Nogales international., 1932-09-07
NOW, GO ON WITH THE STORY

Malone, in the dressing room with
the fighters, saw Sol Bernfeld slowly
count out three five dollar bills and
offer them to John. They were stand
ing in a corner, partly shielded by a
locker.
whats that?' Malone demanded
sharply, approaching the boy and his
manager.
"What I won. I get fifteen and Sol
gets ten; he's my manager" John ex-
planned.
"Say-you dirty crook" The trainer
glared at Sol, blanched to 9 deathly
pallor at the discovery of his duplicity.
''You give that boy his money"
Malone, with sudden grip, pulled the
retreating Bernfeld backward. Dig,
damn you-dig!" and he drove his ell
bow sharply into the middle of Soils
soft back Be-nfeld, wincins with pain,
hesitated. John eyed him with suspi-
cion. dig, you rotten crook" and Pug
Malone gave him second and much
harder hook in the back as a crisp
fifty dollar bill came to light. Malone
snatchcd this and handed it to John.
take that, son, you earned it. An
you," turning to Sol, "fade, an fade
fast. before you get what's comm to
you" Bernfeld took the hint without
delay
Whats your name, SOM" Malone
asked. you look white"
"Breen, sir, John Breen," the "sir"
slipping from some dormant cell, re-
corded, perhaps, while overhearing
Captain Breen address some wharf or
ship officer. Pug Malone, compact,
gray haired, and pink, looked like a
god to the boy.
"Whcre do you work." Malone
knew that John was not a professional.
with Mr., Lipvitch in the Clothing
Emporium"
"Pay?" demanded Malone.
eyes, sir, he pays me-" John felt his
benefactor was under criticism.
"Of course he does, son. How much
What do you get week."
"Three dollars = and board" John
added, by way of good measure.
Board Board!" Malone ran his
hand over the body of the boy. Board
-ratsp' And then, seeing the alarmed
look on Johns face, he went on in a
kindly tone. What you need is fcedin'.
Better stay here. I'll give you job,
five & week an real board. Rubin,
that's the work, an I'll train you, son,
an split right. Are you my boy?"
And so John Breen left the Ghetto
to enter the Bowery of the Greater
City of New York.
A year passed over the head of John
Breen, a year of ampler freedom and
of physical development, a year
charged with the elements of crime, of
drunkenness and brawling. John saw,
without knowing, the dregs of the city.
Blear-eyed victims of the sodden
slums of Chinatown drifted into the
bar at McManus' for a bowl of beer
and a snatch of lunch, then to sink
back again to the drug soaked atmos-
phere below. He saw these things
through the swinging doors between
the gym, at one end Of the dance hall,
and the private parlors and the bar. 1t
was merely another picture of the over
powering city, so tremendous in its
contrasts.
Pug Malone, ex-prize fighter, train
er for the Samson Sporting Club, a
hard, honest, medium sized, middle
aged man, shorn of his illusions,
watched over John Breen. John rose
at six, with Malone, jumping up in the
brisk air when he skipped rope, swung
the clubs and shadow boxed under the
eye of the trainer who sat on the edge
of his cot smoking his morning pipe.
After a half hour of this John turned
out the blankets to air, and master and
pupil met a string of boys at the rear
door of the club and ran hard for
another half hour before the awaken
ing of the city traffic, coming back to
the club for a cold shower and rub
down.
Malone and John then breakfasted
alone, in card room back of the bar,
on large bowls of oatmeal, bacon and
eggs, rolls and coffee. The day was
spent in taking care of string OF
fighters, boxing, rubbing and punching
the bag, or working at the chest ma
chimes. Regular meals, clean air, and
early 10 bed filled out his frame with
an abounding health that glowed and