the same way they are bothered in Iceland over the price of electric fans. Fightin' was Young Stillwell's gift—his trick! He touched gloves with Mullen, danced back till he felt the ropes against his skin, and then bounded off 'em like a maniac—nothin' else. The hard-boiled Mullen clipped him on the chin with a terrible right as he was comin' in, and then stepped away to let him fall. Young Stillwell grinned over to Joan and went to work on the body with both hands. Mullen tried everything he knew, but it was a waste of time. In two and a half minutes Young Stillwell had battered him to the canvas, where he was only too glad to stay—all through.
The boy got a big hand leavin' the ring, and Joan, her eyes sparklin', led the cheering. Her brother was back from the dressin' room in no time, unmarked, unruffled, and grinnin' his head off. I pulled him aside and slipped him the whole five hundred berries. I didn't take a nickel from the boy—the purse was too small, and then, again, I knowed I'd get mine later. He dumps the bills into Joan's lap and shouts that I've guaranteed him twenty thousand the next year. They was still excitedly chatterin' away to each other as Young Stillwell led her down the aisle and out, and a blind man could see Joan was a convert.
But Kid Roberts's fight—his last battle—was all different, and I was mighty glad that Joan had left the abattoir and that Dolores had kept away. Up against a remarkably clever, two-handed hitter, which had the ​priceless advantage of youth, perfect condition, reach, and about twelve pounds in weight, the champion fought a losin' fight almost from the first bell. The old stamina wasn't there, the old perfect timin' of punches was gone, the once terrible right hook had lost its kick.
Too much confidence, too much easy livin', chasin' around at all hours of the day and night makin' speeches for Senator Brewster, and the most fatal—holdin' Knockout Pierce too cheaply—told the story. With everything missin' but his heart, Kid Roberts fought eleven bloody, desperate rounds on that alone before goin' out like the champ of champs he was! He didn't need to make no apologies as he staggered down the aisle to his dressin' room after it was all over, between rows of guys which had gone crazy cheerin' him, and still kept on cheerin' him, ignorin' the flushed and pantin' new champion till they had give the Kid his due. That must of helped a little, hey?
Nobody amongst the odd 30,000 screamin' maniacs which seen Kid Roberts go down before Knockout Pierce sat on a chair from the first round to the finish—nobody could speak above a whisper for days afterward. At the very beginnin' there was enough sensation to satisfy Nero! After some light sparrin', the Kid led with his left, but was short and got a crack on the nose in return that brought the blood and a yell from Pierce's friendsof "How d'ye like him, Roberts?" Again the Kid tried his left, and this time landed solidly on the mouth, but Pierce shook his head and drove a wicked right to the wind and a left to the heart, showin' he had been tipped on the Kid's poor condition, and was ​instructed to work on the body. They exchanged light jabs in Pierce's corner, and, in dancin' away, Pierce slipped to the floor. Kid Roberts instantly stooped and helped him up, gettin' a big hand from the crowd and a shake from Pierce, who then suddenly ripped another right to the heart. The Kid's face paled and down come his guard. Wam! Like a flash Pierce had hooked his left to the jaw, and the champ sprawled on his back whilst the house was in a wild uproar.
Roberts was up at "seven," groggy but full of fight. He tried to rush Pierce, but this guy stepped coolly aside and floored the Kid again with a right chop to the side of the head. The Kid got to his hands and knees, pulled himself erect by the ropes, and, only waitin' till he straightened up with his arms danglin' helplessly, Pierce shot over two more hard rights, crashin' him again to the mat.
By this time the mob was tearin' up the seats, and I had bit entirely through my lower lip. The champion just beat the count by a eyelash, got up reelin', but had generalship enough left to fold his arms over his head and dive into a clinch. Pierce, strong as a young bull, shook him off, however, and was measurin' him for the finisher when the bell rang. Knockout Pierce run to his corner, wavin' his gloves at the crazy mob. The Kid sagged over against the ropes and would of fell through 'em if I hadn't grabbed him. His eyes was starin' vacantly at nothin'.
Well, a round-by-round account of this battle would not be pretty, and it brings back no fond memories to me, except to remind me of a exhibition of courage which has been seldom equaled and never surpassed in ​the history of a game where courage is the first requirement. From that heartbreakin' first round on, the Kid was on Queer Street, battlin' without a chance and battlin' on the pure fightin' instinct which must of been bred into him by centuries of thoroughbred stock.
In the fourth round Knockout Pierce devoted all his attention to the Kid's reddened body, and one of the champion's ribs, busted a year before by Dynamite Jackson, cracked again under the bombardment, changin' the Kid's complexion to a sickly gray with pain from then on. In Round Seven, Pierce closed the Kid's right eye tight, and in the ninth shut the other. Blinded, unable even to see where his punches was goin', the Kid wouldn't let me throw in the sponge, but stood up to his beatin' like somethin' even higher than a champion—if there es any such thing! Even the guys which had bet on Pierce was tearin' the air now with their cheers for Kid Roberts—or maybe their cheers was not so much for the battered, grimly pawin' Kid as they was for the fightin' heart which kept his tremblin' body erect. Man, pan the fight game all you want—call it brutal, disgustin', crooked, sordid, anything you please, but don't say you can't get a kick out of it!
In the tenth round Kid Roberts made a dyin' rally that panicked the already hysterical mob. Findin' Pierce, by instinct alone it must of been, he split his nose with a straight left and drove him to cover against the ropes with a desperate flurry of hooks and swings. But that was the last. Nature was beginnin' to reach for the sponge now! Yet this big stiff Pierce, his ​own heart broke by the Kid's superhuman exhibition of gameness, seemed unable to land the finishin' blow—the clean knockout which would of wound it up mercifully. I cursed that guy for a tramp till the referee warned me, as he cut and slashed wildly at the swayin', blinded champ, every blow that socked against that boy bein' a knife in my own poundin' heart.
Then, in the middle of the eleventh round, I couldn't stand it no longer! Kid Roberts, holdin' himself up with one arm on the ropes was feebly tryin' to protect himself with the other from a hurricane of rights and lefts to the head. Pierce was too excited at the prospects of a knockout to stand off and measure him, but was batterin' him to pieces with short, choppy blows. With tears that I ain't ashamed of streamin' down my face, I jumped through the ropes, pushed past the referee in between 'em and caught the Kid in my arms, shovin' my face into Pierce's and yellin' in a voice that I didn't recognize: "Leave him alone, you big stiff. You'll make a fine champ, you will! You're a hell of a finisher—you can't knock a dyin' man stiff!"
Then half the crowd was in the ring with me, and Knockout Pierce stood alone, whilst the mob fought to shake the hand of the loser.
For many's the week afterward the sport writers panned me to a fare-thee-well, arguin' that I lost Kid Roberts the title by committin' the foul of jumpin' into the ring. They claimed the Kid might of come back—that with his heart he always had a chance while he was in there. Well, boys and girls, that's what I funped in for. I wanted them babies to think just that! It was about the last thing I could do for Kid Roberts, ​anyways. The boy was licked, as they all have to be some time. Why should I let that big stiff cut him to pieces? I made him lose on a foul and saved him at least the disgrace a champ never forgets—bein' knocked stiff!
Well, that's about all. Senator Brewster was reelected; I don't remember by how much majority, but if it was one it was enough, hey? He presented Joan with a job as his private secretary and Dolores with a check for $250,000 when she married Kid Roberts, or Kane Halliday again now, a month after the fight. I had the exactin' portfolio of best man at the weddin' and Joan was a bridesmaid. It was a very quiet affair, no hullabaloo what the so ever, and they sailed for Europe right afterward, leavin' the loneliest guy in the world on the dock, meanin' me. I went back to the hotel, looked in the Kid's room which he would never occupy again, cussed a bit, and begin linin' up a campaign amongst the set-ups for Young Stillwell. Not bein' able to keep my mind on the subject, what with all the excitement and the etc., I called up Joan and, usin' nerve which I never thought was in me, I asked her could I take her to dinner and then maybe to a show. She said she'd be tickled silly, which made it two people which felt that way. I asked about Jimmy, her brother, and she says he's fine and is now goin' to bed at nine and gettin' up at six to do his road work.
"I hear nothing day and night but what a wonderful person you are," she says. "Jimmy already looks upon you as his big brother!"
"Eh—oh, he'll get over that," I says, kind of thrilled.
​"Maybe he will," says Joan, very soft, "but I won't!"
A couple of months later we sent the Kid a cable to Monte Carlo. I would liked to of seen his face when he read it.
The end