Sally's emotions, as she sat in her apartment on the morning of herreturn to New York, resembled somewhat those of a swimmer who, afterwavering on a raw morning at the brink of a chill pool, nerves himselfto the plunge. She was aching, but she knew that she had done well. Ifshe wanted happiness, she must fight for it, and for all these monthsshe had been shirking the fight. She had done with wavering on thebrink, and here she was, in mid-stream, ready for whatever might befall.
It hurt, this coming to grips. She had expected it to hurt. But it was apain that stimulated, not a dull melancholy that smothered. She feltalive and defiant.
She had finished unpacking and tidying up. The next move was certainlyto go and see Ginger. She had suddenly become aware that she wanted verybadly to see Ginger. His stolid friendliness would be a support and aprop. She wished now that she had sent him a cable, so that he couldhave met her at the dock. It had been rather terrible at the dock. Theechoing customs sheds had sapped her valour and she felt alone andforlorn.
She looked at her watch, and was surprised to find how early it was.
She could catch him at the office and make him take her out to lunch.
She put on her hat and went out.
The restless hand of change, always active in New York, had not sparedthe outer office of the Fillmore Nicholas Theatrical Enterprises Ltd. inthe months of her absence. She was greeted on her arrival by an entirelynew and original stripling in the place of the one with whom at her lastvisit she had established such cordial relations. Like his predecessorhe was generously pimpled, but there the resemblance stopped. He was agrim boy, and his manner was stern and suspicious. He peered narrowly atSally for a moment as if he had caught her in the act of purloining theoffice blotting-paper, then, with no little acerbity, desired her tostate her business.
"I want Mr. Kemp," said Sally.
The office-boy scratched his cheek dourly with a ruler. No one wouldhave guessed, so austere was his aspect, that a moment before herentrance he had been trying to balance it on his chin, juggling thewhile with a pair of paper-weights. For, impervious as he seemed tohuman weaknesses, it was this lad's ambition one day to go intovaudeville.
"What name?" he said, coldly.
"Nicholas," said Sally. "I am Mr. Nicholas' sister."On a previous occasion when she had made this announcement, disastrousresults had ensued; but to-day it went well. It seemed to hit theoffice-boy like a bullet. He started convulsively, opened his mouth,and dropped the ruler. In the interval of stooping and recovering it hewas able to pull himself together. He had not been curious about Sally'sname. What he had wished was to have the name of the person for whom shewas asking repeated. He now perceived that he had had a bit of luck. Awearying period of disappointment in the matter of keeping thepaper-weights circulating while balancing the ruler, had left himpeevish, and it had been his intention to work off his ill-humour on theyoung visitor. The discovery that it was the boss's sister who wastaking up his time, suggested the advisability of a radical change oftactics. He had stooped with a frown: he returned to the perpendicularwith a smile that was positively winning. It was like the sun suddenlybursting through a London fog.
"Will you take a seat, lady?" he said, with polished courtesy evenunbending so far as to reach out and dust one with the sleeve of hiscoat. He added that the morning was a fine one.
"Thank you," said Sally. "Will you tell him I'm here.""Mr. Nicholas is out, miss," said the office-boy, with gentlemanlyregret. "He's back in New York, but he's gone out.""I don't want Mr. Nicholas. I want Mr. Kemp.""Mr. Kemp?""Yes, Mr. Kemp."Sorrow at his inability to oblige shone from every hill-top on the boy'sface.
"Don't know of anyone of that name around here," he said,apologetically.
"But surely..." Sally broke off suddenly. A grim foreboding had come toher. "How long have you been here?" she asked.
"All day, ma'am," said the office-boy, with the manner of a Casablanca.
"I mean, how long have you been employed here?""Just over a month, miss.""Hasn't Mr. Kemp been in the office all that time?""Name's new to me, lady. Does he look like anything? I meanter say,what's he look like?""He has very red hair.""Never seen him in here," said the office-boy. The truth shone coldlyon Sally. She blamed herself for ever having gone away, and told herselfthat she might have known what would happen. Left to his own resources,the unhappy Ginger had once more made a hash of it. And this hash musthave been a more notable and outstanding hash than any of his previousefforts, for, surely, Fillmore would not lightly have dismissed one whohad come to him under her special protection.
"Where is Mr. Nicholas?" she asked. It seemed to her that Fillmore wasthe only possible source of information. "Did you say he was out?""Really out, miss," said the office-boy, with engaging candour. "Hewent off to White Plains in his automobile half-an-hour ago.""White Plains? What for?"The pimpled stripling had now given himself up wholeheartedly to socialchit-chat. Usually he liked his time to himself and resented theintrusion of the outer world, for he who had chosen jugglery for hiswalk in life must neglect no opportunity of practising: but sofavourable was the impression which Sally had made on his plastic mindthat he was delighted to converse with her as long as she wished.
"I guess what's happened is, he's gone up to take a look at BugsButler," he said.
"Whose butler?" said Sally mystified.
The office-boy smiled a tolerant smile. Though an admirer of the sex,he was aware that women were seldom hep to the really important thingsin life. He did not blame them. That was the way they were constructed,and one simply had to accept it.
"Bugs Butler is training up at White Plains, miss.""Who is Bugs Butler?"Something of his former bleakness of aspect returned to the office-boy.
Sally's question had opened up a subject on which he felt deeply.
"Ah!" he replied, losing his air of respectful deference as heapproached the topic. "Who is he! That's what they're all saying, allthe wise guys. Who has Bugs Butler ever licked?""I don't know," said Sally, for he had fixed her with a penetrating gazeand seemed to be pausing for a reply.
"Nor nobody else," said the stripling vehemently. "A lot of stiffs outon the coast, that's all. Ginks nobody has ever heard of, except CycloneMullins, and it took that false alarm fifteen rounds to get a referee'sdecision over him. The boss would go and give him a chance against thechamp, but I could have told him that the legitimate contender was K-legBinns. K-leg put Cyclone Mullins out in the fifth. Well," said theoffice-boy in the overwrought tone of one chafing at human folly, "ifanybody thinks Bugs Butler can last six rounds with Lew Lucas, I've twobucks right here in my vest pocket that says it ain't so."Sally began to see daylight.
"Oh, Bugs--Mr. Butler is one of the boxers in this fight that my brotheris interested in?""That's right. He's going up against the lightweight champ. Lew Lucasis the lightweight champ. He's a bird!""Yes?" said Sally. This youth had a way of looking at her with his headcocked on one side as though he expected her to say something.
"Yes, sir!" said the stripling with emphasis. "Lew Lucas is a hotsketch. He used to live on the next street to me," he added as clinchingevidence of his hero's prowess. "I've seen his old mother as close as Iam to you. Say, I seen her a hundred times. Is any stiff of a BugsButler going to lick a fellow like that?""It doesn't seem likely.""You spoke it!" said the lad crisply, striking unsuccessfully at a flywhich had settled on the blotting-paper.
There was a pause. Sally started to rise.
"And there's another thing," said the office-boy, loath to close thesubject. "Can Bugs Butler make a hundred and thirty-five ringsidewithout being weak?""It sounds awfully difficult.""They say he's clever." The expert laughed satirically. "Well, what'sthat going to get him? The poor fish can't punch a hole in anut-sundae.""You don't seem to like Mr. Butler.""Oh, I've nothing against him," said the office-boy magnanimously.
"I'm only saying he's no licence to be mixing it with Lew Lucas."Sally got up. Absorbing as this chat on current form was, moreimportant matters claimed her attention.
"How shall I find my brother when I get to White Plains?" she asked.
"Oh, anybody'll show you the way to the training-camp. If you hurry,there's a train you can make now.""Thank you very much.""You're welcome."He opened the door for her with an old-world politeness which disuse hadrendered a little rusty: then, with an air of getting back to businessafter a pleasant but frivolous interlude, he took up the paper-weightsonce more and placed the ruler with nice care on his upturned chin.
Fillmore heaved a sigh of relief and began to sidle from the room. Itwas a large room, half barn, half gymnasium. Athletic appliances ofvarious kinds hung on the walls and in the middle there was a wideroped-off space, around which a small crowd had distributed itself withan air of expectancy. This is a commercial age, and the days when aprominent pugilist's training activities used to be hidden from thepublic gaze are over. To-day, if the public can lay its hands on fiftycents, it may come and gaze its fill. This afternoon, plutocrats to thenumber of about forty had assembled, though not all of these, to theregret of Mr. Lester Burrowes, the manager of the eminent Bugs Butler,had parted with solid coin. Many of those present were newspaperrepresentatives and on the free list--writers who would polish up Mr.
Butler's somewhat crude prognostications as to what he proposed to do toMr. Lew Lucas, and would report him as saying, "I am in really superbcondition and feel little apprehension of the issue," and artists whowould depict him in a state of semi-nudity with feet several sizes toolarge for any man.
The reason for Fillmore's relief was that Mr. Burrowes, who was a greattalker and had buttonholed him a quarter of an hour ago, had at last hadhis attention distracted elsewhere, and had gone off to investigatesome matter that called for his personal handling, leaving Fillmore freeto slide away to the hotel and get a bite to eat, which he sorelyneeded. The zeal which had brought him to the training-camp to inspectthe final day of Mr. Butler's preparation--for the fight was to takeplace on the morrow--had been so great that he had omitted to lunchbefore leaving New York.
So Fillmore made thankfully for the door. And it was at the door thathe encountered Sally. He was looking over his shoulder at the moment,and was not aware of her presence till she spoke.
"Hallo, Fillmore!"Sally had spoken softly, but a dynamite explosion could not haveshattered her brother's composure with more completeness. In the leapingtwist which brought him facing her, he rose a clear three inches fromthe floor. He had a confused sensation, as though his nervous system hadbeen stirred up with a pole. He struggled for breath and moistened hislips with the tip of his tongue, staring at her continuously during theprocess.
Great men, in their moments of weakness, are to be pitied rather thanscorned. If ever a man had an excuse for leaping like a young ram,Fillmore had it. He had left Sally not much more than a week ago inEngland, in Shropshire, at Monk's Crofton. She had said nothing of anyintention on her part of leaving the country, the county, or the house.
Yet here she was, in Bugs Butler's training-camp at White Plains, in theState of New York, speaking softly in his ear without even going throughthe preliminary of tapping him on the shoulder to advertise herpresence. No wonder that Fillmore was startled. And no wonder that, ashe adjusted his faculties to the situation, there crept upon him a chillapprehension.
For Fillmore had not been blind to the significance of that invitationto Monk's Crofton. Nowadays your wooer does not formally approach agirl's nearest relative and ask permission to pay his addresses; but,when he invites her and that nearest relative to his country home andcollects all the rest of the family to meet her, the thing may be saidto have advanced beyond the realms of mere speculation. ShrewdlyFillmore had deduced that Bruce Carmyle was in love with Sally, andmentally he had joined their hands and given them a brother's blessing.
And now it was only too plain that disaster must have occurred. If theinvitation could mean only one thing, so also could Sally's presence atWhite Plains mean only one thing.
"Sally!" A croaking whisper was the best he could achieve. "What...
what... ?""Did I startle you? I'm sorry.""What are you doing here? Why aren't you at Monk's Crofton?"Sally glanced past him at the ring and the crowd around it.
"I decided I wanted to get back to America. Circumstances arose whichmade it pleasanter to leave Monk's Crofton.""Do you mean to say... ?""Yes. Don't let's talk about it.""Do you mean to say," persisted Fillmore, "that Carmyle proposed to youand you turned him down?"Sally flushed.
"I don't think it's particularly nice to talk about that sort of thing,but--yes."A feeling of desolation overcame Fillmore. That conviction, whichsaddens us at all times, of the wilful bone-headedness of our fellowsswept coldly upon him. Everything had been so perfect, the wholearrangement so ideal, that it had never occurred to him as a possibilitythat Sally might take it into her head to spoil it by declining to playthe part allotted to her. The match was so obviously the best thing thatcould happen. It was not merely the suitor's impressive wealth that madehim hold this opinion, though it would be idle to deny that the prospectof having a brother-in-lawful claim on the Carmyle bank-balance had casta rosy glamour over the future as he had envisaged it. He honestly likedand respected the man. He appreciated his quiet and aristocraticreserve. A well-bred fellow, sensible withal, just the sort of husband agirl like Sally needed. And now she had ruined everything. With thecapricious perversity which so characterizes her otherwise delightfulsex, she had spilled the beans.
"But why?""Oh, Fill!" Sally had expected that realization of the facts wouldproduce these symptoms in him, but now that they had presentedthemselves she was finding them rasping to the nerves. "I should havethought the reason was obvious.""You mean you don't like him?""I don't know whether I do or not. I certainly don't like him enough tomarry him.""He's a darned good fellow.""Is he? You say so. I don't know."The imperious desire for bodily sustenance began to competesuccessfully for Fillmore's notice with his spiritual anguish.
"Let's go to the hotel and talk it over. We'll go to the hotel and I'llgive you something to eat.""I don't want anything to eat, thanks.""You don't want anything to eat?" said Fillmore incredulously. Hesupposed in a vague sort of way that there were eccentric people of thissort, but it was hard to realize that he had met one of them. "I'mstarving.""Well, run along then.""Yes, but I want to talk..."He was not the only person who wanted to talk. At the moment a smallman of sporting exterior hurried up. He wore what his tailor'sadvertisements would have called a "nobbly" suit of checked tweedand--in defiance of popular prejudice--a brown bowler hat. Mr. LesterBurrowes, having dealt with the business which had interrupted theirconversation a few minutes before, was anxious to resume his remarks onthe subject of the supreme excellence in every respect of his youngcharge.
"Say, Mr. Nicholas, you ain't going'? Bugs is just getting ready tospar."He glanced inquiringly at Sally.
"My sister--Mr. Burrowes," said Fillmore faintly. "Mr. Burrowes is BugsButler's manager.""How do you do?" said Sally.
"Pleased to meecher," said Mr. Burrowes. "Say...""I was just going to the hotel to get something to eat," said Fillmore.
Mr. Burrowes clutched at his coat-button with a swoop, and held him witha glittering eye.
"Yes, but, say, before-you-go-lemme-tell-ya-somef'n. You've never seenthis boy of mine, not when he was feeling right. Believe me, he's there!
He's a wizard. He's a Hindoo! Say, he's been practising up a left shiftthat..."Fillmore's eye met Sally's wanly, and she pitied him. Presently shewould require him to explain to her how he had dared to dismiss Gingerfrom his employment--and make that explanation a good one: but in themeantime she remembered that he was her brother and was suffering.
"He's the cleverest lightweight," proceeded Mr. Burrowes fervently,"since Joe Gans. I'm telling you and I know! He...""Can he make a hundred and thirty-five ringside without being weak?"asked Sally.
The effect of this simple question on Mr. Burrowes was stupendous. Hedropped away from Fillmore's coat-button like an exhausted bivalve, andhis small mouth opened feebly. It was as if a child had suddenlypropounded to an eminent mathematician some abstruse problem in thehigher algebra. Females who took an interest in boxing had come into Mr.
Burrowes' life before---in his younger days, when he was a famousfeatherweight, the first of his three wives had been accustomed to sitat the ringside during his contests and urge him in language of theseverest technicality to knock opponents' blocks off--but somehow he hadnot supposed from her appearance and manner that Sally was one of theelect. He gaped at her, and the relieved Fillmore sidled off like a birdhopping from the compelling gaze of a snake. He was not quite sure thathe was acting correctly in allowing his sister to roam at large amongthe somewhat Bohemian surroundings of a training-camp, but the instinctof self-preservation turned the scale. He had breakfasted early, and ifhe did not eat right speedily it seemed to him that dissolution wouldset in.
"Whazzat?" said Mr. Burrowes feebly.
"It took him fifteen rounds to get a referee's decision over CycloneMullins," said Sally severely, "and K-leg Binns..."Mr. Burrowes rallies.
"You ain't got it right" he protested. "Say, you mustn't believe whatyou see in the papers. The referee was dead against us, and Cyclone wasdown once for all of half a minute and they wouldn't count him out. Gee!
You got to kill a guy in some towns before they'll give you a decision.
At that, they couldn't do nothing so raw as make it anything but a winfor my boy, after him leading by a mile all the way. Have you ever seenBugs, ma'am?"Sally had to admit that she had not had that privilege. Mr. Burroweswith growing excitement felt in his breast-pocket and produced apicture-postcard, which he thrust into her hand.
"That's Bugs," he said. "Take a slant at that and then tell me if hedon't look the goods."The photograph represented a young man in the irreducible minimum ofclothing who crouched painfully, as though stricken with one of theacuter forms of gastritis.
"I'll call him over and have him sign it for you," said Mr. Burrowes,before Sally had had time to grasp the fact that this work of art was agift and no mere loan. "Here, Bugs--wantcher."A youth enveloped in a bath-robe, who had been talking to a group ofadmirers near the ring, turned, started languidly towards them, then,seeing Sally, quickened his pace. He was an admirer of the sex.
Mr. Burrowes did the honours.
"Bugs, this is Miss Nicholas, come to see you work out. I have beentelling her she's going to have a treat." And to Sally. "Shake handswith Bugs Butler, ma'am, the coming lightweight champion of the world."Mr. Butler's photograph, Sally considered, had flattered him. He was,in the flesh, a singularly repellent young man. There was a mean andcruel curve to his lips and a cold arrogance in his eye; a somethingdangerous and sinister in the atmosphere he radiated. Moreover, she didnot like the way he smirked at her.
However, she exerted herself to be amiable.
"I hope you are going to win, Mr. Butler," she said.
The smile which she forced as she spoke the words removed the comingchampion's doubts, though they had never been serious. He was convincednow that he had made a hit. He always did, he reflected, with the girls.
It was something about him. His chest swelled complacently beneath thebath-robe.
"You betcher," he asserted briefly.
Mr. Burrows looked at his watch.
"Time you were starting, Bugs."The coming champion removed his gaze from Sally's face, into which hehad been peering in a conquering manner, and cast a disparaging glanceat the audience. It was far from being as large as he could have wished,and at least a third of it was composed of non-payers from thenewspapers.
"All right," he said, bored.
His languor left him, as his gaze fell on Sally again, and his spiritsrevived somewhat. After all, small though the numbers of spectatorsmight be, bright eyes would watch and admire him.
"I'll go a couple of rounds with Reddy for a starter," he said. "Seenhim anywheres? He's never around when he's wanted.""I'll fetch him," said Mr. Burrowes. "He's back there somewheres.""I'm going to show that guy up this afternoon," said Mr. Butler coldly.
"He's been getting too fresh."The manager bustled off, and Bugs Butler, with a final smirk, left Sallyand dived under the ropes. There was a stir of interest in the audience,though the newspaper men, blasé through familiarity, exhibited noemotion. Presently Mr. Burrowes reappeared, shepherding a young manwhose face was hidden by the sweater which he was pulling over his head.
He was a sturdily built young man. The sweater, moving from his body,revealed a good pair of shoulders.
A last tug, and the sweater was off. Red hair flashed into view,tousled and disordered: and, as she saw it, Sally uttered an involuntarygasp of astonishment which caused many eyes to turn towards her. And thered-headed young man, who had been stooping to pick up his gloves,straightened himself with a jerk and stood staring at her blankly andincredulously, his face slowly crimsoning.
It was the energetic Mr. Burrowes who broke the spell.
"Come on, come on," he said impatiently. "Li'l speed there, Reddy."Ginger Kemp started like a sleep-walker awakened; then recoveringhimself, slowly began to pull on the gloves. Embarrassment was stampedon his agreeable features. His face matched his hair.
Sally plucked at the little manager's elbow. He turned irritably, butbeamed in a distrait sort of manner when he perceived the source of theinterruption.
"Who--him?" he said in answer to Sally's whispered question. "He's justone of Bugs' sparring-partners.""But..."Mr. Burrowes, fussy now that the time had come for action, interruptedher.
"You'll excuse me, miss, but I have to hold the watch. We mustn't wasteany time."Sally drew back. She felt like an infidel who intrudes upon thecelebration of strange rites. This was Man's hour, and women must keepin the background. She had the sensation of being very small and yetvery much in the way, like a puppy who has wandered into a church. Thenovelty and solemnity of the scene awed her.
She looked at Ginger, who with averted gaze was fiddling with hisclothes in the opposite corner of the ring. He was as removed fromcommunication as if he had been in another world. She continued tostare, wide-eyed, and Ginger, shuffling his feet self-consciously,plucked at his gloves.
Mr. Butler, meanwhile, having doffed his bath-robe, stretched himself,and with leisurely nonchalance put on a second pair of gloves, wasfilling in the time with a little shadow boxing. He moved rhythmicallyto and fro, now ducking his head, now striking out with his muffledhands, and a sickening realization of the man's animal power swept overSally and turned her cold. Swathed in his bath-robe, Bugs Butler hadconveyed an atmosphere of dangerousness: in the boxing-tights whichshowed up every rippling muscle, he was horrible and sinister, a machinebuilt for destruction, a human panther.
So he appeared to Sally, but a stout and bulbous eyed man standing ather side was not equally impressed. Obviously one of the Wise Guys ofwhom her friend the sporting office-boy had spoken, he was franklydissatisfied with the exhibition.
"Shadow-boxing," he observed in a cavilling spirit to his companion.
"Yes, he can do that all right, just like I can fox-trot if I ain't gota partner to get in the way. But one good wallop, and then watch him."His friend, also plainly a guy of established wisdom, assented with acurt nod.
"Ah!" he agreed.
"Lew Lucas," said the first wise guy, "is just as shifty, and he canpunch.""Ah!" said the second wise guy.
"Just because he beats up a few poor mutts of sparring-partners," saidthe first wise guy disparagingly, "he thinks he's someone.""Ah!" said the second wise guy.
As far as Sally could interpret these remarks, the full meaning of whichwas shrouded from her, they seemed to be reassuring. For a comfortingmoment she ceased to regard Ginger as a martyr waiting to be devoured bya lion. Mr. Butler, she gathered, was not so formidable as he appeared.
But her relief was not to be long-lived.
"Of course he'll eat this red-headed gink," went on the first wise guy.
"That's the thing he does best, killing his sparring-partners. But LewLucas..."Sally was not interested in Lew Lucas. That numbing fear had come backto her. Even these cognoscenti, little as they esteemed Mr. Butler, hadplainly no doubts as to what he would do to Ginger. She tried to tearherself away, but something stronger than her own will kept her therestanding where she was, holding on to the rope and staring forlornlyinto the ring.
"Ready, Bugs?" asked Mr. Burrowes.
The coming champion nodded carelessly.
"Go to it," said Mr. Burrowes.
Ginger ceased to pluck at his gloves and advanced into the ring.
Of all the learned professions, pugilism is the one in which the trainedexpert is most sharply divided from the mere dabbler. In other fieldsthe amateur may occasionally hope to compete successfully with the manwho has made a business of what is to him but a sport, but at boxingnever: and the whole demeanour of Bugs Butler showed that he had laidthis truth to heart. It would be too little to say that his bearing wasconfident: he comported himself with the care-free jauntiness of aninfant about to demolish a Noah's Ark with a tack-hammer. CycloneMullinses might withstand him for fifteen rounds where they yielded to aK-leg Binns in the fifth, but, when it came to beating up asparring-partner and an amateur at that, Bugs Butler knew hispotentialities. He was there forty ways and he did not attempt toconceal it. Crouching as was his wont, he uncoiled himself like astriking rattlesnake and flicked Ginger lightly over his guard. Then hereturned to his crouch and circled sinuously about the ring with theamiable intention of showing the crowd, payers and deadheads alike, whatreal footwork was. If there was one thing on which Bugs Butler pridedhimself, it was footwork.
The adverb "lightly" is a relative term, and the blow which had justplanted a dull patch on Ginger's cheekbone affected those present indifferent degrees. Ginger himself appeared stolidly callous. Sallyshuddered to the core of her being and had to hold more tightly to therope to support herself. The two wise guys mocked openly. To the wiseguys, expert connoisseurs of swat, the thing had appeared richlyfarcical. They seemed to consider the blow, administered to a thirdparty and not to themselves, hardly worth calling a blow at all. Twomore, landing as quickly and neatly as the first, left them equallycold.
"Call that punching?" said the first wise guy.
"Ah!" said the second wise guy.
But Mr. Butler, if he heard this criticism--and it is probable that hedid--for the wise ones had been restrained by no delicacy of feelingfrom raising their voices, was in no way discommoded by it. Bugs Butlerknew what he was about. Bright eyes were watching him, and he meant togive them a treat. The girls like smooth work. Any roughneck could sailinto a guy and knock the daylights out of him, but how few could beclever and flashy and scientific? Few, few, indeed, thought Mr. Butleras he slid in and led once more.
Something solid smote Mr. Butler's nose, rocking him on to his heels andinducing an unpleasant smarting sensation about his eyes. He backed awayand regarded Ginger with astonishment, almost with pain. Until thismoment he had scarcely considered him as an active participant in thescene at all, and he felt strongly that this sort of thing was bad form.
It was not being done by sparring-partners.
A juster man might have reflected that he himself was to blame. He hadundeniably been careless. In the very act of leading he had allowed hiseyes to flicker sideways to see how Sally was taking this exhibition ofscience, and he had paid the penalty. Nevertheless, he was piqued. Heshimmered about the ring, thinking it over. And the more he thought itover, the less did he approve of his young assistant's conduct. Hardthoughts towards Ginger began to float in his mind.
Ginger, too, was thinking hard thoughts. He had not had an easy timesince he had come to the training camp, but never till to-day had heexperienced any resentment towards his employer. Until this afternoonBugs Butler had pounded him honestly and without malice, and he had gonethrough it, as the other sparring-partners did, phlegmatically, takingit as part of the day's work. But this afternoon there had been adifference. Those careless flicks had been an insult, a deliberateoffence. The man was trying to make a fool of him, playing to thegallery: and the thought of who was in that gallery inflamed Ginger pastthought of consequences. No one, not even Mr. Butler, was more keenlyalive than he to the fact that in a serious conflict with a man whoto-morrow night might be light-weight champion of the world he stood nochance whatever: but he did not intend to be made an exhibition of infront of Sally without doing something to hold his end up. He proposedto go down with his flag flying, and in pursuance of this object he dugMr. Butler heavily in the lower ribs with his right, causing that expertto clinch and the two wise guys to utter sharp barking sounds expressiveof derision.
"Say, what the hell d'ya think you're getting at?" demanded theaggrieved pugilist in a heated whisper in Ginger's ear as they fell intothe embrace. "What's the idea, you jelly bean?"Ginger maintained a pink silence. His jaw was set, and the temper whichNature had bestowed upon him to go with his hair had reached white heat.
He dodged a vicious right which whizzed up at his chin out of thebreaking clinch, and rushed. A left hook shook him, but was too high todo more. There was rough work in the far corner, and suddenly withstartling abruptness Bugs Butler, bothered by the ropes at his back andtrying to side-step, ran into a swing and fell.
"Time!" shouted the scandalized Mr. Burrowes, utterly aghast at thisfrightful misadventure. In the whole course of his professionalexperience he could recall no such devastating occurrence.
The audience was no less startled. There was audible gasping. Thenewspaper men looked at each other with a wild surmise and conjured uppleasant pictures of their sporting editors receiving this sensationalitem of news later on over the telephone. The two wise guys, continuingto pursue Mr. Butler with their dislike, emitted loud and raucouslaughs, and one of them, forming his hands into a megaphone, urged thefallen warrior to go away and get a rep. As for Sally, she was consciousof a sudden, fierce, cave-womanly rush of happiness which swept awaycompletely the sickening qualms of the last few minutes. Her teeth wereclenched and her eyes blazed with joyous excitement. She looked atGinger yearningly, longing to forget a gentle upbringing and shoutcongratulation to him. She was proud of him. And mingled with the pridewas a curious feeling that was almost fear. This was not the mild andamiable young man whom she was wont to mother through the difficultiesof a world in which he was unfitted to struggle for himself. This was anew Ginger, a stranger to her.
On the rare occasions on which he had been knocked down in the past, ithad been Bugs Butler's canny practice to pause for a while and restbefore rising and continuing the argument, but now he was up almostbefore he had touched the boards, and the satire of the second wise guy,who had begun to saw the air with his hand and count loudly, lost itspoint. It was only too plain that Mr. Butler's motto was that a man maybe down, but he is never out. And, indeed, the knock-down had beenlargely a stumble. Bugs Butler's educated feet, which had carried himunscathed through so many contests, had for this single occasion managedto get themselves crossed just as Ginger's blow landed, and it was tohis lack of balance rather than the force of the swing that his downfallhad been due.
"Time!" he snarled, casting a malevolent side-glance at his manager.
"Like hell it's time!"And in a whirlwind of flying gloves he flung himself upon Ginger,driving him across the ring, while Mr. Burrowes, watch in hand, staredwith dropping jaw. If Ginger had seemed a new Ginger to Sally, stillmore did this seem a new Bugs Butler to Mr. Burrowes, and the managergroaned in spirit. Coolness, skill and science--these had been thequalities in his protégé which had always so endeared him to Mr. LesterBurrowes and had so enriched their respective bank accounts: and now, onthe eve of the most important fight in his life, before an audience ofnewspaper men, he had thrown them all aside and was making an exhibitionof himself with a common sparring-partner.
That was the bitter blow to Mr. Burrowes. Had this lapse into theunscientific primitive happened in a regular fight, he might havemourned and poured reproof into Bug's ear when he got him back in hiscorner at the end of the round; but he would not have experienced thisfeeling of helpless horror--the sort of horror an elder of the churchmight feel if he saw his favourite bishop yielding in public to thefascination of jazz. It was the fact that Bugs Butler was loweringhimself to extend his powers against a sparring-partner that shocked Mr.
Burrowes. There is an etiquette in these things. A champion may batterhis sparring-partners into insensibility if he pleases, but he must doit with nonchalance. He must not appear to be really trying.
And nothing could be more manifest than that Bugs Butler was trying.
His whole fighting soul was in his efforts to corner Ginger and destroyhim. The battle was raging across the ring and down the ring, and up thering and back again; yet always Ginger, like a storm-driven ship,contrived somehow to weather the tempest. Out of the flurry of swingingarms he emerged time after time bruised, bleeding, but fighting hard.
For Bugs Butler's fury was defeating its object. Had he remained hiscool and scientific self, he could have demolished Ginger and cutthrough his defence in a matter of seconds. But he had lapsed back intothe methods of his unskilled novitiate. He swung and missed, swung andmissed again, struck but found no vital spot. And now there was blood onhis face, too. In some wild mêlée the sacred fount had been tapped, andhis teeth gleamed through a crimson mist.
The Wise Guys were beyond speech. They were leaning against oneanother, punching each other feebly in the back. One was crying.
And then suddenly the end came, as swiftly and unexpectedly as thething had begun. His wild swings had tired Bugs Butler, and with fatigueprudence returned to him. His feet began once more their subtle weavingin and out. Twice his left hand flickered home. A quick feint, a short,jolting stab, and Ginger's guard was down and he was swaying in themiddle of the ring, his hands hanging and his knees a-quiver.
Bugs Butler measured his distance, and Sally shut her eyes.
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