# Fighting Back/Round 12

About thirty-six hundred months ago, Mr. W. Shakespeare which refused time and time again to appear in the movies, ride in a airplane, operate a typewriter, attend Ziegfeld Follies or speak over the radio, fin'ly bowed to public demand and consented to write the followin':
Well, that's all right as far as it goes, but like a bookkeeper's wages it don't go far enough, what I mean, For one thing, there's much more girls prowlin' gracefully around now than there was in the noted year of 1600 a.d.—which, as the initials shows, was All Different. Maybe in them days you could talk your ways into the tender hearts of what few ladies hadn't made other arrangements, but in the current year mere conversation will get you nowheres with the skin you love to touch!
By a odd coincidence, the modern damsel's motto is that actions talk much more vociferous than re​marks. She craves to hear "I love you!" every bit as well as Eve did, but she demands some proofs of that highly popular method of gettin' her kind attention. In the olden times, a well-placed kiss would satisfy the little woman that you was maniacal about her and you could get away with murder. But that's all damp to-day. Instead of bein' the golden band which shows the world you're her lord and master, the weddin' ring is a platinum hoop through which hubby has got to jump when wifie says so, or she absolutely won't play!
After punchin' Guardsman Blue incoherent the Kid made up our minds that he was ripe to quit the boxin' racket forever and a day. The young man wished to devote his entire time and attentions to the difficult feat of winnin' back the comely Dolores, still A. W. O. L. from the dear old family hearth. But whilst havin' important money, Kid Roberts was now more than willin' to leave the ring flat, the idea of his delicious helpmeet bein' in politics was just as unappetizin' to him as him being a box fighter was to her. But all set to do his wife a favor and swear off breakin' noses, he felt the least she could do in return was to meet him half ways by throwin' up her job in the senate. Kid Roberts figured she'd have to do it eventually, so why not now?
How the so ever, the confident Kid reckoned without his hostess. Hurt by his previous refusals to forget about the manly art of self-defence for her sake and all hopped up over her win at the polls, which she expected like she expected to become Queen of Siam, ​Dolores was the exact opposite of anxious to give up her brand new honors at what she considered a mere wave of the hand from her formerly indifferent husband, Woman-like, she thought Kid Roberts had a little more punishment comin' to him and that she rated much coaxin' and plenty pettin' before she'd kiss and make up. Well, even though they're full of the best intentions in the world, there's some masculines which just ain't got a hobby of goin' down on their knees whilst beggin' your pardon.
Kid Roberts was one of 'em.
As I'd handled the Kid in as many battles with his wife as I'd went behind him in his brawls in the ring, he requested the slight boon of my presence at the big pow wow with Dolores. There was nothin' phenomenal in that—I was well known to 'em both. As usual, Mr. Conference started off beautiful and wound up pitiful!
"Why—why, Kane!" breathes Dolores, as she lamps her former fireside companion.
Kid Roberts stares at his charmin' opponent like she was Eve and he was Adam, Neither of 'em give me a tumble.
"Dolores!" he says, a bit dreamily.
So far, everything is jake. Then the fun began!
"Sweetheart, I've thrown away my boxing gloves forever!" says the Kid.
They clinch and no referee in the world would of had the heart to break 'em, no kiddin'!
"That's the best news I've heard since my election to the senate!" says Dolores, the photograph of hap​piness, "I'll send Jimpson right over to your hotel for your things and—" she stops, blushin'. I started to the street myself, but the Kid stops me by flickin' a eyebrow, a old signal between us.
"Of course, dear, this means that you'll esti from the senate at once, doesn't it?" asks Kid Roberts, like he's merely statin' a fact they both take for granted.
The prettiest face I ever seen loses the joyful smile with the speed of radio or light—whichever's the fastest. Dolores kind of squares her lovely shoulders and emits a frown.
"Why, Kane," she says softly to her sparrin' partner, "I cannot see why my career in politics should be interrupted or—or how it might jeopardize our happiness in any way. Many professional women are happily married and——"
"And you expect me to discard my title of world's champion to be known merely as the husband of the—er—famous Dolores Halliday, state senator," butts in the Kid, two miles above the height of sarcasm.
"I do not expect you to do anything you do not want to do, Kane—you never have, you know!" says Dolores, coldly.
That got the desired results and the panic was on!
Steamed by his frow's catty remark, Kid Roberts hotly accused her of knifin' the voters whose ballots elected her, by introducin' bills against boxin'. Dolores come back with equally heavy artillery and the fun waxed fast and furious, comin' to a raucous close with a ton of grief for both as of yore. Dolores was ​weepin' and the Kid gnashin' his pearly teeth when they parted, with nothin' further between 'em than a heartily banged door!
In the meanwhile, a new and sensational heavyweight has flashed across the boxin' horizon in what I'll call a spectacular fashion. This big blah was known far and wide as the "Fightin' Sheik", for the main reasons that he's supposed to be a full-blooded Arabian of important birth. The name his admirin' parents made him a present of was somethin' no announcer could cope with, so he's slappin' 'em stiff under the tasty cognomen of "Jack Thomas." Hon Thomas, which stood six foot seven inches with his wavy hair brushed back and weighed two hundred and forty-five pounds after a shave, has dumfounded Europe and South America by a uninterrupted series of one-round knockouts of the foreign heavies. As we all know, knockin' out foreign heavies is only givin' 'em what they've learned to expect. Still, turnin' the trick in one frame ain't exactly a common practice, at that—most of 'em don't last that long, what I mean.
Well, to the New York fight promoters, always willin' to take the best of it, this Samson of the desert looks like a ham bone looks to a Airedale. Mr. Jack Thomas is the find of the century! As far as the nude eye can see, there ain't nobody in the good old U. S. A. which is capable of givin' the world's champion, Kid Roberts, as much as a good, stiff workout and the promoters reason rightly that regardless of whether or not Thomas is a bum, he'll certainly do till one comes along. They figure that the Inter​national flavor of a bout between the Arab and Kid Roberts would pack even Central Park to its furthest shrubbery—picture the publicity value of a properly built up fightin' sheik!
A cloudburst of cables descends on Thomas and his manager, which is boundin' around sweet old England, flattenin' the divin' Joe Becketts and the like as fast as they come along. It's triple easy to sell the battlin' and money lovin' Arabian the idea that he should see America first, particularly when a guarantee of $100,000 for a setto with Kid Roberts is served up pipin' hot with the courteous invitation. Then the boys which loves to keep the manly art—and their bank accounts—alive, comes cuddlin' up to me and Kid Roberts. For the paltry favor of pushin' this Jack Thomas loose from his reputed equilibrium we could have anything our little hearts desired—try and get it!
Should they of sit up all night plannin' ways and means, the fight promoters couldn't of approached the champion at a better time to do business. The Kid was as hot as a saxophone player and no mistake! The refusal of his wife to forget about politics had him fit to be chained to a post and the sport writers' printed remarks about him bein' a "burnt out, battle-scarred veteran" turned him red-headed. All his resolutions went by the board and in less than a week the fumin' Kid Roberts signs to cuff Jack Thomas for $300,000—win, lose, draw or what have you?
About this time the boxin' game was gave one of the biggest boosts it ever got since David stopped ​Goliath with a punch. Said boost was the complete retirement from the ring of Ptomaine Joe which left a record for the boys to shoot at for some time to come. A perfect percentage—not a single win in a entire career in the ring. Hot puppy!
This parsnip seeks me out in the trainin' camp one day.
"Hold everything!" he says, "and get set for a shock!"
"On your way, Ignorant," I answers, the height of courtesy, "I wouldn't loan you a nickel if I had two more than there is in the mint!"
"And I wouldn't ask you for one if I knowed where I could buy a steam yacht with it!" says Ptomaine. "You'd think you was payin' teller durin' your spare time—always talkin' about money. If——"
"Come to the point and be done with it, will you?" I butt in harshly.
"You don't give me the opportunity," complains Ptomaine, "It's a wonder you ain't on the board of pardons—you never let nobody finish a sentence!"
"That wins!" I says, throwin' up my hands. "Do your stuff and make it snappy!"
"Well," says Ptomaine, "what I wished to state was 'at the fight industry will have to crawl along without my valuable services from now on. I'll never pull on another boxin' glove as long as I'm allowed to breathe! If Kid Roberts was wise, he'd quit the game too and let this Arabian punk content himself with shadow boxin'. Old Father Time is startin' to tell on the champ, just like it ison me. We're pretty much alike."
​"Under the arms!" I says, "Y'know, Ptomaine, you always been a puzzle to me at that. You seem to be poison in a rough and tumble, I've saw you baffle a dozen guys in free-for-alls. How is it that one man seems to be just one too many for you?"
"They ain't nothin' mysterious about 'at," says Ptomaine. "One man was just one too many for Abel, too!"
Well, before another couple of weeks had visited us and departed, Ptomaine Joe hands us shock number two and this one was more astoundin' than his welcome resignation from the prize ring. Kid Roberts sends him up to his wife's home with a note one day and that day was either the luckiest or the unluckiest in Ptomaine's life! Whilst deliverin' the message, he crossed the path of Dolores' pretty French maid Yvonne and a tasty number she was, too, like the ones you see in the plays and movies—and nowheres else. Our unhandsome hero run right to past performances and fell for Yvonne like Antony crashed for the noted Cleo. In fact, when Ptomaine staggered back to the trainin' camp he was "drunk with love!", as he put it himself. Assisted by what Frog he picked up in Paris as the results of the draft and his wild cravin' for Yvonne, he then starts in a busy campaign for that damsel's heart.
Well, boys and girls, this time Ptomaine got service! He strutted in on the open-mouthed camp one afternoon with his chest out three lineal feet and the shyly blushin' Yvonne on his arm.
"Meet the wife—don't laugh!" says Ptomaine.
​Frankie Finn and One-Round Fay, two of the Kid's sparrin' partners, looked from the eye-widenin' Yvonne to Ptomaine's fearful features and then turned away, shakin' their bullet-heads in silent wonderment. When Kid Roberts recovers from this typical case of unexpectedness, he smiles and bows to Yvonne, crackin' somethin' in her own tongue which makes the gal flush with pleasure. Then he shakes Ptomaine's hand heartily and wished him the thing the grinnin' Ptomaine was goin' to need most—luck!
"Well, Ptomaine," I says with a sigh of deep relief, as Kid Roberts walks away, "I'm certainly fearful delighted that you're now off my hands and in charge of somebody else for life! You couldn't of done nothin' which would please me better than gettin' wed. Eh—what are you and Yvonne goin' to use for money?"
"I ain't annoyed about money, you sarcastical monkey," grows Ptomaine. "And besides, Yvonne ain't exactly no pauper and she's got a good job to boot. We're sittin' pretty, and in due time, after I've rested up from the rush and bustle of the honeymoon, I can win myself a job as a chef anywheres, I ain't one of them stuck-up husbands which is too proud to work after they're married!"
Payin' not the slightest of slight attention to the loud guffaws of the Kid's handlers, Ptomaine then proudly relates how he made Yvonne see her ways clear into committin' the lunatical act of marryin' him.
"Needless delays and a faint heart is what beat me with the women in the dim past," he says, "so first I ​learned enough Frog to ask Yvonne this simple little question, to viz, 'Will you wed me, Kid?' Well bein' a smart girl, Yvonne immediately hung her comely head and murmured soft and low, 'Mais oui!'—'at's Paris for 'Absolutely!' This gets me a bit delirious, but I says, 'Thanks very much!' and rushed her off to a minister before she knowed what it was all about. Yvonne's one of the main reasons I left the ring, because she didn't wish to be married to no prize fighter, which I'm glad to say I ain't any more!"
"When was you one?" I asks.
"C'mon, Yvonne, let's leave these roughnecks," says Ptomaine. "We've did enough slummin' for to-day!"
It took half the trainin' camp to hold me and the big stiff got away.
In due course of time, Jack Thomas, the Arabian Goliath, unboated himself at the United States and is met at the dock by an army of sport writers and photographers. From the reception this gil got he might of been one of them foreign lecturers which loathes our manners, but loves our dollars—the difference bein' that there was a chance that the Arab really had somethin' to deliver. The mammoth Thomas at least looked like a killer and for days afterwards the sport pages is full of his sensational history and the stark terror he'd created in the ring. Lady writers interviewed him from the female points of view, he was photographed almost hourly and generally gave the freedom of the city by New York, which is much freer with that than with anything else.
Well, Thomas at once goes into secret trainin' for ​a quickly arranged bout with Bill McCann, a fearful set-up hand-picked by the careful promoters of the Arabian's fight with Kid Roberts. The reason for this preliminary showin' of the dizzy sheik's wares, was that the hard-boiled sport writers insisted on the rights of the fans to see a sample of how Mr. Thomas conducted himself in a prize ring before payin' famine prices to witness his collision with the world's champion. Both me and Kid Roberts was muchly pleased when we hear that the Arab is trainin' behind locked doors and won't even let the newspaper guys in to see him workout. That kind of stuff is usually the tip-off that a fighter's got somethin' either him or the promoters wishes to hide from the boxin' sharps—in other words, that he's not so good.
The Jack Thomas-Bill McCann hippodrome lasted just fifty-nine seconds, the Arab knockin' the badly scared McCann dead with a punch. In fact, the "fight" was over so swiftly that nobody had a chance to get the faintest line on the Arabian scrapper's ability to box or take punishment. There seemed to be no doubt that the foreign importation could hit, but what he would do against a seasoned ring general and master boxer like Kid Roberts, which would be steppin' around him and exchangin' blow for blow, was somethin' else again.
I'll tell you what he done!
There was only a few which recalled that Bill McCann was a twenty-eighth rater, but thousands remembered that the Arab had stopped him with a single right to the jaw. Therefore, the overflow ​crowd hoped for by the promoters turned out for the Kid Roberts-Jack Thomas battle, with the world's heavyweight championship at stake. Kid Roberts, the first to enter the ring, got his regular five-minute ovation—a clean liver, square fighter and murderous hitter, the Kid was always a popular champ. The dusky Thomas tramped down the aisle a few minutes later, loomin' up like the Woolworth Buildin' with a bathrobe on. The Arabian, too, got a thunderous cheer; after all, the mob was there to see bloodshed and violence and plenty of both—deep in the fight fan's heart he knows when his yell splits the roof he's not applaudin' one combatant or the other as much as the game itself!
Kid Roberts grinned like a boy at his warm reception and waved his gloved hands at the boisterous crowd. The Arab bowed very solemnly to one and all, then sat unsmilin'ly on his stool, as dignified as a rajah. At this point, Ptomaine Joe makes the unpleasant discovery that Thomas' seconds is Rough House Williams and Two-Punch McGazzatti—both of which gents has had the extreme pleasure of flattenin' Ptomaine in the ring. Some suitable backroom repartee follows which delights the ringsiders, quick to recognize Ptomaine as one of the greatest dry tank divers which ever laced on a boxin' glove. Don't blame me for not repeatin' here the above-mentioned repartee. I try to be a gentleman at all times if it's in any way possible, and besides, there's laws about what kind of words you can print.
Well, the fightin' sheik looked very impressive durin' ​the introductions, the posin' for the newspaper photographers, the instructions from the referee and the general thrillin' bustle of this and that which always comes before the first bell in a big fight. As he stood in his corner, facin' the noisy crowd and awaitin' the openin' gong, Mr. Jack Thomas from far off Arabia certainly seemed able to prevent himself from bein' picked on, "Get him quick!" was all the instructions I felt called upon to give Kid Roberts, before I grabbed the stool and ducked down under the ropes.
I've had some surprises in my life and I take it for granted I'm due for some more before the embalmer looks me over with a professional eye and quotes a price for the job. But the league-leader to date is the surprise I got a few seconds after this Arabian world-beater turned to face Kid Roberts at the bell. Honest to Baltimore, Thomas was a terrible joke—he was simply horrible! He seemed to know nothin' what the so ever about the scientific end of the game and his clumsy swings missed the smilin', nimble-footed champion by a city block! The desert warrior's left hand seemed to be more in his way than anything else and he soon let it hang useless at his side. Clumpin' around the ring like a bull elephant, the snortin' Thomas clubbed at Kid Roberts with his aimless right. Whilst any one of these terrible clouts would of ruined the Kid had they landed, there was no more chance of them landin' than there's a chance of me bein' favorably mentioned in Rockfeller's will! Twice the Arabian giant fell flat on his pan as the result of missin' wild haymakers and Kid Roberts ​danced around him cuttin' him to ribbons, but apparently unable to put him away on account of his uncalled for size.
At first the crowd was thunderstruck by the Arab's clownish exhibition, then enraged and fin'ly convulsed with laughter at his weird antics. As matters went along, the sheik got better—as an entertainer. Every time one of the Kid's busy gloves thudded home into some part of his rapidly reddenin' body, Thomas would wow the customers by howlin' a wild Arabian oath and gallopin' madly around the ring, the while makin' horrible faces at the Kid. Even repeated warnin's from the almost hysterical referee failed to improve Mr. Arab's style, though it did make him look longin'ly at that official, like he would love to smack him down.
But the real thrills of the evenin' was yet to come! The mob had paid fancy prices to see a fight and not no circus. They soon got tired laughin' and begin a bedlam of groans, jeers and squawks for their money back. Cushions, programs, pop bottles and similar confetti begin hurtlin' into the ring and the place was in a uproar. Ptomaine loudly beseeched me to let him through the ropes and take just one punch at the Arab, as here at last is a guy he knows he can knock off!
The referee disgustedly leans down over the ropes and tells the merrily guffawin' reporters that he's about made up his mind to stop this farce and call it "no contest," when the Arabian nightmare takes matters into his own hands. Infuriated at his inability to connect solidly with the grinnin' Kid Roberts, Thomas ​suddenly rushes blindly into a clinch and durin' the mix-up which follows, he deliberately sinks his flashin' teeth in the Kid's left ear!
Leapin' Tuna! You should of heard that crowd!
When the startled referee recovered his senses, he immediately stopped proceedin's and raised Kid Roberts' gloved hand, awardin' the champion the fight on a foul amidst the wildest confusion. That was O. K.—the referee couldn't do nothin' else—but it wasn't enough for Ptomaine Joe! This gent prob'ly thought the already overfed patrons hadn't yet had enough amusement for their money and he decided to personally remedy the shortage.
Enraged by the cannibal tactics of the Arab in tryin' to graze from the Kid's ear, Ptomaine broke away from me and jumped into the ring. His face is as grim as a death sentence as he starts for the bitin' sheik's corner—he looks business, what I mean! The foreigner's handlers, Rough House Williams and Two-Punch McGazzatti, rush forward to protect their man, but the thoroughly burnt up Ptomaine was in no mood for nonsense. Had them babies tackled Ptomaine one at a time they might of stopped him, but they tried to gang him and that was their hard luck! Ptomaine whinnied, "Come on, like it!" with pure delight and tied into them. When the smoke of battle cleared away, both of Ptomaine's former conquerors was stretched flat on the canvas as cold as a loan shark's heart! All Ptomaine got out of it was two or three deep breaths.
The coppers swarm into the ring as Thomas, with ​a angry bellow, gets off his stool to come to the rescue of his seconds. That was what you might call a illadvised move! Ptomaine curls his lip at the Arabian, then, apropos of nothin', he puts the entire weight of his two hundred odd muscular pounds behind a right swing which clipped his tête-à-tête right on the button. The Arab hit the floor like he fell off the city hall roof and he couldn't of got up had he been called by Gabriel! Cheers which quivered the buildin's foundations greeted Ptomaine's three knockouts and then the attendance stumbled and milled hurriedly to the exits as the blood-thirsty chef leans over the ropes and howls for more victims. The admirin' coppers looked at him and become ungruff as they politely asked him to leave the ring and finish his killin's elsewhere.
"Well, boys—that was the last one!" says Kid Roberts to the sport writers in his dressin' room, whilst Ptomaine is impatiently tryin' to be interviewed. "Regardless of what the future may hold for me, I'm through with the ring forever! I'm retiring an undefeated champion, but I don't want the title. Let the others fight it out for——"
"It makes great copy, Kid!" butts in one of the younger reporters, excitedly. "Your wife at the ringside during your last fight—plenty of human interest and color there, eh?"
"What on earth are you talking about?" asks the Kid, turnin' pale. "My wife is at Albany!"
"Your wife was in a box, four rows back of me!" says the reporter. "D'ye mean to say you didn't know she was here?"
​But Kid Roberts has dashed out the door!
When I got to our hotel with Ptomaine later, I found a note from the Kid in my box to the effects that if I expected to see him before the next mornin' I was crazy. How the so ever, if anything come up that I had to get hold of him I could reach him at Rhinelander 87449. In the telephone novel, that number's listed as the home of my athalete's wife!
Well, the next day Kid Roberts showed up at our inn about noon. He's gaily whistlin' a tune and looks ten years younger than he did the night before in the ting, what I mean. Honest, he capers about the room like a schoolboy, without no explanation of what's detained him, why, and what the Indianapolis is the matter with him. How the so ever, at last my peevish questions gets startlin' results. The Kid stops his whistlin' selection long enough to inform me that Dolores really was among those present at the "battle" the night before. Without givin' me time to recover from that bit of unlooked for news, he adds happily that him and Dolores has kissed and made up and she's goin' to leave the state senate flat on its vertebræ!
"You see, Joe," says Kid Roberts, "Dolores had to attend the fight last night in her official capacity as a senator, through her being on a committee investigating the alleged brutality of boxing contests in New York."
"I get you," I says. "Well, the only thing brutal about that bout was the prices they charged the fans for viewin' it!"
​"Exactly!" frowns the Kid. Then he brightens up again. "However, Dolores realizes that it was the admirers of boxing who put her in the senate and she doesn't wish to betray them by voting to suppress the sport. At the same time, she personally still believes pugilism brutal and degrading and her conscience won't allow her to vote in favor of its continuance. So she has agreed with me that the best way out of her dilemma is to resign. Besides, Dolores is about fed up on politics, as sordid to her now as my—eh—former profession. She thinks she can be a much more useful citizen in her home with her husband than in the state senate, Joe."
"What a talk you must of released last night to sell her all that!" I says, in honest admiration.
"We're going on a round-the-world trip for a second honeymoon," smiles Kid Roberts. "Sail in a couple of weeks." He suddenly turns to Ptomaine Joe, which has been glumly listenin' to all this interestin' conversation—silent for the first time in his life! "How about you, Ptomaine?" the Kid asks him. "You're a married man, now, you know, and have serious responsibilities. What are you going to do?"
Heartbroken at this approachin' separation from his god, Ptomaine blinks a few times, clears his throat and mumbles that he don't know what he'll actually do, but what he feels like doin' is jumpin' off the dock!
Kid Roberts laughs and pats him on the back.
"You're just a big, overgrown kid, Ptomaine," he says, affectionately. "How do you like this proposition? Yvonne will of course accompany Mrs. Halli​day—would you care to go along with your wife as—as—well, bodyguard and valet until we return, and then, why—by Gad, I have it, you can practise your culinary arts in my kitchen!"
"Hot towel!" bellers Ptomaine, knockin' me half ways across the room with a joyful slap on the shoulders. "See what I got by bein' the cat's spats with a skillet!"
We left him and walked into the next room. Not just manager and fighter, but pals through the best and the worst of it for manys the year. The lump in my throat wasn't no tonsillitis and the moisture in the Kid's eyes didn't come from no cold in the head, either!
"Why not go with us, Joe?" says Kid Roberts, after a minute's embarrassin' silence.
I figured I'd bust out weepin' if I didn't take the air right away. Believe me, I felt plenty low!
"I can't spare the time now, Kid," I says, grippin' his hand and forcin' a smile. "I'll see you when you get back. I been tipped on a middleweight in Atlanta which they claim is the next champ. I'm goin' to dash down and look the boy over, just for fun—I looked you over just for fun once, remember?"
Now you tell one!
The End