Fighting Back/Round 10
But civilized man cannot live without cooks!"
This amusin' discovery was made by no less than Lord Lytton—undoubtlessly after his jovial and talented lordship had tried to compose a oyster souffle or the like, all by himself. Lord Lytton become the plot of a tombstone, pro'bly as the result of indigestion, in the annum of 1891. By a odd coincidence, he was a poet by trade and where a poet gets a chance to learn anything about eatin' and cooks is past me! How the so ever, the statement that chefs is born life-savers is as true as a dairy-maid's heart—in a movie—and with your kind permission, I'll endeavor to prove it, if I can only keep you awake.
The chef I have selected for this typical exhibition of what can be done with a typewriter in the wrong hands, is Monsieur Ptomaine Joe. By a timely demonstration of the science of cookin', Ptomaine prob'ly saved the lives of me, Kid Roberts, the exceedin'ly pretty Angela Yerkes, and the exceedin'ly ugly skipper—of the good ship Scofflaw. There's all the ingredients of a good story, hey? Well, hold everything and I'll see what I can do with 'em. Don't expect too much.
By knockin' Bob Young for a goal, Kid Roberts made good one of his ambitions, the heavyweight championship of the globe. The Kid's other modest desires; financial independence and the return of his balky bride Dolores, was still to be realized, but winnin' the title had brung him within eyesight of both. Bein' the Kid's pilot, I'm busy mappin' out a campaign and dickerin' for some quarrels which we figured would place him on Comfortable Boulevard within the year. Then my athalete was goin' to throw his gloves right into the ashcan and call it a day, as he'd faithfully promised his lovely wife. Dolores was all girl and any male would promise her anything, they would for a positive fact!
Well, speakin' of avocados, I found it far from child's play to line up for my champion a immediate bout which would bring home the bacon in box cars. I couldn't just send him out to fight in the streets, on the account that the quicker he got monetarily carefree, the quicker he could claim exemption from the hooks and jabs and talk his wife out of the divorce thing. He wanted to lose her like you want to lose your left lung and he gave me no peace, day or night! You see, on our ways up to the heavyweight crown—our second trip, as you might remember—we was so wild to get the title that we didn't haggle over pennies. The results was that some of our brawls paid little more than trainin' expenses and our cash on hand would certainly never cause Wall Street to tremble in fear. Now, though, as rajah of the heavies, the Kid's in a position to write his own ticket for his next setto and bein' nobody's fool I set $250,000 as the lowest sum at which Kid Roberts would climb through the ropes and defend his championship. Bob Young got two hundred and fifty grand for losin' it to the Kid, but with us it was try and get it! I'll tell you why.
In gazin' over the mass of mugs which made up the heavyweight division at the time, neither the milk-fed sport writers or the hard-boiled promoters could see any one which figured to give Kid Roberts even a stiff workout, what I mean. The public knew that none of these boloneys belonged in the same ring with the champion and the fans certainly wasn't ripe to pay no famine prices for ringside seats to see him carry some ham for a boxin' lesson or knock him off with a punch. In his rush to the title, Kid Roberts had already disposed of the most promisin' contenders and as matters stood the boy had just about fought himself out of a job! Bob Young, the ex-champ, was keepin' people from sleepin' at nights howlin' for a return bout and we was wild with eagerness to give it to him, dut the Kid's three-round knockout of Mr. Young spoiled the former title-holder's chances of gettin' serious attention. As for the newer crop of heavies, they needed more experience before tacklin' Kid Roberts—in the unasked opinion of the self-confessed experts. I could of been deported for what I thought of them scissor-bills—they figured they was doin' us a favor by boostin' the Kid to the skies, but what they was really doin' was keepin' us broke!
So in that way the time dragged along with Kid Roberts a world's champion, but unable to do his stuff through lack of competition. As far as business was concerned, he was just like a salesman with a line of celluloid cuffs travellin' through Hades! A brace of weeks in vaudeville, a movie and two or three exhibition bouts brung in a few much needed thousands and then we found months of enforced idleness starin' us in the pan. No foolin', the panic was on!
One mornin', haggard and worn from a night full of everything but sleep, I bust into the Kid's room at the Broadway drum we're floppin' at. Ptomaine Joe's already there, givin' the champ his mornin' rub, which come right after the cold shower. Kid Roberts was feelin' pretty low. His handsome face is gloomy and broodin' and he greets me with a paltry nod. Bein' too high calibre to notice them things—which is why I remember it—I returned a brilliant smile.
"Kid," I says, "I've just had a rush of ideas to the brain, with the results that I got a wow of a scheme for us to click off heavy money, without even riskin' the title!"
"Perfect!" busts out Ptomaine, before Kid Roberts can answer, "I always did want to get into the bootleggin' game and"
"Be yourself, you ignorant monkey and don't talk out of turn!" I cut him off, with a touch of old world politeness. "Every time you open your mouth, a first-class idiot speaks!"
"Except the times," remarks Ptomaine, pensively.
"What d'ye mean except the times?" I asked him. "What times?"
"The times you're talkin', you imbecilical mackerel!" says Ptomaine.
Kid Roberts steps between us just in the nick of time to stave off a homicide.
"You two seem to be the only ones who are doing any fighting in this outfit!" says the Kid to me, kind of irritably. "Stop this nonsense and tell me your plan. Here I am, champion of the world, and the title isn't worth a dollar to me! If I don't make some money within the next"
"Just a minute, don't get all worked up, Kid," I butt in hurriedly, as Kid Roberts starts to nervously pace the floor, "I know just how you feel and I been breakin' my neck lookin' for a bout. Well, I got one! There's no one of us figurin' on a scrap any more this year—you know that. We got to wait till some new heavy looms up with enough stuff to make the sport writers build up a bout. In the meanwhile, what's to prevent us tourin' the country, takin' on all corners like John L. Sullivan and them guys used to do? Let's check out of this expensive slab and go places! We can carry three or four vaudeville acts and a jazz band. We'll offer five hundred bucks to any of these local gils which can stay four rounds with you. They'll fall over each other tryin' to get that dough and—Oh, I just know this is goin' to get over, I got a hunch. C'mon, Kid, let's pack up and start boundin' around a bit! Eventually, why not now?"
"'At's a great idea and jake with me, except we don't need no jazz band!" says Ptomaine. "I squeeze a vicious accordeon and if I can't learn you to operate a mouth organ in two weeks, then you're even sillier than you look! 'At takes care of the musical end of matters. Now, before we shove off, I got a few schemes of my own which is well nigh perfect! Number one calls for"
Kid Roberts is commencin' to get red-headed, prob'ly thinkin' the two of us is givin' him a run-around. He wheels angrily on this big, dizzy bozo and I managed to sell Ptomaine the idea of leavin' the room by the simple device of throwin' a chair at him. Then I soothed the Kid to the point of sittin' down on the bed and we talked over my proposition.
At first Kid Roberts brushed aside my praiseworthy suggestion like it was a annoyin' fly. He absotively refused to go around the highways and byways, exhibitin' himself "like a trained seal!" as he peevishly called it. But when I pointed out to him that we'd done this act once before and cleaned up, and that at least it was better to try it again than sit around busy doin' nothin', meetin' money only by hearsay, why, he give in. It took me a couple of weeks to round up a band which didn't want two hundred percent of our gate receipts and three vaudeville acts which didn't modestly desire the same. How the so ever, at last I got the outfit together and we set sail.
The show lined up somethin' like this; first the big band concert, then a snappy song and dance act, next a experienced monologist, followed by a speedy acrobatic turn, then more music. At this point, Kid Roberts, resplendent in a costly dress suit and lookin' like the Duke of Typhoid, is introduced to the cheerin' multitude. The Kid tells a couple of fight stories and then switches to ring togs, whilst Mr. Band works some more. After runnin' through a few light trainin' exercises, includin' bag punchin' and a couple of fast rounds with Ptomaine Joe, the announcement is made that five hundred fish will be handed over with a smile to the man, woman or child which can stay four rounds with the world's heavyweight champion. The yokels would scramble up and try, Kid Roberts would mercifully give 'em the last lesson first, and, hoopla—we're on our ways to the next trap, prob'ly five or six grand to the good!
What could be sweeter?
Well, we hit the Coast without nobody havin' cullected the five-hundred-buck reward, though a two-hundred and twenty-five pounder entitled "Carbolic Acid" McSapp lasted three of the four rounds before a short inside right to the button changed all his plans and give him some much needed sleep. Barrin' nobody on earth, the Kid had stopped eighteen tomatoes in from one to two rounds—tough, willin' huskies, eager for the mere reputation of havin' boxed the world famous Kid Roberts and not at all sickened by the chance to grab off that five hundred. First-class, scientific publicity by your boy friend, aided by sympathetic and admirin' sport writers and the fact that Kid Roberts was a popular idol, drawed overflow crowds all along the trip which was somethin' more than a decided financial success. Outside of the laughs me and Ptomaine got watchin' some of these chumps tryin' to smack Kid Roberts down, the voyage was highly uneventful till we blew into Frisco with the fog one mornin'.
Then it was all different!
At the very first show, the front rows is filled with a fearful mob of rough and tough lookin' sailors. These guys wasn't the clean-cut, clean-livin', upstandin', square-shootin' gobs of the U. S. Navy—I only wished they had been! Wherever we run into them boys, we got along with 'em great, because Kid Roberts had boxed manys the exhibition for 'em and they thought the champ was the leopard's toothbrush. No—the hardy seafarers which awaited the Kid's appearance with noisy impatience that day was a lot of roughnecks off some tramp steamer, scum from the ends of the earth, what I mean!
Full of ferocious water-front hooch, they kept up a steady racket all durin' the vaudeville show. They kidded the acrobats, throwed pennies at the song and dance team and give the monologist the royal razzberry—only the nervous band managed to drown 'em out. To say I was worried is puttin' it much too mild; I seen nothin' ahead for us but a flock of grief!
When Kid Roberts is introduced, this choice collection of murderers out in front split the hearty applause of the rest of the audience with a volley of hoots and jeers.
"G'wan, ya big false alarm, you couldn't lick nobody!" "Yer a cheese champeen!" "I could whip that blarsted Yank meself!" etc., etc., etc. That's only a few of the loud remarks in various dialects from these babies which went down to the sea in ships. There was much other comment I'd willin'ly tell you about—if I could only get somebody to print it! Kid Roberts, used to tight corners, smiled coolly and made no answer, but Ptomaine Joe ieaped to his side. Steamed up at the insults to his god, Ptomaine leaned his huge bulk down over the footlights and shook a fist like a ham into the faces of the howlin' sailors.
"Shut up, you bunch of yellah bums!" he roars, his homely pan red with rage. "I'll hop down there in a minute and knock the lot of you stiff!"
And he meant it, no foolin'!
This was right to the likin' of these gents and they greeted Ptomaine accordin'ly. The rest of the audience is standin' up to see what it's all about, with the ladies gettin' heavily alarmed. Along the aisles on the run comes the house attendants.
"All of youse come down!" bawls the sailors up to us on the stage.
"One of us'll do!" bellows Ptomaine back and befere we can stop him he's gone over the top.
Take it from me, the fun waxed fast and furious for the next few minutes and there was quite some excitement before the special cops helped us pull Ptomaine from the middle of the strugglin' mass of arms and legs in the orchestra pit. Ptomaine come out of it with a bleedin' ear and a busted thumb, but as three insensible sailors which had choosed him could testify, he give a perfect account of himself whilst he was in action.
The theatre crew told the sailors to take the air and what the sailors told the theatre crew I'm forced to leave to your imagination. The peace-lovin' landsmen looked the jolly tars over and decided there was no use arguin' over a little matter like that and went back to their posts. Well, these able seamen had me good and leary. Honest to Turkey, I felt as weak as a moonshiner's alibi! Whilst our unhappy band's tryin' to appease 'em with "Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep", I called Kid Roberts aside.
"Kid," I whisper, "let's forget about the offer to meet all corners, for if we don't, all corners is exactly what you'll have to meet, you will for a fact! Them mock-turtles out there will prob'ly rush the stage the minute I make the announcement and"
"No, Joe!" interrupted the Kid, firmly. "We'll omit no part of the act. The way to meet these issues is head on! Besides, those fellows are in a mood now to tear down the house if anything advertised is cut out. Undoubtedly, the only reason they are here at all is to see me box and if I don't, we're in for trouble!"
We was in for trouble anyways!
My offer of five hundred smackers to any human bein' which can keep erect for four rounds with the world's champion is no more than out of my shapely mouth, when there's a thunderin' roar from our little pals, the sailors. The Kid was right—that's what them guys had been waitin' for! A great big mass of bone and muscle rears up from their midst and is swiftly boosted on the stage by his cheerin' mates. He was the burliest thing I ever seen in my life—broken-nosed, pock-marked, cabbage-eared, and a bath and shave was only two of the many things he needed badly. I asked him what his name was so's I could announce it and he snarlin'ly told me to go to Hades! Then, after a sneerin' look at the calmly smilin' Kid Roberts, the giant from the sea follows the glowerin' Ptomaine to the dressin' rooms.
I shivered—and it wasn't a bit cold.
"Get this fellow quick, Kid!" I says, very serious.
Kid Roberts answers nothin'; but he sure looked thoughtful.
The house was in a uproar when Mr. Sailor come out in ring togs, revealin' the hairy and bulgin'-muscled body of a gorilla—somethin' he greatly looked like to me. A half minute after the bell for the first round was long enough to disclose that the sailor's fightin' methods likewise resembled a gorilla's! Whilst his shipmates kept up a incessant din of bawlin' encouragement for their man and jeers for Kid Roberts, this bucko flailed away madly with both hands, drivin' the nimbly duckin' Kid before him. Science, rules and fair play was evidently things unknown to the seafarer, which apparently didn't wish the five hundred bucks as much as he wished to assassinate the grinnin' champion. Our challenger must of committed a million glarin' fouls—hittin' plenty low, tryin' to trip the Kid, to wrestle him to the floor, buttin' him with his bullet head and heelin' with the back of his glove. The place was a bedlam as the bell ended the third! round with the sailor still on his feet. Kid Roberts, bleedin' slightly from a cut on the head where this baboon had butted him, was glad to hear the gong. The champion made just one comment as we worriedly sponged him off: "This fellow's a tough man. He hits hard. I'll be sorry to stop him, but—here he goes!"
Up to date, Kid Roberts had devoted the bulk of his time to avoidin' the sailor's murderous rushes, blockin' his terrible wallops and occasionally counterin' with light lefts and rights. The champ, of course, had forgot more about boxin' than this ham would ever know and could of made a gory wreck of him, but Kid Roberts never punished a man unnecessarily. How the so ever, with the bell for the fourth and last frame, the Kid went out to finish this foul-fightin' ape and punched him all over the ring. Two right uppercuts in succession drove the sailor against the ropes and a third sent him to his knees a total loss. He got up without waitin' for the count and floundered drunkenly around, whilst his pals howled for him to tie in and our admirers screamed for the Kid to bounce him. Kid Roberts measured his man carefully, then shot over a perfectly-timed left and a terrible right to the jaw. Down goes Mons. Seaman like a broken ceilin'. He was staggerin' dazedly to his feet at "nine", when the bell rings, savin' him from a knockout, to the insane delight of his shipmates!
"Give 'im the five hundred—he stayed the four rounds!" squawks the sailors, dancin' wildly and wavin' their arms like maniacs. Ptomaine glares down at 'em longin'ly, but I grabbed him and says if he left that stage I'd leave him flat in Frisco for good and all! He believes me and contents himself with exchangin' choice compliments with these monkeys. Meanwhile, the big anchovy the Kid fought has fully recovered and comes over to us, lookin' as fresh and as full of fight as when he climbed into the ring.
"Gimme the dough!" he grunts, shovin' his ugly pan within a touch of my own. "I was on me feet at the end of the fight!"
"I'll give you nothin', you big tramp!" I says, hotly, "You'd of been counted out in another second and"
"That will do, Joe!" butts in Kid Roberts. "Pay him the money—he's earned it and we aren't welshers!" He turns to the big sailor, whilst I'm grumblin'ly countin' out the gelt, "You made a fine showing and had me bothered for awhile, old man," says the Kid, pleasantly, and holds out his hand. "Shake?"
This gentleman of the old school snatches the five hundred from me and brushes the Kid's outstretched hand aside with a oath.
"You bet I made a fine showin'!" he snarls. "I'd of licked you in five more minutes. I could ruin a guy like you every day in the week and twice on Sunday. C'mon down to the foc's le of my ship and finish it, if you ain't too yellah!"
Kid Roberts grins at him good-naturedly and moves away. Thena rush of the excited, curious mob millin' around us separates him from me and Ptomaine.
When they fin'ly get the place cleared, there's no sign of Kid Roberts and on top of that I can't locate him in the dressin' rooms. Ptomaine figures the Kid lost us in the crowd and wantin' to make a quick get-away to duck both his admirers and them extremely unadmirin' sailors, he's dashed on ahead to our inn. Well, I kind of unwillin'ly give up the search and hurried with Ptomaine to the hotel we was honorin' with our presence.
In the lobby, a cutey whose face and form would of aroused Nero's curiosity, gets up from a chair and starts towards us. Ptomaine Joe immediately brushes back his hair and straightens his tie.
"Wam—what a disturbance this snapper is!" says Ptomaine. "She's headin' right for us, too. I only hope she's mistook me for a old college chum of hers. Watch me promote—I bet I take her to supper!"
"She don't look like no lunatic," I says, sarcastically.
At this minute, the fair damsel reaches us and uncorks a smile which scrambled the tenth-ounce of brain in Ptomaine's possession.
"Pardon me," she says, "which of you two gentlemen is the manager of Kid Roberts?"
"There's only one gentleman here," I says. "I'm the Kid's pilot."
"Oh—then you must be Mister Murphy—I've heard so much about you!" gushes our opponent, "I'm Angela Yerkes, of the Morning Shriek. I want to interview the champion from a woman's viewpoint and I've been waiting patiently for two hours to see him!"
"He isn't in his room yet?" I ask, in quick alarm.
Angela shakes her pretty head.
"I'll go right up and investigate matters, Angel—eh—Miss Yerkes," butts in Ptomaine, with a silly grin. "They ain't nobody got around to introducin' me yet, so I'll do it myself. I'm no less than Ptomaine Joe and if you ain't heard about me, then you ain't heard about the Statue of Liberty, either!"
"Indeed I have heard about you," smiles Angela, "and I'm awfully glad to meet you personally."
"Me and you both!" says this boy scout, "I'm one of them he-men, from the big, open spaces—a cyclone amongst men, but as gentle as a lamb with women. What are you goin' to do this evenin'?"
"Get upstairs and see if the Kid's there, Stupid!" I hollers, worried sick, and sent this tamale scurryin'.
In a few minutes, Ptomaine plunges out of the elevator, breathless and wild-eyed. Kid Roberts wasn't in his room and a hasty interview with the interested clerk on duty brung out the fact that he hadn't showed up or even phoned a message to us. Well, as the Kid had no intimate friends in Frisco, was a stickler for early retirin' hours with strict trainin' discipline at all times and had been a trifle used up from his battle with that big sailor, I now begin to get genuinely scared. Ptomaine helped my peace of mind a lot by suggestin' that maybe the sailor boy's friends had ganged the Kid in revenge for him beatin' up their pal—a thing I feared myself! Angela, greatly excited, is all eager questions and Ptomaine tells her about the four-round bout in the hall, whilst I sent a bellhop for a taxi. I happened to remember that earlier in the evenin' a special cop had told me the name of the ship them merry sailors come off and also the pier it was parked at. I shouid of dashed to some police station and brung a slew of coppers with me and before the night was over I sure wished I had done so. But I was too worked up right then to think of that, or to think of anything but gettin' to the Kid at my earliest possible convenience!
When Angela gets hep to the situation, she claims this is a really big story and one which would make her contemplated interview with Kid Roberts about as thrillin' as a hired girl's obituary. She must go with us, she says with sparklin' eyes and is inside the cab before I knew she was in earnest! I tried to argue her out of goin' along, tellin' her there would prob'ly be dirty work at the cross-roads and plenty hats broken before we got through. Angela's answer to this was a delighted, "I certainly hope there is!" What could you do with a girl like that?
"Let the little lady stay," says Ptomaine, throwin' out a 50-inch chest, "if the worst comes to worst, I'll take care of her!"
Angela favors him with a faint smile.
"Be still!" she says, "and let's hurry. If the worst comes to worst, I'll take care of you both!"
And out of her handbag she takes a cute, but satisfactory-lookin' gun and a reporter's police lines badge.
I throwed up my hands and told the taxi driver where to go. The weaker sex, hey? Tomato sauce!
Well, we reached the dock and found our ship to be a dirty, disreputable-lookin' tramp steamer. At the gangplank is lollin' a sailor, which both me and Ptomaine instantly pegged as bein' one of the bunch in the hall where we give our show that night. This guy presents us with a evil grin when he recognizes us in turn, as Ptomaine comes right to the point, beatin' me to it.
"Hey, Dizzy!" growls Ptomaine, "we want to know what happened to Kid Roberts after he beat up 'at buddy of yours to-night. The champ's disappeared and"
"Ptu!" interrupts our charmin' vis-a-vis, foulin' the bay with tobacco juice, "and what should I know about yer faint-hearted friend? He's prob'ly skipped town, the big yellah bum, he was afraid the mate would lay for him to break his pretty face! I think I could do it meself!"
"What's your thoughts regardin' this?" snarls Ptomaine—and sent him sprawlin' on his back with a right-hander.
Then we run down the gangplank, peerin' about the dark and littered deck. There was a scuffle of feet behind us and I suddenly remembered we'd left Miss Angela Yerkes up on the dock. I turned to look and Wam—somethin' crashed on my head and I went out like a candle in a hurricane.
So that was that!
When I next come to life, I'm flat on my back in the forecastle of the ship—which is movin'—and I'm bound hand and foot. Beside me is Ptomaine Joe, in the same unpleasant predicament. Nearby is Kid Roberts, sittin' against a bulkhead, but his arms is also tied behind his back. Laugh that off! The oversize sailor which had stayed four rounds with the Kid is standin' over him, bawlin' him out in terms which introduced somethin' new in the way of two-handed cussin' and highly tickled the assembled deckhands. Durin' the next few minutes, we learned that the fightin' sailor was mate of the ship we're aboard and evidently one of the old-time "buckos," from the way the other help seemed to fear him. Angela is nowheres in sight, for which I'm more than thankful, though that don't stop me from worryin' plenty over what happened to her amidst a crew of rats like these! Anyways, after turnin' his free-swingin' tongue on me and Ptomaine, the mate chased all but two guys out and himself left the forecastle.
Well, we swap experiences with Kid Roberts, whilst our two guards watches us suspiciously. The fact that he'd been Shanghied didn't seem to particularly annoy the Kid, which appeared to view the whole affair as a interestin' adventure. He even laughed at me and Ptomaine for bein' burnt up at his account of how he was overpowered and kidnapped by the sailors, after the bout in the hall.
"But what's the big idea?" I says. "What does these guys want with us?" I asked him.
"With you and Ptomaine, I'm sure I don't know," smiles Kid Roberts, "unless they've brought you along as mascots. As for me—well, I've been told I've got to meet our sanguinary friend, the mate, in a finish fight as soon as we lose sight of land!"
"'At mate sure loves to get bruised, don't he?" remarks Ptomaine, wonderin'ly. "Well, he's just a twopuncho kayo for either you or me, Kid! 'At's the least of it. What happens after you put him away?"
Kid Roberts simply shrugs his big shoulders.
"I must refer you to our hosts," he says, noddin' to our two scowlin' wardens.
Ptomaine glowers at 'em.
"Hey—where's this scow headed for?" he asks one.
"China!" is the grunted answer. "Keep yer mouth shut!"
Speechless with rage, I could only start a one-man discussion of their ancestors, whilst with a low moan, Ptomaine fell back on the floor again. Kid Roberts looks at us and laughs his head off!
Threats of the law had the same effect on our guards as they would on a couple of mummies. They just grinned and regaled us with stories about the mate's fluency as a fighter—he was more than a fighter, he was a killer, accordin' to them. Well, the Kid's right uppercut has took the ambition out of manys the killer—in the ring and out of it—so none of us fainted with fear of what the mate would do to him. What we all was worried about, though, was Angela Yerkes. Questions about her brung nothin', but blank looks and Kid Roberts whispered to us to keep quiet, as maybe the girl had managed to hide herself somewheres aboard and they mightn't even know she was there yet.
After awhile, the Chinese cook comes down with a tray of chow. Ugh—I can close my eyes now, think of that goo and get seasick! The very sight and smell of it, added to the musty air of the forecastle and the rollin' of the ship, knocked us over and we shooed Mr. Cook away. That was one thing us and our guards agreed on. They chased the Chinaman out of the place with a storm of rare oaths, windin' up by throwin' their own platters of eats after him in disgust.
Ptomaine Joe was just a chump as a box fighter, but in a kitchen I have yet to see his equal, no kiddin'! Children, what that big goof could do with a skillet would make the Fitz-Charlton chef take cyanide! Ptomaine knew more about cookin' than Bryan does about ridicule and he immediately begins discoursin' on some of the delicious poultices he'd served up to Kid Roberts on various occasions. The man-mountain's pain-stakin' descriptions of these ravishin' dishes is so appetizin' that the two sailors' mouths soon begins to water and after questionin' Ptomaine till they satisfied themselves he really was a Grade-A cook, they got more friendly. One of 'em tells us the ship ain't bound for China or no place else, but is simply sailin' out in the bay where the fight between the mate and Kid Roberts is to be staged. He adds that the captain give his permission for the fracas to take place on board the lugger to please the crew, which is on the brinks of mutiny on the account of the horrible cookin' of the Chinese chef. At this interestin' point, Kid Roberts butts in to ask angrily if the captain
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Scene from "The Tough Tenderfoot"
also gave his permission to have him kidnapped. The sailors grins and says no—that clever little detail was their own idea!
Actin' on the orders of Kid Roberts, Ptomaine switched the conversation back to food and kept it there, till fin'ly the hungry sailors has a whispered conference. Then they proposition us. If we'll give our words to act like gents and not start nothin' rash, they'll untie us—provided Ptomaine Joe goes to the galley and makes good his boasted ability as a cookin' fool! It took us about fifteen seconds to agree to that and it took Ptomaine about fifteen minutes to compose from odds and ends in the ship's kitchen a steamin' stew which seemed to go past the two seamen's wildest dreams! They tied into it like they'd been told it was their last meal that year, stuffin' themselves to the ears, whilst the Chinese cook stood by, mutterin' laundry tickets under his breath. He looked longin'ly at a big cleaver and then at Ptomaine, but that's as far as the Chink went with his thoughts!
The nourishment is no more than out of the way, when down comes the blood-thirsty mate and orders us up on deck. He frowned at our two scared watchmen when he seen we was untied, but said nothin'. Ptomaine wanted to rush the mate right then and there and lay him like a pavement, but Kid Roberts held him back, gently remindin' him that there was enough roughnecks aboard to get us sooner or later and besides this was his quarrel, not Ptomaine's.
Once on deck we're led to the stern where a large space had been cleared and is lined with sailors, eager for bloodshed and violence. The howl they set up when we hove in view must of disturbed the little fishes and frightened the timid barnacles to death! On the top of a hatch sits the captain, which seemed to be a nice, jovial old man. Beside him, crazy with excitement—is Miss Angela Yerkes! Whilst I'm takin' all this in and Ptomaine rushes over to Angela to find out how come and the etc., Kid Roberts, cool and unruffled, turns to the swaggerin' mate.
"I say, old man," he says, "this is all rather silly, don't you think? Why should we fight—I mean, just what is the issue at stake? Absurd, isn't it? Suppose we forget about it and I'll forget about the manner in which my friends and myself were detained aboard here. I"
"I knew you'd crawl, you white-livered quitter!" the mate cuts him off with a sneer. "You'll fight me or I'll break you in half—get that?"
"Very well, you infernal idiot!" snaps the Kid, white and hard-eyed. "You're spoiling for a beating, and, by Gad, I'm spoiling now to give it to you!"
The sudden, new tone in the Kid's voice caused a slightly uneasy look to flash in the mate's eyes for a second, but he shrugged his shoulders and went ahead with the preparations for the battle. In the meanwhile, Ptomaine come back from his interview with Angela Yerkes and tells us the results. There was nothin' at all pleasant connected with Ptomaine's report! Angela told him she hadn't been harmed by the sailors, which took her to the captain when she waved her reporter's police badge at 'em. She begged the skipper to let her stay and see the fight and fin'ly vamped herself into a ringside seat—not a unusual feat for a good looker. Angela's kind can talk themselves in or out of anything, you know that. But the kick in Angela's budget of news was that the sailors has bet the captain a month's wages that the mate will knock Kid Roberts out! She gleefully anticipated a riot if the Kid wins and thinks it's all "perfectly thrilling!" Well, we didn't think it was perfectly thrillin'—we knew it was!
One of the sailors come over and gruffly told us the rules. They were all built to order for the mate—protect yourself at all times, no blows of any nature barred, hit on the breaks and break on the captain's orders from where he was perched on the hatch, three-minute rounds, one-minute rest between each frame, the muss to last till either Kid Roberts or the mate couldn't come up for any more pastin'. It might go one round or it might go a hundred, but in any event it was to go to a finish!
The bell was a tin dishpan which a sailor smacked with a belayin pin. Another tar was timekeeper and when I says either me or Ptomaine should be one of the officials, they laughed me away. By this time, the ship was well out in the bay and rockin' like a cradle—tricky footin' that the mate was used to, but a fearful handicap to Kid Roberts! Just before the start of this strange bout, the boat dipped heavily and Kid Roberts was thrown to his knees. The sailors yelled with delight at this mishap, in joyful anticipation of what was to come. Both Angela and the captain looked worried, whilst me and Ptomaine felt low enough to walk under a worm with high hats on!
The minute the sailor hit the dishpan for round one, the mate lowers his head and bores into the Kid, which was busy tryin' to keep his balance on the deck. The champion easily blocked a wild right swing, but slipped on the rollin' deck in duckin' a left to the jaw. Kid Roberts fell on his back, his head strikin' with a sickenin' thump! The sailors danced around, bellerin' like savages for the captain to count the Kid out, but the skipper refused, on the grounds that the mate had nothin' what the so ever to do with Kid Roberts goin' down. The captain was a good egg, at that. Although badly stunned, Kid Roberts had the born fighter's instinct to try and get up till knocked dead! The champion struggled to his feet, swayin' dizzily and at sea in more ways than one. With his shipmates howlin' for a knockout, the mate rushed the groggy and almost defenceless Kid, sprayin' him with terrible lefts and rights. Kid Roberts, bleedin' from nose and mouth, tried a left to the wind. The lead was short and another lurch of the vessel again sent him to his knees. The Kid grabbed the mate around the waist and pulled himself up, then stepped back and threw a hard right at the mate's jaw. Still dazed by his first fall, he missed by a foot and the mate dropped him with a poisonous right, flush to the chin.
Kid Roberts lay on his side with closed eyes, whilst the captain begin to count with a serious face. You couldn't hear him over the shrieks of the sailors, but you could hear me and Ptomaine screamin' that the whole thing was as foul as the air in a sewer—knocked almost unconscious by that bump he got on the head when he slipped to the deck at the start, what kind of a chance did the Kid have? The skipper reached "five!" without a move from Kid Roberts, beyond the quiverin' of his muscles and the openin' of his eyes which stared up glassily at the sky. I looked wildly round and seen a fire bucket next to the white-faced, speechless Angela Yerkes—as out of place there as a tuxedo in Sing Sing. "Seven!" roars the captain. "The water—the water!" I yelled at Angela, pointin' to the bucket. That girl was no Dumb Dora! She got me like a flash and grabbin' up the fire bucket, drenched the prostrate champion with the water. The Kid blinked, was on one knee at "nine!" and clinched with the angrily protestin' mate before "ten!" left the captain's mouth. That ended round one, Allah be praised!
Led by the mate, the sailors rushed to the captain and claimed the fight on the account of Angela throwin' the water on Kid Roberts. The skipper heard 'em for a minute in cold silence. Then he pulled out a gun and Angela produced hers from her trusty handbag. Before that imposin' array of artillery and the skipper's stern promise that he'd perforate the lot of 'em if they didn't get back in line inside of a minute, these bullies quailed and the clangin' of the dishpan for round two sent 'em scurryin' back to the fight. In the confusion, Ptomaine Joe disappears somewheres and leaves me all alone.
The second and last round was worth a hundred bucks of anybody's money for a ringside seat and all it cost the sailors was a month's work. As they came together, Kid Roberts floored the mate with a stiff left hook to the jaw. The sailor took a count of four and when he got up he fell again without' bein' hit. He rose quickly and missed a right swing but connected with a wicked left which sent Kid Roberts staggerin' back against the ring of tars which formed the ropes. Rushin' over to finish him, the mate run into a torrid right uppercut which flopped him to the deck once more. He was still on one knee at "ten!", but was in there fightin' again before the captain could make his shouts heard that the fight was over! Another left hook and the mate kissed the boards again. This time for "six". When he got on his feet he rushed Kid Roberts, stingin' the champ with two fearful rights to the ribs. They clinched. On the break, both missed lefts and the Kid slipped to his hands and knees as the result of the miss-spent effort and a roll of the ship. The mate clipped him on the top of the head with a right as he was gettin' up, but a foul in that fight was just a small incident!
They stepped warily around each other for a couple of seconds and then the Kid whipped over a right to the jaw that upset the mate for the fifth time. That baby was as tough as a life sentence and a punishment addict if there ever was one! After a count of "seven" he got to his feet and went down for the sixth time when Kid Roberts reached him with a left to the side of the head. Once again this baby—both the dirtiest and gamest fighter I ever seen—got up, but even his cheerin' crew could see he was weary. Tired from his own efforts to stop this guy, sick from the crack he got on the head from the hard deck boards and almost punched out, Kid Roberts attempted to clinch. With a dyin' spurt, the mate pushed him off and swung his right to the jaw. The Kid was a fraction of a second too late in blockin' the blow and it crashed him down on all fours, with the mate nearly fallin' on top of him as the force of his own punch carried him forward. What a fight—seven knockdowns in one round and that round not over yet!
Kid Roberts took the full count of nine before arisin' and when he did, the mate, encouraged by this sudden turn of the tide, rushed and hit him with a right chop to the jaw which dazed the champion. Both was practically out on their feet! Kid Roberts shook his head to clear it and missed a left, but ducked a whizzin' right in return. The mate was short with a left hook and Kid Roberts shot over a right cross which put him flat on his shoulder-blades for his seventh trip to the boards. The mate was punch-drunk when he slowly stood erect after a count of eight and the Kid stepped in with a sizzlin' left which shook him from head to heels. Before the reelin' mate knew what it was all about, Kid Roberts then set himself and tossed a terrific right to the point of the jaw and it was all over!
At "ten" there ain't the suspicion of movement in the mate's carcass and actin' on the captain's orders, the crew drenched him with water like Angela had drenched Kid Roberts. But Niagara Falls wouldn't of brung the sailor back to life! He was through, as even his disappointed shipmates was forced to admit. The skipper then informed 'em that as their charmin' mate had been knocked out they had to work a month for nothin', or else go to jail for kidnappin' us. They milled around, angrily talkin' things over and some of 'em was for lockin' the captain in his cabin and takin' charge themselves. At that minute, Ptomaine returned to the scene and the looks we got from the crew was homicidal!
Somebody knocked the captain's gun out of his hand and matters was rapidly reachin' the critical stage. Kid Roberts had enjoyed plenty fightin' for that evenin', the captain was a old man and Angela a girl. That left only me and Ptomaine to give them roughnecks any kind of a argument and what a swell chance we had, unarmed, against twenty or thirty plug uglies. Good night!
It was right here that Ptomaine come to the front and saved the day—likewise, all our skins. Suddenly sniffin' the air, he broke away from the mob and dashed below decks. I knew that guy well enough to be certain he wasn't leavin' us to our fate, but what I didn't know was the ace he had in the hole. In a few minutes, Ptomaine returns and with a broad grin he mounts the hatch beside the captain and invites the crew, which surrounded the grim-faced skipper, to step down to the forecastle. The appetizin' odor of well-cooked food is already competin' successfully with the salt tang in the air! The two guys Ptomaine had previously fed was hep right away and rushed below, with the other hungry sailors at their heels. We followed the crowd and reached the forecastle in time to see Ptomaine pointin' with pride to the mess table groanin' under the weight of eats he'd cooked up whilst the fight was goin' on. The Chinese cook is tied to a post, fifteen stilettos on each glance he give us!
Well, one look and one smell was enough for the starved sailors and forgettin' their rage they dove in with glad yells, fairly wolfin' down the food. We left 'em gorgin' and come up on deck for air, everybody congratulatin' the highly pleased Ptomaine on havin' cooked our way out of a extremely ticklish situation. The much relieved captain headed the ship back for the dock and Ptomaine begins writin' out recipes for chafin' dish specialties for Angela Yerkes, at her urgent request.
When Angela fin'ly went in the captain's cabin to concoct her sensational story for the "Morning Shriek" and Kid Roberts was himself again, we're leanin' over the rail, watchin' the lights of Frisco loom up on the water. Each is busy with his own thoughts and I broke the silence.
"Phew—what a night!" I says, "Well, anyways, we leave this burg to-morrow, thank—"
"Where d'ye get that we stuff?" butts in Ptomaine, "You mean you leave! To-morrow I'm goin' to show Angela how to cook chicken à la king at her apartment and after that we're goin' to a seven-reel picture, so I may never leave here. I talk a mean movie and I can do myself a lot of good in seven reels!"