Fighting Back/Round 9
A sport writer named Plautus which used to cover the fights in the good old days of 254 B. C., or about the time Harry Wills first begin challengin' Jack Dempsey, once made the followin' remark:
"The bell never rings of itself; unless some one handles it or moves it it is dumb!"
From that radical statement it's no trouble to see that our hero never heard of the automatic timer, with which many prize rings in this popular year is equipped. In spite of its intricate soundin' name, gentle reader, the automatic timer is nothin' more than a simple electric gadget attached to the bell, which without human interference rings Mr. Bell at the end of the regulation three minutes of assault and battery and also at the end of the one minute's merciful rest allowed the victim. The main charms of this kind of a gong is that it never varies a split second in announcin' the beginnin' and end of each round—a attraction sometimes found lackin' in human timekeepers either through excitement, inexperience, burn watches or the deliberate intent to favor one or the other of the boxers.
The heavyweight championship of the world once hung in the balance on the ringin' of the bell slightly before it was due. Sounds interestin', hey? Well, it is! Listen:
As Kid Roberts had now mowed down all the other contenders and the public was clamorin' for Bob Young to do his stuff, there was nothin' for the champ to do but give Kid Roberts a chance. That's what he done—a big-hearted act that baby will regret to his dyin' day.
Whilst I'm busy with the signin' of the articles and exchangin' daily horrible insults with Toledo Eddie Hicks, Kid Roberts was makin' a game attempt to win a fight of far more importance to him than the comin' brawl with Bob Young. This bout was carded to be fought in the dear old divorce courts and his opponent was no less than his beautiful but kind of infrequent wife, Dolores. The Kid was tryin' to get her to quit divorcin' him till he had his chance to make good. She'd dove head first into politics when they split and had only just hauled off and won the nomination for state senator.
Well, the night before Kid Roberts was to start conditionin' for Mons. Young, we bound to a theatre for a few much needed laughs previous to takin' up the dull, monotonous trainin' grind. My idea was that a snappy show would push the Kid's mind off his muddled domestical affairs, but that thought turned out to be a fearful flop! We no more than park in our seats after makin' life-long enemies of the customers which had to get up to let us pass, when Kid Roberts pegs his wife in a box with some friends of all sexes. At about the same minute, she seen him. The glance which passed between 'em only lasted a undersized moment, but it told 'em both as much as a hour's conversation would. It told me somethin', too—to the viz, that in spite of the fact they was separated, there was still a flock of love left on both sides. That odd coincidence highly alarmed me and don't think it didn't! It wasn't that I wished to keep distance betweer Kid Roberts and his lovely bride, but I was afraid that if they went to work and treated themselves to a tête-à-tête right then it might result in the heart-sick Kid postponin' or even callin' off his fight with Young. I was almost positive that was what Dolores would ask for and I was by no means certain that this time Kid Roberts wouldn't give her service. He hadn't seen her for quite the while, he was maniacal about her and lately he had showed more signs than usual of the fearful strain he was under at the thoughts of losin' her forever and a day. Dolores was a pulse-quickener of the first water and Kid Roberts was human—for once he might do anything she asked him, with few blamin' him.
I figured my worst fears was realized when Dolores sends the Kid a note durin' intermission, to the effects that if he had any curiosity to view her at close range he could appease that curiosity after the show. Well, Kid Roberts would willin'ly of shot all the actors if that little prank would of brought this frolic to a quick close and he fidgeted in his seat like a inmate of a kindergarten. He couldn't of enjoyed the play no less had it been in the Siamese language and the start of the last act was the signal for him to blow to the back of the theatre so's to be the first one to hit the great outdoors when the curtain come down.
The next time I seen him was three in the a. m. at our inn and he wasn't fit to be at large, no foolin'! No unexperienced young wife ever sit up anxiously waitin' for a wanderin' bitter-half like I was waitin' for the return of Kid Roberts and his set, white face was just a mirror of what had happened. It was no different than a baker's dozen times before—peace conferences between the Kid and Dolores was about as successful as they'd be between puss and little mousie. At first he was as untalkative as our mutual friend, Mr. Oyster, but he had to get matters off his chest to somebody and as I'm by all means somebody, why, he soon give me a punch-by-punch account of the battle.
Kid Roberts had dashed madly up to the big marble temple on Fifth Avenue where his wife was gamely tryin' to make the best of a million-dollar income with her father. The Kid's first imitation was a attempt to fold her in his manly arms, but the fair Dolores had different plans and cleverly ducked the clinch. Before anything as refreshin' as that could happen, Kid Roberts had to pass a few simple tests of husbandly devotion. The Kid was willin', but test number one ruined everything! Like I'd figured, Dolores demanded that Kid Roberts keep his gloves off Bob Young, forget about the world's championship and quit the ring immediately. In return for his slight accommodation on the Kid's part she'd cancel her divorce suit and take up the exactin' duties of bein' his wife where she left off before. Otherwise, no game!
This terrific swing to the heart from the only one which could ever hurt him there staggered the Kid, but for awhile he kept his head. For the 8954th time, he carefully explained that he couldn't quit till he'd won the title, now practically within his grasp, and then defended it for a huge purse which would put him on his feet financially. That's what he went back tc the game for, why resign when he's on the verge of winnin' the heights? All this was so much applesauce to Dolores. What she called the Kid's "stubborness" burnt her up and she wouldn't listen to reason. The hot-headed Kid then took a turn at bein' sore himself. He credits her with bein' selfish and tells her the only reason she wants him outside the ropes is because she's afraid his bein' a scrapper will hurt her chances of winnin' a seat in the state senate. Dolores calls that a wonderful guess on his part and their farewell was as long drawn out and clingin' as the farewell of a bullet to the barrel of a gun!
And I took the Kid to the theatre that night to get his wife off his mind. For cryin' out loud!
Well, anyways, the followin' day the Kid's headquarters is removed to the gym where my athalete is to do most of his trainin' for the rumpus with Bob Young. Amongst the bevy of nose-bustin' talent whose pleasant duties was to lead their chins to the Kid's mighty right till Dame Nature balked 'em from takin' any more punishment, was Ptomaine Joe. In three starts under my disgusted management, Ptomaine had been smacked for a loop exactly three times, but if you think that in any way disturbed this monkey's peace of mind you're crazy. Bein' knocked out thrice in a trio of bouts would of made even a half-wit a bit tired of boxin', but it only seemed to increase Ptomaine's weird longin' for the game. He never let up pesterin' me to get him another quarrel till one day in the gym I throwed four iron dumb-bells at him in pure desperation. I missed him each time, a feat nobody else had ever been able to do in a ring with him.
"Careful, Joe!" says Kid Roberts to me, frownin'. "If you'd struck him with one of those you'd have done a lot of damage!"
"I know I would," I says, "but I'd of paid for them dumb-bells with a smile, if I'd been lucky enough to of hit that big banana with 'em!"
Not the faintest particle upset over the narrow escape he'd just had from makin' me a murderer, Ptomaine picks up the dumb-bells and grins at me pleasantly.
"Better luck next time!" says this typical case of insanity. "You got to get a certain grip on these babies to throw 'em properly. At that, I figured you'd hit me with one of 'em! You should of steadied and took aim, what I mean. Listen—when do I fight again?"
"The minute the next draft comes along!" I says, promptly.
"I don't crave the army," says Ptomaine, "I wish to fuss around in a ring."
"You got a swell chance, clown!" I says. "They wouldn't let you in a fight club no more if you was on the boxin' commission, Why, the sport writers is callin' you the Divin' Venus!"
"'At ain't goin' to make me break out in tears," says Ptomaine, scornfully. "Them guys is just sore, 'at's all!"
"Sore at what?" I ask him, turnin' on a sneer.
"Sore at my habit of fallin' on top of 'em when I get knocked through the ropes," says Ptomaine. "As if a man can be choosey about spots to land in at a time like 'at!"
By this time, the other inmates of the gym which has been standin' around listenin' is in convulsions. Even Kid Roberts' worry-lined face has relaxed a bit, provin' that as a entertainer Ptomaine had few equals and prob'ly was worth carryin' with the camp for that reason alone, like the Kid claims. But this mackerel wasn't satisfied with just bein' a circus around the gym—you couldn't keep him out of the ring with a injunction.
A few days later, Ptomaine comes to me with a brand new argument. He's as serious as a four-alarm fire in Wall Street.
"Listen here," he says, "I been studyin' things over and I'm fin'ly convinced 'at I got no more chance of bein' a champion than I got of bein' Queen of China—even less! As the matter of fact, I got quite the few doubts as to whether I'll ever win a fight in a ring in my life!"
"That's the first intelligent remark you ever made in your entire career!" I says, heartily, "And there's nobody more tickled than me to hear that you're through with the glove racket for all eternity!"
"Who says anything about bein' through with the glove racket?" he asks, indignantly, "Don't be silly! I'll be in there tryin' as long as I can dig up another guy to go in there with me. What I mean is I'm through with the idea 'at I'm a world beater. I know I'm never goin' to set the lake ablaze with the way I win fights, but what I'm going to do now is dumfound Europe with the way I lose 'em!"
"What the Kansas City are you talkin' about?" I ask him, as astonished as you are.
"You're just like a baby" he says, "Even the simplest things has got to be carefully explained to you! I'm goin' out and get myself a reputation as the gamest loser which ever laid blinkin' up at a countin' referee. I'm goin' to be known as a boy which can take more beatin' than any other scrapper in the wide, wide world! I won't quit, not even if the timekeeper steps in and hits me over the head with the bell. They won't be nothin' can stop me till I'm just a gory wreck and even then it'll take the militia to end the bout. Now go and get me some good, tough, murderous puncher which can bring out my hidden gameness and I'll show you the way a fight should be lost!"
There's my entry for the cuckoo championship of the globe!
As usual, I give in to Ptomaine's pleadin's after a week of it had me a set-up for the delirium tremens ward. I got him Cyclone McEinstein for one of the preliminaries to the Kid Roberts-Bob Young championship battle. I'll tell you later what Ptomaine done with this lifetime chance. There's some important matters to be discussed right now.
The gym where Kid Roberts was trainin' in was operated by a gent named Charley Mack which was the proud owner of a cauliflower ear and a daughter called Elizabeth, or Beth for short. This young representative of a sex I predict a great success for was as pretty to look at as the Kid's straight left and she was likewise a inveterate boxin' fan. Beth come by her regard for fisticuffs honestly, as her dear old father was a very tasty middleweight in his day and was said to have once got a draw with Bob Fitzsimmons—at checkers. Well, Beth spent a great deal of her time around the gym watchin' the various leather pushers readyin' themselves to get their lips puffed and after Kid Roberts arrived on the scene, why, she was as much of a daily visitor as sunset. She seemed to know all about the struggles of the handsome, college-bred Kid and anybody which couldn't read admiration for him in her eyes couldn't read the mornin' paper, either. I don't think Kid Roberts knew whether Beth was hangin' around the gym or hangin' around Japan. His mind was on two things only—the world's championship and his balky wife! So with his lack of interest in the girl and the fact that her old man told me she was the same as engaged to Frankie Nolan, one of the Kid's sparrin' partners, I didn't figure her no menace. And she wasn't—no more than a epidemic of smallpox is!
Ptomaine Joe tumbled right in love with Beth the instant he seen her, but as usual with the girls this mistake favors with his kind attentions, Beth wouldn't even take the trouble to insult him, In a frantic effort to get some notice from her, Ptomaine went through the pork and beaners in the trainin' quarters like a bullet goes through a cigar box! In fact, the only two boys he didn't have on the floor at one time or another was Frankie Nolan and Kid Roberts himself. Havin' saw Ptomaine do that kind of unofficial damage before and then go into a ring and have his ears beat off, this failed to get me unduly excited. As for Beth, well, if she was thrilled at this cave man's ferocity she was certainly a marvel at the art of hidin' your emotions!
How the so ever, our young charmer soon appeared steamed at her failure to panic Kid Roberts, when all the other males in the gym was struttin' their stuff for her. Naturally, the Kid's indifference only got Beth the more interested, and, another thing, Kid Roberts was what you might call big game for any girl to bag. So throwin' all pretence to the winds, this damsel sets about the woman's-sized task of bringin' Kid Roberts to her feet. Beth had plenty tricks and she tried 'em all, but this time the Kid was girl-proof! Far from bein' delighted with attentions which would of drove the average guy hysterical with joy, Kid Roberts was much annoyed by the everlastin' presence of Beth around the gym and he simply ruined her when he point-blankly asked her one day to take the air. The Kid gently told the furious Beth that a prize fighter's trainin' quarters was no place for a lady, even if her old man did run the joint. Kid Roberts was triple polite about this delicate matter, selectin' his words like a veteran housewife selects chops, but the look the flamin'-faced Beth give him sent a slight chill up my spine.
"The great big stiff!" says Beth to me, courteously, as the Kid walked away. "He hates himself, don't he? I hope Bob Young beats the life out of him. I think Frankie Nolan could do it right now!"
"You do, hey?" I says, curlin' my lip, "Well, Frankie better not get thinkin' that way or the Kid will sure bruise him!"
"He won't do any such thing!" she says, scornfully waggin' her little head. "Frankie could whip Kid Roberts any time he wanted to—he's been holdin' back in the trainin' bouts here!"
"Did Frankie tell you he wasn't tryin' against the Kid?" I ask her, grinnin'.
"No," she says, after a minute, "but I've seen Frankie fight lots of times and he doesn't fight in the ring the way he does here!"
"I noticed that myself," I says, still grinnin', "There is quite a difference in the way Frankie boxes in the ring and the way he boxes in a gym. In a gym, for the example, he manages to keep off the floor, whilst in the ring"
But Beth was gone, flingin' me a enraged remark which she never picked up in no young ladies' finishin' school. I wish I had let her alone, I do for a fact! I should never of kidded her about Frankie Nolan. She liked Frankie and she sure made me pay for my laugh!
Well, Beth went right to her father and demanded that she be allowed to come and go in the gym whenever she wanted to, but Charley Mack was gettin' well paid for helpin' condition Kid Roberts and if the Kid won back the title Charles figured he had a chance to become a regular member of our staff. Charles listened patiently to Beth's angry chatter and then coldly told his little daughter to take the air.
The followin' day, Kid Roberts notes with pleasure that Beth is numbered amongst the missin'.
"I didn't want to be rude to the girl," he says to me, "but, honestly, her presence around here simply threw me off my stride. I don't mind posing in ring togs for the lady reporters, but to walk around half-naked all day before a woman—well—eh—I'm certainly glad she's gone!"
"I wish you wasn't so bashful," I says, gloomily. "That Jane is good and sore because you put her out. She'll frame somethin' on you as sure as you're a foot high. You know the old sayin', 'Hell has no fury like a woman scorned'!"
Kid Roberts smiles and slaps me on the back.
"You've been going to the movies too often, Joe," he says. "What on earth could that girl possibly do to harm me?"
"I don't know," I admit. "But she' do somethin', that's a cinch! And as far as the movies is concerned, I've heard of things happenin' in everyday life which would make a movie thriller look like Sunday on the farm!"
"For instance?" asks the Kid.
"Them trips which Sinbad the Sailor took," I says, "or that little voyage of Robinson Crusoe, or"
"Why, you idiot," butts in the Kid, "those things never actually happened! They are merely imaginative"
"Listen," I says. "Don't try to kid me. I got the best proof in the world that them things happened!"
"Well, that's certainly interesting indeed!" says the Kid, tryin' to be sarcastical. "What proof have you?"
"I can show you the books!" I says. "Good enough?"
"Ample!" says Kid Roberts, laughin'. "And just as convincing as your belief that Miss Mack has designs on my health, which, of course, is all bosh!"
With that he begins to punch the bag and leaves me to my own resources.
Speakin' of bosh, I'll show you how much bosh my hunch was. Beth Mack done just two little things to Kid Roberts. Each of 'em nearly cost him the title. Allow me to present number one.
Frankie Nolan, Beth's heavy boy friend, was simply a good, tough heavy of no particular class, but a pip of a sparrin' partner mainly through his ability to take it. Frankie was no master boxer, but he'd proved a stumbfin' block for many a ambitious corner who'd punch his own heart out tryin' to stop Frankie only to quit tryin' the impossible and take one on the chin. He was no different than a hundred others which has as much chance to be champion as I got to be president, yet can go in there and give a good account of themselves, clickin' off a occasional knockout, till years of repeated batterin' sends 'em to the ash can—generally cuckoo from the punchin' about the head.
Well, a guy of Frankie's type, stolid and colorless, seldom gets mad in the ring or out of it. Fightin' to him is a business and he goes about it with no more heat than a carpenter measures off a plank of wood. After twenty rounds, maybe, of gorey fightin' durin' which both him and his opponent has been many times on the verge of a knockout, he'd just as soon sit down to dinner with the other jobbie after the brawl. What I mean is that it takes a lot to stir them babies up—but then to Frankie Nolan, Beth Mack was a lot!
The first tip-off I got that Beth had built up Frankie to go after Kid Roberts was when he changed practically overnight from a good-natured, willin' boy to a surly, mumblin', scowlin' gorilla. Then he commenced gettin' off to one side of the gym and shadow boxin', skippin' rope, roughin' around the heavy sand bag and workin' the pulley weights. You'd think this guy was trainin' for a scrap instead of Kid Roberts and everybody around the place got hep and made some crack about it. When Frankie went into the trainin' ring with the Kid he was no longer just a choppin' block. He sparred carefully, that is carefully for a big chump like he was, and when he let one go he put all he had on it. He'd start sudden flurries and rush the surprised Kid Roberts all over the ring, swingin' viciously with both gloves. As a matter of fact, in a couple of days the bouts between Kid Roberts and Frankie Nolan had developed into real fights whilst I let 'em last. Mr. Frankie was tryin' nobly all the time and I knew it when I cut the rounds short a minute or more to prevent the Kid from maybe gettin' butted over the eye by this big, flounderin' hulk which was grimly bent on knockin' him cold!
Instead of gettin' Kid Roberts peeved, this sudden dangerous change in Frankie Nolan actually pleased him. After each setto, he'd slap the glowerin' Francis heartily on the back, tellin' him he was improvin' daily and givin' him the best workouts of anybody in the camp. Why shouldn't Frankie be givin' Kid Roberts the best workouts, when Frankie was tryin' his darndest to put the Kid away?
Four days before Kid stepped into the ring with Bob Young for the world's heavyweight championship, it happened! The Kid had boxed two fast rounds each with Ptomaine Joe, Bud Johnson, a big dinge, and K. O. Stone, a good welterweight we used to put a edge on the Kid's speed. Frankie Nolan was saved for last as usual—always the stiffest workout of the day. I looked around for Frankie impatiently, not wantin' the Kid to cool off between these bouts, and there's Frankie industriously workin' the pulley weights against the wall on the other side of the gym. I run over to him.
"C'mon, c'mon, Big Boy!" I says, "Get in there with the Kid and do your stuff. What's the idea of the physical culture?"
"If you don't like it, pay me off!" snarls Frankie, droppin' the pulleys, "I don't have to jump when you snap your fingers. Talk that way to them bums around here—not to me!"
I let that pass.
"Readyin' for a fight yourself?" I asks, whilst'm lacin' on his gloves.
"None of your damned business!" says Frankie, lookin' up murderously at Kid Roberts, which is skippin' rope in the ring to keep warm. I tied the laces on the gloves and pulled out my watch.
"Don't get too giddy in there to-day, Frankie," I says quietly in his ear, "I'm wise to you and so's Kid Roberts. I'm only tryin' to save you a lot of grief! The Kid's been under wraps with you and you know it. He ain't never yet let you have it—that's why you been thinkin' you're good. You start any punches lower than the belt and you'll go out of here with a broken jaw!"
Frankie's answer is to kick over the stool and walk out to the center of the ring, waitin' for the bell. I rung it.
"Hello, Frankie!" says Kid Roberts, pleasantly, and stuck out his glove to shake.
That was the end of all conversation till a minute and a half later, at which point Kid Roberts made his next remark. It was a pantin', "Do you suppose he suddenly went insane?"
I suppose Frankie did, only not suddenly—this big mock turtle had been that way for days! Ignorin' the Kid's proffered handshake, Frankie let a left go from somewheres near his ankle, aimin' it for the Kid's jaw. Had it been delivered to where it was addressed it would undoubtlessly have put Kid Roberts under ether, for Francis could hit! But somethin' in this guy's eye must have warned the Kid, and though he was caught with his hands down he partially ducked the, blow, takin' it high on the side of his head instead of the chin. The force of the punch throwed Kid Roberts into the ropes and whilst the startled gang in the gym is still yellin', Frankie drove a fearful right to the face, cuttin' a nasty gash over the Kid's eye. And in four days Kid Roberts was to step into a ring with the world's champion!
Well, I don't think there will ever be another time in my life when I'll wish for a shotgun like I did right then. Should I of had one about me, I would positively of let Frankie Nolan have both barrels! The blood is streamin' down Kid Roberts' face and Frankie is swingin' wildly at his head with both gloves. Though badly dazed, the Kid is ring general enough to cover up and back pedal till he finds out what it's all about. I want to get to work on the Kid's damaged eye as quick as possible and I yell my head off hollerin' "Time!" Frankie paid me the same attention I'd get from a English butler. Still flailin' madly away with both hands, he shifts his attack to the Kid's body and then Kid Roberts come out of it! He shook his head and the gore from his eye spattered the awe-stricken bunch around the ring. I told 'em to get ready to climb inside the ropes with me when I give the word and these orders is barely out of my mouth when Kid Roberts smashes Frankie with a short left hook which sent Frankie sprawlin' to his knees. As tough as a rhino, Frankie jumps up to be met with a left and right which put him down again on all fours. I screamed to the excited handlers to climb in with me and we're scramblin' through the ropes when Francis arises again. He looked to be out on his feet and Kid Roberts stood hesitatin', evidently not wantin' to smack him no more. One of the handlers grabbed at Frankie and Frank give him a shove which sent him half ways across the ring. Then Frankie suddenly leaped towards the Kid, swingin' hard and low with his left as he jumped. A dozen guys rushed him, but they was too late. The punch took Kid Roberts squarely below the belt—a deliberate, nasty, vicious foul which Frankie hoped would cripple him! The Kid's face went grey and twisted with agony, but he didn't even give Frankie the satisfaction of goin' down writhin', like nine out of nine would of done from that kind of a sock. Instead, Kid Roberts stepped forward and uppercut this dumfounded hound with a right which nearly tore Frankie's useless head off his shoulders and lifted him inches from the floor. When Francis dropped, he fell like they do with heart failure! He was out for fifteen minutes and come to in a alley back of the gym, where the enraged Ptomaine Joe throwed him on his way to a doctor for the Kid.
Well, youth, health and determination is a hard combination to beat! In spite of the gash over the eye and Frankie Nolan's foul punch, which didn't turn out as bad as we expected, Kid Roberts was ready to put up the fight of his life when the night of the world's championship battle with Bob Young rolled around. Somehow or other, the story of that fracas in the gym had leaked out as them things will and the newspapers printed the interestin' fact that Kid Roberts was goin' into the mill with one eye badly cut in trainin'. None of the papers knew which eye it was and to keep Bob Young from makin' the sore optic a continual target, I doped out a scheme to befuddle him. I carefully went over the Kid's injured eye with theatrical grease paint, coverin' up the stitches and the bluish tinge of the skin. Then I taped a plaster over the good eye and we fooled the world!
The paid attendance figures for the Kid Roberts-Bob Young fight is on the books as 65,854, but when I gazed at the ocean of faces under the arc lights as we milled our way into the arena with the aid of some husky coppers, I would of swore it was 65,000,000! We got to pass the bleachers on the ways to the dressin' rooms and the eager mob quickly spots Kid Roberts, swingin' briskly along and towerin' over all of us but Ptomaine Joe. Boy, what a yell went up! Plenty shrilly excited female voices joined in the "Good luck, Kid!" "Knock him stiff, Roberts!" "To-night's the night, Big Fellow!", etc., etc. Kid Roberts grinned like a schoolboy and waved his hands to 'em. That tickled 'em silly and they stood up and cheered wildly till we passed out of sight into the dressin' rooms.
Twenty times that afternoon Kid Roberts had tried to get his wife on the phone, hopin' that maybe at the last minute she'd realize what this brawl meant to him—to them both, for that matter—and at least wish him good luck. The best he got was central's favorite, "They don't answer!" He seemed to be broodin' heavy over that whilst he laid on the table and got his final rub and oilin'. Ptomaine Joe, dated up with Cyclone McEinstein, is all set to start for the abattoir and already showin' his usual symptoms of stage fright. The roar of the crowd outside watchin' one of the preliminaries was comin' to us like the steady drone of a cloudburst on a tin roof and Ptomaine shivered like that's what it was and he had to go out in it nude!
Although I argued myself black in the pan against leavin' him, Kid Roberts insisted on me goin' behind Ptomaine for his bout. I had competent handlers to send out with this baby, but the Kid, which wanted to see Ptomaine win a fight, says my moral support and coachin' might help him make the grade for once. Ptomaine added his own frantic entreaties and I fin'ly give in, I guess I must of had a soft spot in my heart for this brainless wonder at that!
When we stepped into the ring, the crowd give me a mild hand as Kid Roberts' manager. Ptomaine thinks the applause is for him and solemnly takes a bow, which causes the laughin' customers to give him the razzberry. That helped his nerves a lot, as he immediately proved by puttin' his foot in the bucket and upsettin' it when he sit down on his stool. More loud howls from the mob. I turned the serious Ptomaine over to his seconds and spent the next five minutes closely inspectin' the ring in which Kid Roberts would soon be fightin' for the world's championship, financial independence, and,
_4.png)
Scene from "The Tough Tenderfoot"
with that, his wife! I tested the padded canvas with experienced feet and it seemed O. K. Leanin' against the ropes, I thought 'em a bit too slack and mentioned it to one of the club officials standin' next to me in the ring. He promised it would be right for the championship bout—and then forgot all about it. Bob Young, though, will never forget them slack ropes!
It was whilst I'm tryin' the ropes that I first peg three people I'm somethin' more than slightly acquainted with. Two of 'em I'd of rather saw any place in the world than in ringside seats that night! They was Charley Mack, his dangerous daughter Beth and Frankie Nolan—parked perfect in the second row, right behind the timekeeper. Automatic bells ain't universally in use even now and in them days I doubt if there was a pair of 'em in the country. In this case, the bell was clamped to a post about ten feet above the timekeeper's head with a long rope hangin' down in easy reach for him to pull. You'll see plenty of them kind of gongs in fight clubs around the country to-day. They're all wrong! Automatic timers should be installed in every fight club in the world. When you finish this you'll know why!
Well, Charley Mack waves a friendly hand to me and Frankie Nolan gives me a kind of sheepish, ashamed look. He half rose in his seat and made as if to speak to me, but the glare I give him tied his tongue! I will say, though, that Frankie seemed thoroughly tamed and sorry for what he'd tried to do to Kid Roberts. But the one which interests me is Mack's Beth. If she was burnt up before when the Kid wouldn't give her a tumble and chased her out of the trainin' quarters, what must she be now when on top of that Kid Roberts had slapped her sweetie, Frankie Nolan, for a gondola? For pure venom, rage, wickedness and hate I still got to see anything to equal the look that girl give me when I stared down into her eyes. I turned away quick, much chilled!
Whilst Ptomaine Joe and Cyclone McEinstein are listenin' to the referee's instructions, I'm worryin' myself sick. My fears ain't for Ptomaine—I knew he was goin' to get it—I was troubled about Kid Roberts. But then I think what can Beth possibly try to pull with that crowd watchin' every move? She ain't sittin' near enough to a corner to switch water bottles on the Kid or anything like that. She wouldn't dare have a gun, as this is real life and not no movie. She can't monkey with the lights—what the Omaha could she do? I figured the answer was nothin' and impatiently cleared my mind of her. She fooled me by doin' the one thing I never thought of!
There's no use presentin' here a round by round description of the Ptomaine Joe-Cyclone McEinstein catastrophe, stopped by the charitable referee in the fifth round to save Mons. McEinstein from goin' to the chair for murder. The details would be as tasty as the details of a day's work at the slaughter house. Up to the time the referee called a halt, McEinstein had hit Ptomaine with everything but the club's licence and hit him everywhere but in the instep: The Cyclone was all his name declared him to be—a aimless swinger whose wild blows often put the referee in serious danger, but no knocker-out. Ptomaine was also as wild as a citizen of Borneo, so I'll just let you imagine what a pair like that would look like in the ring. McEinstein knew nothin' at all about boxin', or just twice as much as Ptomaine did, and this superior knowledge of the game enabled the Cyclone to put Ptomaine on the floor either twenty-six or fifty-four times. But he couldn't put him out! Ptomaine was in there to stay and that's what he done till the referee, tired of runnin' for his life every time either of these tramps let go, pushed Ptomaine to his corner bleedin' like a cut artery and raised McEirstein's glove. The mob heartily booed the Cyclone for bein' unable to stop Ptomaine and cheered Ptomaine lustily for his gameness.
When Ptomaine realized that he'd been deprived of a chance to get punished some more he acted like a maniac.
"What's the idea of stoppin' the fight?" he pants through swollen lips, "I ain't hurt no more than you are—this guy can't hit!"
"Outside!" says the referee. "This boy would of broke your neck in another round! He already done everything else to you. You're all full of blood and I'm sick of lookin' at you!"
"Can you beat 'at?" says Ptomaine to me as I ease him onto his stool. "What a break I got. They give me a referee which is too faint-hearted to stand the sight of a little blood and on account of 'at he stops the fracas just when I'm takin' a interest in matters!"
As we start up the aisle the crowd gives Ptomaine another cheer, the first time he ever heard that leavin' a ring in his life.
"Listen 'at 'em babies!" he says to me, grinnin' proudly. "'At's what you call a real send-off. I told you I had the right dope. To hell with tryin' to stop these guys, 'at's something I can't do—but don't I lose like nothing' you ever seen before?"
How would you like a guy like that around you all day?
Well, with the cheaper help through for the night, the great throng sits forward on the chairs in a fever of excitement, awaitin' the battle many of 'em had come hundreds of miles to see. In what bettin' there was around the ring, the champ and Kid Roberts was held at even money and take your pick—a bit unusual in a title fight—but in sentiment the big crowd was overwhelmin'ly for Kid Roberts, Perhaps every thrilled man and woman packed in that arena was familiar with the Kid's history and his sensational comeback in the ring and now when he stood at the threshold of winnin' the world's championship they was pullin' for him heart and soul! Even the boys which figured Young would surely take him cheered the Kid madly when we climbed through the ropes, ten minutes before the champ and his handlers come down the aisle to a thunderous roar of applause. The weights was announced as Kid Roberts 194½, Bob Young 197, and for once they was right.
There was a long delay before the fight got under way, caused by Toledo Eddie Hicks findin' fault with this and protestin' about that. Eddie objected to everything but the purse he was gettin' for Young, $250,000—win, lose, draw or what have you? He made me re-tape the Kid's hands, lower his belt and about everything else he could think of to try and upset the Kid's nerves with the fussin' and waitin'. The officials come to my assistance and chased the grinnin' Eddie to the other corner about the time that the crowd, crazy with impatience, was all ready to rush the ring and lynch Edward. The men posed for the newspaper photographers, then got the referee's brief orders about breakin' from clinches, forbidden blows and the usual stuff which nobody pays the faintest attention to. The ring is cleared of everybody but Roberts and Young—the mob howls madly—the bell!
Followin' my instructions to the letter, Kid Roberts shot across the ring and clipped Young twice with a terrific left hook to the body before the champ was well out of his corner. The second punch landed flush on the heart and had enough behind it to make the champ buckle at the knees and dive into a clinch. Nobody outside the ropes in that howlin' bedlam was sittin' down now! Comin' out of the clinch, Young steadied and began pickin' at the Kid's plastered eye with a long left. His aim was good so he soon knocked the plaster off and I laughed myself silly at the puzzled look on the champ's face when the eye didn't bleed. My trick to protect the Kid's other glim, cut by Frankie Nolan, was workin' perfect! Kid Roberts was tryin' for a one-round knockout and kept carryin' the battle to Young. He rushed the champ repeatedly, landin' often with that wicked left hook to the body and followin' it up with a right uppercut to the face. Young didn't care for this treatment at all and clinched at every chance, roughin' the Kid along the ropes till the crowd booed him to the echo. In one of these clinches, Young butted Kid Roberts and to show you what luck is, this time his head hits the Kid's sore eye and reopens the cut! The referee warned the champ if he lead with his head again he'd lose his title. Under a stream of orders from his corner, Young then changed his tactics and began to fight somethin' like a champion for a change. He jabbed his left hard to the Kid's fast closin' eye, but missed a right to the body. A second later he caught Kid Roberts squarely on the chin with a right hook and the Kid went back on his heels. He looked to be in a bad way and advice come from Young's handlers in a steady howl!
With victory in either glove, Young didn't seem to know what to do. He measured the reelin' Kid with a light left, whilst I prayed for the bell! Kid Roberts' fightin' instinct made him return the left with one of his own, which was short by a foot. "Clinch, Kid, get in there and hold on to him!" bawls the Kid's friends frantically. That was my request to him, too. Right at this point, Kid Roberts, badly hurt, called into play somethin' Bob Young didn't have—brains! He clinched and when Young roughed him off, Roberts begins to kid the champ about his hittin' powers and his inability to finish a man in distress. Young seemed to fear a trick of some kind and danced around hesitatin'ly. His admirers in the attendance bawled for him to finish it and finish it he could have at this minute with one well-placed blow, for Kid Roberts was on Queer Street! Young's uncertainty cost him a one-round win—it allowed the Kid to recover and the champ's golden opportunity was gone. In half a minute Kid Roberts was borin' in again and just before the bell he shook Young up with two stiff rights to the wind. The champ walked to his corner lookin' very serious, whilst the Kid run over to me, laughin'.
Where ever fight fans get together you'll still find 'em talkin' about the second round of this fight. Thrill piled on thrill with a climax which must have removed ten years from the lives of the ones with weak hearts! With the sound of the gong still in the air, the men came together in mid-ring, each bent on makin' this frame the last. Young connected first with a left to the nose and cleverly blocked the Kid's counter for the body. The champ then landed hard to the face with a left and drove a terrible right to the stomach which upset Kid Roberts and also the mob. The Kid signalled to me that he was O. K., took a count of six, rose, shook his head to clear it and tore in with both gloves. A right and left to the wind made the champ give ground and lose some of his sudden confidence. Young tried two lefts for the face and both were blocked. He then swung his right hard to the stomach, but Kid Roberts partially blocked the blow and returned a left and right to the chin that bounced the champion off the ropes. The Kid avoided a clinch and cut the champ's lips with three left jabs. Young tushed like a maddened bull and from then on they fought like stevedores on a dock! After takin' four straight rights to the head, Kid Roberts reached Young with a fearful right uppercut and then waded in intent on a knockout. He drove the champion across the ting with a furious barrage of rights and lefts which Young seemed unable to get away from. One of these punches dropped Young to his knees and brought the crowd up on their toes once more, a shriekin' like Indians. Without waitin' for a count, the champ arose groggily and found the ropes at his back. With thirty seconds to go, 65,000 people are cravin' for a knockout and they beseech Kid Roberts to deliver. Roberts had the goods! He smacked Young with a right to the jaw and Young went over backwards through them slack ropes, down on the hastily arisin' newspaper guys and telegraph operators!
I got my watch in my hand and my gaze is fastened on the timekeeper. The referee is at the ropes, leanin' over and countin' Young out. The champion is layin' across two upset chairs, just where he fell, dead to the world! The noise around the ring is deafenin' "One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight—" At that point, the bell suddenly cuts off the referee's dronin' count and cheats Kid Roberts out of a two-round knockout.
I say cheats, because that round still had twelve seconds to go! Watchin' the timekeeper, I had saw what happened. Beth Mack, sittin' behind the official, had jumped up, grabbed the rope over the timekeeper's head and pulled the bell before anybody could stop her. I had forgot about her, but she hadn't forgot about us!
Well, the place is in a uproar and everybody seemed to lose their heads, the thing was so unexpected and dumfoundin'. Beth's old man Charley looked for a minute like he was goin' to strike his daughter—Frankie Nolan seemed petrified with astonishment. A flock of cops rush down the aisle and whilst some of 'em hustles the now thoroughly scared Beth outside, the others keep back the crowd from climbin' into the ring. In the champion's corner they're workin' over him frantically. I'm in the ring with twenty other guys, hoarsely claimin' a foul. Kid Roberts is leanin' against the ropes bewilderedly, with Ptomaine Joe mechanically spongin' him off. The timekeeper is tryin' to explain matters, agreein' with me that the round was cut short twelve seconds and Young should of been counted out. Toledo Eddie Hicks insists that the fight go on, as the referee only counted up to eight on the champion. The newspaper guys mix in it—some with us and some with Young. The referee asks Kid Roberts if he wants to continue and the Kid says he does, tellin' me to shut up. The crowd, only a few of 'em knowin' what actually happened, hollers for action of some kind. Everybody's talkin' at once and we're gettin' nowheres, till the cool-headed promoter of the bout quickly takes charge. He sends the timekeeper back to his post, has the coppers clear the ring and orders the bell for round three.
It lasted just eighteen seconds and those of the patrons which was scurryin' to their seats with their backs to the ring didn't even see it! At the gong, Kid Roberts rushed from his corner like a express train and caught the unsteady Young with a sledgehammer left to the wind. Young bent almost double and a right hook spilled him over backwards like the roof had fell on him. The count was a waste of time! At "seven" the champ's eyes opened and he blinked up at the blindin' lights goofily. "Eight!" roars the referee, his arm risin' and fallin' and Young got to one knee, slipped back again and laid prostrate on his stomach where he was at the fatal "ten!" Many thought Young didn't wish to get up. Well, who would, after bein' knocked cold twice in one night!
Forty-five minutes later we managed to shake off the ravin' fans in and about the ring and got to the dressin' rooms. Inside is two coppers and a little, red-headed, freckle-faced messenger boy. The admirin' cops rush to open the door, one of 'em gettin' so excited he took off his hat to the Kid. The messenger boy runs over and grabs at the Kid's bandaged hands.
"I knew you'd take 'at big stiff!" he hollers. "I win three bucks on you, Mister Roberts. I—Oh, hey, I got a letter for you. I been here a hour. I was supposed to slip it to you before you went in the ring to-night."
"Well, why didn't you?" asks the Kid, rippin' open the envelope. I seen he knew the handwritin' from the way his good eye sparkled.
The messenger glares at the coppers, which looks a bit sheepish.
"These fat-headed bulls wouldn't let me in!" he says. "They thought I was tryin' to crash the gate to see the fight!"
"Well, you delivered—beat it!" growls one of the coppers.
The kid turns to Roberts, which is readin' the letter.
"Hey, Mister Roberts, can't I stay here and go out when you do?" he begs. "They'll be a million guys outside to watch you come out andand they'll all see me with you and—"
Kid Roberts smiles and tells the boy to sit down on a stool.
"Laugh that off, you big boloneys!" says the messenger to the glowerin' coppers, "And—pay me!"
The bulls look at each other and dig, each tossin' a buck to the grinnin' messenger, which sticks his tongue out at 'em.
"Can you beat that little divvle?" says one of the cops. "He bet us both a dollar Kid Roberts would let him stay!"
Whilst Ptomaine's helpin' the Kid dress, I read the note which he handed over to me, after tearin' part of it off and puttin' that part carefully in his wallet. It was from his wife and what he showed me went somethin' like this:
"This should reach you before you enter the ring. You said if you lost this bout it would be your last. I want it to be your last, of course, but I cannot desire you to lose. I hope you win and having attained your goal, the championship, you will do as I wish and retire. . . . It is so absurd, your boxing, when I have a million. . . ."
I handed it back to him.
"That shows she's still for you," I says. "What will you do?"
"Get a million of my own!" he says, bangin' the table with his fist, "I'm world's champion again now—that's one objective gained. The next is money—"
"I can let you have the five bucks I win on you!" suddenly pipes up the messenger. "You can slip me out of your next fight. I'll take a chance on you, Champ!"