text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/74

 avoid disfigurin' punishment and yet give his master a stiff workout. In the same way any two professional scrappers which knows the first thing about their trade can carry each other along for a dozen rounds at a pace which makes three-fourths of the customers think they are tryin' to assassinate each other, whereas violence is the farthest thing from their minds. The oftener they meet, the more sensational they can make the "bouts" look, because after half a dozen such entertainments they know each other's every wallop by heart and could prob'ly stand up and block each other with their eyes closed.

Now, if amongst the billions in my audience there is a blown-in-the-flask box-fight fan which is hysterically rearin' up on his hind legs shriekin' that I'm all wrong, and what I know about the ring could be wrote on a gnat's ear, I would like to gently ask him why is it that there is usually more genuine action, promiscuous gore, and intent to kill in one round of the preliminaries than there is in the average star bout of the evenin'? Well, the main and principal reason is because the $1-a-round birds have to make a fight of it or they don't get no more work! Let them babies ease up for a minute and the indignant referee is at their pantin' sides informin' 'em that if they don't show some speed he will take the greatest of pleasure in throwin' the both of 'em outa the ring. Then again, gentlemen of the jury, it takes a finished workman with the mitts to stall so successfully that when him and his fellow artist apparently ignores the bell and keeps on sluggin' each other at the end of a round, the mob thinks it's

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/74


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/75

 on the level and goes delirious. A third-rater cannot stall, even if you rehearse him for a year. He don't know enough to slip inside what looks like man-killin' wallops, and when stung he forgets what he was told and fights! He's like the boneheaded but crack ball player which couldn't throw a game for a million dollars in dimes because he's got no imagination—he's a machine. He can't make the error which would frame the thing for the other side, because once he's in there he remembers nothin' but to play ball to the best of whatever ability he has. It ain't particularly because he's honest; he's shy the intelligence to be a first-class crook! The third-rate scrapper is the same way. Tell him for a month to rate the other guy along, pull his wallops, and take a occasional count to make it look good for the "return bouts," and when he climbs into the ring he forgets all about his instructions and goes ahead on his own hook as per usual. Given a fair chance, he'll innocently knock the other tramp for a goal, and spoil him for future and profitable use.

The fighter himself is in no way responsible for the conditions which surround box fightin' to-day. Like the exceedin'ly late czar of the playful Russians, he's more or less the victim of circumstances. Modern professional boxin' is a business as well organized as the circus. As perpetrated in some of the big burgs, prize fightin' is very close to bein' a trust. The boxers on the inside are carefully nursed along, advertised, and exploited the same as a breakfast food, patent medicine, or movie star, and the tough ambitious outsider has the same chance of bustin' into the large money as I got of bein' elected Queen of Montenegro.

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/75


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/76

 Every now and then some newspaper guy, with more nerve than prospects, trains his typewriter on these dollar snatchers and pans the "return engagements" between the leadin' scrappers to a fare-thee-well. The promoters' alibi is that they have to rematch the headliners, because there is so few young men hither and you about the country which is talented enough with their hands to give the stars a battle. This, of course, is 36-carat bunk! In every class, from bantam to heavyweight, there is a half dozen earnest, clever, and bone-crushin' young sluggers which are automatically barred off the Big Time because they are just that! The champs don't wish no part of these babies—they're too tough and ambitious. Merciful Heavens, no—why, them poor boobs wanna fight!

These and other present-day conditions which I will take up at our next meetin' is what has stripped the prize ring of the sentimental glamour, sportsmanship, and fair play throwed around it by many of our otherwise unhysterical authors and playwrights. In days of old, when men was bold and the like, perhaps prize fightin' was a he-man's sport and may kave developed courage and biceps in the youth of the land. At any rate, the guys which traded wallops when John L. Sullivan was the name of a fighter at least made a honest attempt to earn their dough. They stood toe to toe for hours at a time and battled more for glory than anything else, and the winner usually knew he had been in a brawl by the time his handlers carried him outa the ring. There was no percentages, bonuses, or guarantees in them days. The purse was often in the neighborhood of a coupla hundred berries, and fre-

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/76


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/77

 quently the guy which remained upright at the finish took it all!

Sweet Mamma—what a difference now!

The modern boss scrapper picks his opponents as carefully as Ziegfeld picks a chorus. He gets a guaranteed sum somewheres in the thousands for a six-, eight-, or ten-round muss with some set-up which must take what he's handed for his end, no matter if by some miracle he knocks the star kickin'. Then again, if the star happens to be a big local drawin' card, his victim is at times warned that if he trims his man he don't get no more work at that club. The result is that the poor boob goes in against one of them $5,000 beauties, finds the mob all with the native son, and yellin' for his own immediate assassination; knows that if he wins, draws, or loses his pay will be the same; remembers that if he gets too rough he will lose a lotta future bouts at the club, an therefore takes a lickin', boostin' the star's reputation and, likewise, the star's price.

But occasionally along comes a handsome city chap which upsets all the plans of the gentlemanly promoters and the athletic young business men which calls themselves boxers. A tough, ambitious baby will crop up which, besides havin' a kick in each hand, has also got a few ounces of brains in his head and a manager which is not simply a addin' machine. A combination like that is carbolic acid to the boxin' trust. Sooner or later they gotta be taken in and gave a crack at the big money. Then they either peg along, satisfied with the soft sugar and takin' their turns at boxin' the other members of the lodge, or they go in business for themselves when they get to the top. That's what me and

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/77


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/78

 Kid Roberts done, and that's how I made him heavyweight champion.

Followin' the wind-up of love's young dream, and my return from the Merchant of Venice with a handful of the root of all evil, Kid Roberts shuts the door of our bower in the hotel and indicates by signs that he wouldst like me to be seated.

"I have fought twice," he says, "and I've made somethin' less than a thousand dollars."

"That's better than diggin' streets, ain't it?" I says.

"It won't do!" he tells me. "I'm not in this beastly game for the love of it—I'm in it because it appears to be the only thing at which I'm skilled enough to make big money. I'm going to fight my way to the top of the pile so that I can demand enough for my bouts to rehabilitate my father and myself, and then I'm going to get out of it. I'm not satified with my progress to date. I don't want any more matches with those tenth-raters—those battered, loathsome brutes whose very appearance make the Darwinian theory a base libel on the monkeys! I'm sick of pounding them to a pulp for a few dollars. There's no semblance of a contest about those things; it's sheer, wanton brutality. Go ahead and match me with some of these so-called logical contenders for the heavyweight championship, or I'll be my own manager. I'm not trying to desert you, but I want you to thoroughly understand that I hate this game and everything connected with it, and the quicker I get out of it the cleaner I'll feel! I can't get out until I've made good. Is that clear?"

"Oh, easily that," I says, "and I don't blame you as much as a particle for wantin' to make money. There's

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/78


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/79

 a certain time in our lives when all of us gets that feelin', usually durin' the first seventy-five years. But, Kid, you gotta learn your trade and work your way up in the fight game the same as in anything else. You can't make a guy a plumber by simply handin' him a piece of lead pipe and a monkey wrench. You're a pretty good prospect right now, but that's all—just a prospect. Them two fights you had don't mean nothin'. You got a hefty kick in each paw, and you seem to be able to take it, but you're as green as 350 Irish flags. You get rattled under fire, you squander wallops on the air, your defense wouldn't puzzle a one-armed blind man, and you telegraph every clout you got in stock before you pull it. When you get bounced you jump right up instead of takin' a count till your head clears, and you got a bad habit of lettin' a punch-drunk burn dive into a clinch with you instead of shakin' him off and finishin' him. Ring generalship, that's what you're minus, and the only way you can get it is by experience. You gotta be rated along, not rushed. That's what a manager's for. Many a promisin' kid has been ruined at the start by bein' overmatched. As for these guys lookin' like gorillas—well, none of 'em claims to be chorus girls, and you don't have to take 'em out to dinner—you get paid to beat 'em up!"

The Kid ain't said nothin' whilst I'm pourin' this into him, but his face is a movie.

"If I'm as rotten as that," he sneers fin'ly, "how do you account for the fact that I won my first two professional fights by knockouts?"

"You licked a pair of tramps," I says, "who's com-

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/79


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/80

 bined knowledge of the art of boxin' could be wrote on a ant's nose. You gotta long ways to go yet before I throw you into a ring with a fighter! You'd be a set-up right now for the first good man you met, and I ain't gonna have you knocked kickin' yet. You been shook and hurt, but you ain't never experienced the delightful sensation of bein' socked to dreamland, and if I can help it you never will! A knockout right now and you'd prob'ly be through with the ring—I know you temperamental babies; I had a stable full of 'em once."

He takes a coupla turns around the room to think this over, and then he stops and looks at me.

"What you say may be true," he says, kinda cold, "but it doesn't change my decision! If I'm as bad as that, then I'll never be a success as a fighter, and I may as well give it up and try something else. However, I want a fair test first, and I haven't had one yet. Match me with a good man or I'll do it myself. That's my last word!"

I seen the boy had worked himself up into a fit of nerves, and it would be terrible silly to argue with him then.

"C'mon," I says, "we'll take a walk around to Billy Morgan's gym and see some of the boys workin' out. Maybe you can pick up a coupla tricks for yourself watchin'—"

"We have no time to waste," he cut me off. "I'll never be a champion by hanging around anybody's training quarters."

"C'mon, C'mon," I says, "lay off to-day and you'll be champion a day later then—what's the difference?"

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/80


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/81

 Up at Billy Morgan's I let the Kid roam around at will while I tried to make arrangements to have him took on as a sparrin' partner for some good guy. Billy gazed around the gym, where there were half a dozen of all weights workin' the pulleys, punchin' the bag, sparrin' or shadow boxin'.

"Well," he says, "I dunno. There's not many boys here now—most of the big fellers is goin' around the circuit outa town and the like. Al Kennedy is readyin' himself for his quarrel with Young Williams, but I guess Al's a little too tough for your kid, hey?"

"You tell 'em!" I says with feelin'. "My boy's only started twict and I ain't gonna have him cut up and discouraged by that big stiff for nothin', that's a cinch! By the way, who's got Kennedy now?"

"Heh?" says Bill. "Oh, Dummy Carney—he's around here somewheres now with Rocky Martin and Sailor McGann, them two boloneys of his. Say—Dummy oughta fix you up at that. His guys is workin' out here, and no doubt Dummy will ease your boy in with 'em. He's a pretty good friend of yours, ain't he?"

The answer come from Carney.

I can see the thing now as well as if I was standin' there in Billy's gym lookin' at it again. Dummy Carney slouchin' in with his two bruisers, me gettin' and feelin' pale in the neighborhood of the gills when I seen him, because the last time we bosom friends had met, Kid Roberts had knocked Dummy flat—and the Kid watchin' big Al Kennedy punchin' the bag.

Dummy is a big man and far from yellah. The

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/81


text:
Page:Alexander Pope (Leslie).djvu/190

 passages of the worst authors, and declared that it taught rank atheism. The appearance of Crousaz's book suddenly induced him to make a complete change of front. He declared that Pope spoke "truth uniformly throughout," and complimented him on his strong and delicate reasoning.

It is idle to seek motives for this proceeding. Warburton loved paradoxes, and delighted in brandishing them in the most offensive terms. He enjoyed the exercise of his own ingenuity, and therefore his ponderous writings, though amusing by their audacity and width of reading, are absolutely valueless for their ostensible purpose. The exposition of Pope (the first part of which appeared in December, 1738) is one of his most tiresome performances; nor need any human being at the present day study the painful wire-drawings and sophistries by which he tries to give logical cohesion and orthodox intention to the Essay on Man.

If Warburton was simply practising his dialectical skill, the result was a failure. But if he had an eye to certain lower ends, his success surpassed his expectations. Pope was in ecstasies. He fell upon Warburton's neck—or rather at his feet—and overwhelmed him with professions of gratitude. He invited him to Twickenham; met him with compliments which astonished a bystander, and wrote to him in terms of surprising humility. "You understand me," he exclaims in his first letter, "as well as I do myself; but you express me much better than I could express myself." For the rest of his life Pope adopted the same tone. He sheltered himself behind this burly defender, and could never praise him enough. He declared Mr. Warburton to be the greatest general critic he ever knew, and was glad to instal him in the

title: Page:Alexander Pope (Leslie).djvu/190


text:
Page:Celtic Stories by Edward Thomas.djvu/85

 guessed he was Ossian, one of the Fena. Hither and thither he rode visiting all the scenes of the Fena's exploits. But he saw only the little creatures made in the image of men. He felt very pitiful towards them.

One day in the Glen of Thrushes he saw a cluster of these men trying to lift up a huge stone. They were three hundred, but they could neither raise it to its place nor get free from underneath it, and they said:

'O kingly champion, help us.'

So Ossian stretched himself forward upon his horse's neck and stooped and gripped the stone in one hand. All the little men ran out from underneath like lizards disturbed. Then Ossian put forth his strength. He raised the stone above his head and threw it. It covered the multitude like a high roof as it flew. But he had burst the saddle girth of his horse with the effort; the saddle slipped and he could not recover himself; and his feet touched the earth. The white horse vanished away. Now came altogether the change and decay that could not befall him in Tirnanoge; his strength ebbed away fast, and he sank sighing down like a wave; he became the old, frail, mighty one who leaned on his spear and would listen to Patrick talking about Heaven, and would talk to him of Niav and of Tirnanoge, the Land of Youth.


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/82

 second his eyes lit on the Kid he has him by the shoulder and swung him around.

"Well, see what's here!" he sneers. "Little Kewpie, the sassiety boxer, hey?" He raised his voice, and some of the gang stopped workin' to look. "Are you ready to live up to your contract with me yet, you big bum?"

The Kid puts his hands in his pockets and his complexion turns a shade or so lighter.

"You deserted me in Sandusky in my first fight when you thought I was going to be knocked out," he says pretty even. "I have no contract with you, as I consider that your yellow action automatically broke it. If you make one more insulting remark to me or annoy me in any way, I will take great pleasure in knocking you through that wall!"

Dummy'Dummy's [sic] face turned a unbecoming shade of purple, and he begin to gasp like a newly captured trout. When he fin'ly succeeded in gettin' a fresh grip on the English language he shook his fist in the Kid's face and bellered:

"You—you—why—don't you dare to double-cross me, you boob, or you'll never get a fight around New York! Your contract called for at least three starts under my management, and you'll go through with it or you don't pull on another glove!"

The Kid deliberately turns his back to him and gazes at Al Kennedy, which, whilst still whippin' the bag around, has got a attentive though battered ear open to the conversation.

Dummy let fall a expression which is rarely heard in a church and wheeled around to his two maulers, Rocky Martin and Sailor McGann.

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/82


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/83

 "Let him have it!" he snarls, half under his breath.

Me and Billy Morgan started over at once, but we was too slow. The Kid suddenly pivoted around and seen them two pork-and-beaners comin' in. He didn't wait to ask no questions. Rocky Martin met a straight left to the face that dumped him in a comical position at Dummy's feet, through for the day. Sailor McGann was short with a right to the jaw and got a chop on the side of what passed for his head which immediately removed all thoughts of violence from the same. Then the Kid faced the frenzied Dummy.

"If my contract called for three fights, you can consider it filled now," he pants. "I had one in Sandusky and"—he points to the two reclinin' gladiators—"there's the other two!"

Wow!

"Clout him too, kid!" yells a interested lightweight. "I'm with you!"

Big Al Kennedy has stopped punchin' the bag arid is starin' over at us with a grin on his face. The lace on one of his gloves has come undone and he tries to tie it with his teeth, Dummy's face suddenly brightens, and he yells at him, pointin' to the Kid: "Take this guy for me, Al!"

I let out a roar and jumped forward, but Dummy swept me against the wall with one walkin'-beam arm. It made quite a picture. There's the Kid, white and drawn with a nervous grin on his lips, facin' Kennedy and waitin'. Dummy is snarlin' and motionin' to his hired man to let one go, whilst the two hams on the floor rolls outa harm's way and the rest of the gang quits

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/83


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/84

 everything to watch. I said a silent prayer and then yelled to Billy Morgan to stop it, but the big stiff shrugged his shoulders and waved me away. Somebody dropped a pin and I heard it hit the floor.

Then Al Kennedy walks over to the Kid, which don't give way a inch. Al looks up and down coolly and turns to Dummy, his manager: "Where d'ye get that stuff?" he growls. "What's the idea of askin' me to slough this guy for yuh, hey? If you want him beat up, get some of them bums which is hangin' round here lookin' for exercise—what d'ye think I am, a roughneck? I'll box him for pennies—sure, but them gang-fight days is over, get that?" He holds up the glove with the loose string under the Kid's nose. "Here, kid," he says in a offhand way, "tie that up for me, will yuh?"

Kid Roberts dropped his half-raised hands and give a short laugh.

"Certainly!" he says politely, and damned if he didn't, whilst Dummy let forth a howl and collapsed in a chair.

A week after that me and Kid Roberts traveled over to the Never-Say-Dry country of New Jersey and seen Al Kennedy put Young Williams out in six rounds. The fight was a dude whilst it lasted, both men bein' seasoned campaigners and both in line for a crack at the title. Kennedy had everything, includin' a nasty straight left which Williams was unable to keep his face off of, and Kennedy used that to wear his man down till fin'ly a well-timed right cross to the button gave Williams a one-way ticket to dreamland.

The Kid watched the brawl like it was the first one

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/84


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/85

 he ever seen, and never for a minute did his eyes leave the shifty, bone-crushin' Kennedy. When that guy stepped from the ring after the mêlée, without even his hair mussed, and the mob yellin' itself hoarse, I turned to Kid Roberts.

"Well," I says, "are you satisfied? There's one of the good men you wanna meet, and you seen him work to-night! You know this Williams is anything but a bum, yet he was duck soup for Kennedy. What chance would you have against a guy like that now?"

His answer was nothin'.

When we got back to the hotel the Kid broke a long silence. "Have you made a match for me yet?" he says.

"I expect to close to-morrow with Dave Kane, which has the Newark club," I says. "We'll get a eight-round preliminary with some pushover in a week, I guess."

"Guess again!" snaps the Kid. "My next bout will be with Al Kennedy."

"A good stiff headache powder will fix you right up," I says soothin'ly.

"Either you get me Kennedy or I get him myself," he says, "and that's final! If I beat him, I'll be in line for a match with the champion; if he beats me, I'm through. I watched every move he made to-night, and I'm confident I can take his measure. I'm big enough to whip any man I can hit, and one thing is certain—Kennedy will never stick that left in my face as he did with Williams. I haven't got a permanent mark to show that I'm a prize fighter, and I never will have, you can rest assured of that!"

"I could rest even more assured if you'd forget about fightin' Kennedy!" I says. "Now listen to me, son

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/85


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/86

 apart from the fact that you ain't got a Chinaman's chance with this guy, I don't know of any club which would put the match on. The only way we could get the fight is because Dummy Carney would be tickled silly to have you flattened on account of him losin' you. But they'd be no dough in it—you don't mean nothin' around here, understand? And—"

"That's what I have a manager for," he interrupts. Yourinterrupts. "Your [sic] job is to make my name mean something here until I get a fight. Now get busy and use your imagination, or I'll go it alone!"

Well, we argued back and forth till the inmates of the adjoinin' rooms got sick of the thing and threatened reprisals, and the night clerk called up with the information that they was runnin' a hotel and not a dance hall. At three in the a. m. we called it a night after the Kid had agreed to fight one tramp before Kennedy, and I had promised to make his name as well known as Georgie Cohan's in and around Manhattan.

The Kid bein' young, healthy, and care free was unconscious a minute after he hit the hay, but I laid awake gazin' at the ceilin' for quite some space tryin' to dope out a scheme that would get us très bien publicity and beaucoup pennies. Along around the time they shoot you in the army—sunrise—I got it, and a little while later, when I heard Kid Roberts splashin' around in the bathroom, I bust in on him and revealed all.

At first he registered the greatest of disgust, but as I continued on with the layout his face cleared, and when I wound up outa breath he slaps me on the back and grins.

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/86


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/87

 "Great!" he hollers. "Old man, you should have been a press agent. When I become champion and leave the ring to enter business, I'll engage you as publicity man!"

"Yeh?" I sniffs. "Well, that's horrible nice of you—only if you ever win the title I expect to own at least half of that business you're gonna enter!"

I spent the rest of the day chasin' all over the isle of Gotham from the one end to the other tryin' to dig up the necessary dough to put my stunt over. Late that night, as they say in the movies, I had begged, borreyed, and gypped myself a $500 bank roll, and Kid Roberts had met "the most wonderful girl in the world!" or, in the other words, Estelle Van Horn, one of the merry villagers in "The Girl and the Cream Puff." This was the Kid's second attempt to put over a romance with himself as the leadin' man. He made a dozen wild stabs at the thing which drives the poets wild before along come—but we'll get around to that later.

The campaign to make Kid Roberts as popular as matrimony begin with me takin' him down to a swell photographer's and havin' him snapped in half a dozen poses, wearin' ring togs and—a mask. This was nothin' more than a piece of black silk with eyeholes, which fitted over the top of his face, makin' it practically impossible to identify him. Likewise, it was part of my scheme to make him stand out from the mob and get him talked about. Then I started the rounds of the newspaper offices with him.

My story was this: Kid Roberts was a millionaire college guy which refused to give out his real name and wore a mask in the ring so's his high society pals

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/87


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/88

 couldn't discover the double life he was leadin'. In the afternoons he attended receptions and the like, flauntin' a mean teacup, and at night he give himself over to fisticuffs, swingin' a nasty left hook. He never accepted as much as a thin dime for his services, because he was in the game for the love of it alone, not to mention his ambition to become champion. I had him throw out chance remarks about his "cars" and his "country place" with a occasional mention of "the yacht," and whilst some of the wise-guy sport writers grinned and invited us to take the air, most of 'em eat the stuff up and hollered for more. Havin' once been a habitué of Yale, the Kid was easily able to make the college-boy thing sound good, and as for the millionaire end of it, well—Kid Roberts looked and acted more like a million dollars than two $500,000 bills. He throwed handfuls of poetry at 'em, slipped in a slice of O. Shaw, Rudyard Longfellow, John G. Shakespeare, Washington Irving Berlin, and all them old masters of the English language.

They was one sportin' editor which tried out the Kid on a coupla dozen tough questions in order to prove was he really a highbrow, and Kid Roberts was never even extended, comin' back with a flow of words which would make a Boston high-school teacher take carbolic. Fin'ly they get on the subject of boxin', and with regard to a knockout the Kid explains it like thus:

"The jawbone strikes hard upon the thin plate of bone supporting the delicate labyrinth of the inner ear, and the bony portion thereof is driven upward into the

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/88


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/89

 glenoid cavity of the skull. This shocks the semicircular canals, and this shock is in turn transmitted to the bulbs producing dizziness, nausea, and momentary paralysis!"

The sport writer fell over a copy boy in a trance and the next day we got a column in his sheet, with pictures.

But I didn't stop at that. With some of the dough I had excavated, I hired the Kid a swell-lookin' bus, a chauffeur, and a guy with a uneyform like a Turkish admiral to open the doors. A sparrin' partner passed as a valet. Then I commenced takin' Kid Roberts and this layout around to all the fight clubs, where he regularly challenged the champion and got introduced from the ring. He never failed to be a riot for the reason that he climbed through the ropes in a dizzy dress suit and the mask, escorted by the alleged valet which took his coat, hat, and gloves whilst he bowed to the crowd and thanked 'em for their appreciation. You can always get attention with somethin' new whether you're in Succotash Corners or Times Square, and as this had never been done before we was rarely off the sportin' page. By the time he was ready to fight Owney Griggs, who I had hand-picked for him as a workout before he committed suicide by facin' Al Kennedy, I had established Kid Roberts as a card and we went on in a main bout for a $700 guarantee. I had no trouble arrangin' with the club managers to give out that we was fightin' for nothin'. As long as I filled the house, they should grieve what I got across in the papers.

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/89


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/90

 The night of the fight with Griggs we rolled up to the clubhouse bright and early in our Snappy Six, with the chauffeur, door tender, valet, and nickle-plated hood. Over the radiator is a large sign marked, "Kid Roberts, Next Heavyweight Champion of the World." We stop outside the main entrance for a few minutes, and as the Kid is masked and wearin' evenin' clothes we attract no more attention than a snowfall would in Hades. We occupy a ringside box durin' the preliminaries, and before each scrap the Kid climbed into the ring, shook hands with each fighter and wished 'em many happy returns—also somethin' new. I kept hittin' the mob in the face with the Kid all the time we was there till fin'ly we was arousin' as much interest as the boys in the ring. We left for the dressin' room durin' the semifinal bout, followed by cheers that would of tickled Dempsey. Did that crowd want to see Kid Roberts fight? You tell 'em!

But I wasn't through yet!

The Kid comes into the ring wearin', besides the mask, a blue silk bath robe, ornamented with pale pink peacocks and purple flowers. On top of his regular handlers and me they is the valet with a tray of hot chocolate, a silver water bottle, smellin' salts, and the etc., and a pile of clean white towels. He is helped through the ropes like he was a 1542 Chinese vase, the stool is carefully dusted off, and he sits down, takes a cup of chocolate from the valet, a novel from the pocket of his bath robe, and without a glance at the other corner, begins to read!

Sweet Cookie!

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/90


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/91

 For a second the customers is dazed, and then with a roar they begin to give him the razz. Some of the witty remarks from the gallery would be barred here, but I had spent a week preparin' the Kid for that and he simply turned over a page, cast a amused smile at one and all, and went on readin'. Over across the ring Owney Griggs and his handlers is on the verge of the hystericals. Kid Roberts, the "Millionaire Society Boxer," certainly did look soft, till the Kid stood up to be introduced to the house and the "valet" whipped off the trick bath robe.

The mob quit kiddin' on the instant, the noisy chatter hangin' fire on a long gasp—then they rocked the buildin' with the hand his clean, magnificent body deserved. The grin slid from the face of Owney Griggs and he sat down, lookin' very serious.

If ever there was a flashy looker, stripped, his name was Kid Roberts—the ripplin' muscles rollin' and twistin' under his white skin like corded steel under satin. A sport writer, sittin' under his corner, threw away a cigarette and immediately christened him "the Adonis of the Ring," and as such he was known to the finish. Alongside of this seven-ton bruiser he was gonna meet, he looked kinda light for a punishin' heavyweight, but the minute the bell rang he looked big enough to take the Rock of Gibraltar—and he was!

With the crowd yellin' and strainin' in their seats, the Kid was half-way across the ring before Griggs left his corner. Workin' fast, Roberts feinted this big ham into a knot, brought his guard down with a jab at the body and then, like a flash of startled light,

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/91


text: Celtic Stories/The Land of Youth

title: Celtic Stories/The Land of Youth


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/92

 crashed over a right to the jaw that dumped Monsieur Owney Griggs on his face as cold as a pawnbroker's eye, just forty seconds after the openin' gong.

So that was all settled!

Leavin' the ring, the Kid got a which he'll remember to his dyin' day. With the help of the good old bunk, represented by the mask and the "Millionaire Society Boxer" thing—and the lucky one-punch knockout of the tramp—Kid Roberts had arrived in his first start on the Big Time and, barrin' accidents, we was headed for the large dough.

The guy which first said "Accidents will happen!" was no Ananias, I'll rise to inform the globe!

The next day, all arguments, threats, prayers, and the like havin' failed with the Kid, I signed him to fight Al Kennedy eight rounds in Jersey City two weeks later. We was guaranteed $1,000 for our end, with a option of 30 per cent of the gross. I had no trouble gettin' the match, because Dummy Carney was so wild to see his man batter Roberts insensible that he was almost willin' to let Kennedy go in for nothin', which, as usual, was what the papers said Roberts was gonna get. I figured the Kid had one chance in five against Al Kennedy right then.

Then my troubles begin for real!

In the first place, the Kid starts duckin' his trainin' to act as a bodyguard for Estelle Van Horn. He commenced to tell me that Estelle "understood him" and that she really was a sweet, wholesome, and innocent girl which come only recently from a fine family out in Parsnip, Ohio. Upon receipt of that sensational information, I managed to get the boon of a interview

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/92


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/93

 with the fair Estelle. As I expected, if Estelle was a country maiden, then I'm Caruso, and a five-minute conversation convinced me that the Kid's swell front had led her innocent little mind astray. She was lookin' for a limousine any day and not no flivver, either, whereas and to wit the Kid actually couldn't buy her a inner tube.

As I had the boy's future in my hands, I told her that and also that no matter what he had led her to believe on the way home in the taxi, he was simply a second-rate prize fighter and I was his manager and if she didn't believe it, nothin' would please me better than to have her come up to Billy Morgan's some afternoon and see her gentleman friend work out with the other hams. She coldly shooed me away, but called me back at the door to ask the address of Billy Morgan's.

The other thing which kept me from dyin' of the sleepin' sickness was the Kid's sudden and determined ambition to protect his face at all costs from the end of a glove. No matter what come to pass, he swore he'd never leave a prize ring marked up. No cauliflower ears, busted beaks, split lips, or eyes in mournin' was gonna come to him. Outa the ring, nobody would ever know he was a fighter, because once he made his pile he expected to take up his place in society at about where he left off. Now this here stuff is O. K. in its way, but when a guy leaves himself wide open in the neighborhood of the belt in order to keep his beautiful features untouched, it's exceedin'ly dangerous. A well-placed clout to the body has won as many fights as a smash to the jaw ever did. Ask Corbett, he knows!

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/93


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/94

 As the time for the fight with Kennedy got nearer, the Kid got worse if anything. Sparrin' partners had no trouble at all reachin' his short ribs and heart, and I warned him that if Kennedy ever threw a solid punch into his mid-section he would break him in two, but the Kid only grinned and called my attention to the fact that they wasn't a pug in the gym which could lay a glove on his face and that he was in good enough condition to take anything in the body. He also remarked that the Kennedy fight would be the same as the fracas with Owney Griggs—one round.

He had it posolutely right!

A coupla days before the mill a middleweight, which had been trainin' in Billy Morgan's and sparrin' with the Kid, failed to show up. I didn't give that a thought at the time, bein' busy with a million other things. I seen that guy again the night Kid Roberts climbed through the ropes. He was grinnin' at me and holdin' the bucket for Al Kennedy!

The evenin' that Kid Roberts and Al Kennedy fought in Jersey City the coppers closed the doors of the clubhouse at nine o'clock, whilst a coupla thousand bugs fought 'em in the streets to get in. I had the Kid pull his regular stuff—mask, dress suit, valet, and all—and it went big this time with the howlin' mob, which had seen him polish off Owney Griggs with a punch two weeks before. Roberts got a president's ovation when he was introduced and so did Kennedy for that matter. Sweet Mamma—but that crowd was on edge, and when the bell clanged there wasn't a guy sittin' down in the house.

Whilst readyin' up the Kid I had told him this:

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/94


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/95

 "Tie into this baby from the gong, Kid, and he's yours! Don't let him set, keep right on top of him. Forget about your own face and pay some attention to his, and, above all things, don't keep your guard too high, because this Kennedy is a nasty body punisher!"

"I'll be all right," smiles the Kid. "But I'm not going to let this fellow cut me up! I'm not going to chance a broken nose or a torn ear for a few dollars—those things never heal perfectly and they always leave a man marked. Well, I won't be marked and—"

The bell cut him off.

The instant they met in the middle of the ring, Kennedy begin to play for the Kid's face with that mean left jab of his and Roberts backed away whilst the crowd booed him. This seemed to rouse the Kid, and he rushed Kennedy to the ropes, landin' two hard rights to the head before they fell into a clinch. Kennedy again tried hard for the Kid's jaw on the break, but Roberts, now the picture of confidence, made him look foolish and brought a roar from the crowd by sendin' him back on his heels with a vicious right to the heart. Instead of followin' this one up and maybe finishin' his man, the Kid stood off whilst the mob shrieked: "Go on, you big stiff, take a chance—knock him out!" A left chop brought blood from Kennedy's nose and a second later Roberts crashed him into the ropes with a volley of rights and lefts to the head. The crowd was now ten thousand lunatics yellin' for a knockout. Kennedy dove into a clinch and looked over the Kid's shoulder to his own corner for advice, his face a crimson smear. The advice come

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/95


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/96

 from that little rat middleweight which had blowed our camp before the fight.

"The face, Al!" screams this guy. "Bring it up!"

As the referee tore them apart, Kennedy, badly outpointed and almost all in, let fly a desperate right to the jaw. It barely grazed the Kid, but it made him nervous for that infernal face of his and up came his guard. "Now!" comes bellerin' from Kennedy's corner, and Zam!—he buries his left to the wrist in the Kid's body with a sock that could be plainly heard in South Dakota. The Kid flashed white and his head tolled. I knew what was comin', but I yelled to the Kid to clinch, at the same time gettin' the sponge ready. Kennedy, now wild with eagerness to finish the Kid, missed a coupla swings and then fin'ly connected with a right hook to the jaw that dropped the Kid on one knee. He looked over to me like he didn't know what it was all about (which he didn't, by the way), took a count of "eight," and then, grabbin' Kennedy's leg for a brace, he pulled himself up—out on his feet. A feint for the jaw, the Kid's hands goes up mechanically and a solid left under the heart sprawled him dead to the world, knocked out for the first time, almost at my feet! I had started into the ring with the punch.

To the mob of maniacs around me it was only the sensational end of a sensational fight, but to me it was the probable wind-up of a chance to make a million! All I could think as I helped carry the Kid to his corner was would he ever forget he had been knocked cold, or was this his finish and mine?

The first thing the Kid called for in the dressin'

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/96


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/97

 room was—a mirror. When he seen there wasn't a scratch on his face, he grinned.

"Sorry!" he says. "Are you through?"

"What d'ye mean through?" I snarls. "We're just beginnin ' —or maybe you got enough, hey?"

The grin gets broader.

"I had to get it some time, I suppose," he says, kinda thoughtful. Then: "I think this fight will do me a lot of good—I learned a pile of things while it lasted. You know, frankly, in spite of this reversal to-night, I feel in my heart that I can whip that fellow!"

"There's no question about it!" I says. "You'd of flattened him sure to-night if you hadn't been so damn careful of gettin' your face mussed up. Why, you had him—"

"Get him for me again!" he butts in. "I'll start conditioning myself again to-morrow!"

Not bad for a guy which has just been knocked, hey?

I turned on the old thinker again that night and several days later I signed Roberts to fight Kennedy six rounds in Philly, the middle of the followin' month. I had to take $600. By a strange coincidence, I also brung a new sparrin' partner around to Billy Morgan's to work out with the Kid. This baby and Roberts had been sparrin' lightly for a few minutes, when who appears in the doorway but Estelle Van Horn, which had selected that day to see for herself how her boy friend evaded the poorhouse. I called to the Kid, and he turned his head. The other guy prob'ly didn't hear me, because on the instant he

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/97


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/98

 swung a roundhouse left, square on the Kid's unprotected face! Roberts staggered back, recovered, and put both gloves to his nose. We all rushed over, the sparrin' partner chokin' apologies and scared stiff and some of the other handlers tryin' to stop the flow of gore. Whilst waitin' for the medico, I felt the Kid's nose with a experienced and eager hand—they was no doubt about it, it was broke bad and would carry a dent as long as he lived. In the excitement the fair Estelle beat it.

We was sittin' in the room at the hotel some hours later when the phone rung. A cold female voice asks for "Mister Roberts." The conversation wasn't long and consisted on the Kid's part of the followin':

"Hello . . . yes . . ." (a long silence). "But, my dear girl . . ." (another and longer silence). "Very well, Miss Van Horn . . . good-by!"

With reference to nobody in particular, the Kid bursts out as he slams up the receiver:

"She saw me in the gym—she called me a pork-and-beaner, whatever that may be. She— Good Heavens, her language!—and I thought— Say, can you tell me why I ever thought that girl was— Why, she fooled me completely."

"They run that way sometimes," I says carelessly. "Now, that beak of yours will be O. K. in—"

He's lookin' in the mirror.

"If I hadn't been so careful of my nose, I would have stepped into Kennedy and beaten him sure!" he murmurs, with a half smile. "But I got knocked out saving it and then a sparring partner breaks it in training. A jest of the gods! Well, it's done and in-

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/98


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/99

 directly it will be a great thing for me—I've got the badge of my profession now, and at least there's one worry off my mind! Beginning to-day, I'm in this thing heart and soul. I'll take no more foolish precautions—as you say, one can't make catsup without breakin' some tomatoes. Watch me step into them and treat 'em rough now!"

"Sixty-eight cheers!" I grins. "That's just what I figured—I mean, you got the right idea, son!"

"Isn't fate the playful jade?" he says. "Still I almost feel like rewarding that fellow for that punch on the nose—it will probably make me a fortune! What's his name anyhow?"

"Search me!" I says, reachin' for my hat. "Them tramps is usually all 'One-Round' somethin' or other. Let's get some chow."

I didn't think it necessary to tell Kid Roberts that, speakin' of rewards, I had already rewarded the guy which busted his nose before I brung him in to do it, and his name was—well, Heroic Treatment is as good as any, I guess!

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/99


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/100

average admirer of the manly art of aggravated assault has the idea that a prize fighter's manager is the gent the leather pusher has got to give half his wages to, which sits in his meal ticket's corner bawlin' him out every time the other young man clouts him earnestly on the features—and that's about all. Nothin', outside of the Arabian Nights, could be farther from the facts. A first-class pilot is to a box fighter what a race track is to a jockey—he's got to have one or he don't get nowheres. There is no doubt whole coveys of boxin' impresarios which is little more than towel wavers and nickel hiders, but a real, Big Time manager of pugs hustles harder for his pennies than a bill poster on a windy day. He's got to have the conscience of a loan shark, the shrewdness of Shylock's old man, the nerve of a blind tightrope walker, the imagination of the guy which invented boardin'-house hash, and the optimism of a salesman startin' through Hades with a line of celluloid collars. He's got to be press agent, trainer, banker, adviser, valet, pal, and keeper for some bullnecked mauler, which nine and three-fifths times outa ten presents him with the raspberry the instant he graduates from the preliminaries.

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/100


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/101

 Many a tenth-rate scrapper has copped fame and fortune through the efforts of a brainy pilot, and many a champ has lost both through the coarse work of a poor one. Again, they ain't a dozen cases on the books where a fighter tried to manage himself and was a success of it. One bright and shinin' example of this is Monsieur Jessica Willard, the martyr of Toledo, which might of lasted a few more seconds before the ferocious Dempsey if he'd had shrewd and experienced handlin' from his corner.

Popularity with the mob is what brings home the sugar in professional boxin' the same as in professional anything. Jim Coffey shook a mean controller on the front end of a New York street car before he seen a picture of Peter Maher and decided he was a sucker to work for a coupla bucks a day when he could put on half a bathin' suit, knock a lot of Englishmen cold, and get from one to five thousand berries for doin' it. Coffey was rechristened "the Fighting Trish Motorman," and every time he started against some set-up they had to call out the reserves to keep the motormen and conductors from tearin' the clubhouse down to see their ex-colleague perform. In a few months Coffey cleaned up a fortune. Frank Moran gets paid in thousands for his work because he can and usually does take a terrific lacin' with a wide grin on his face and a runnin' fire of wise cracks for the ringsiders. Al McCoy, when middleweight champ, was prob'ly the least popular fighter which ever wore a crown, yet he got large dough for his services because he jammed the clubhouse with thousands of fans which wildly hated him and come for the sole

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/101


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/102

 purpose of seein' him knocked dead! I could name a hundred other scrappers which got a Big Time hearin' purely on a managerial-created personality.

Success is a high-powered drink which has flattened as many guys as booze ever did—you gotta know how to handle it or it'll throw you, as sure as the Atlantic is inclined to be damp! What keeps plenty of room for newcomers at the top of the ladder of fame is the fact that simple carelessness is continually forcin' guys that's reached there to slide off. In our case poor judgment and too much ambition caused us to drop back in the heap just when it looked like not even the champ could stop us.

This one-round knockout by Kennedy before a metropolitan jury ruined all my hard work in makin' Kid Roberts a drawin' card in the Big Town, and set us back at least a year—as I thought at the time. Here's a burg where you can get anything in the world with the slight exception of sympathy, where every guy which lands at the Battery with a dialect, a secretary, and four trunks is gave the freedom of the city and a chance to rent Carnegie Hall, whilst a possible future Carnegie, with nothin' but the dialect, is sent to Ellis Island so's he can appreciate what a democracy means at the go in.

The bank roll was shot to pieces, three or four important and exceedin'ly profitable bouts had been canceled, and takin' it by and large, our prospects looked as bright as a guy's which has just finished a course in bartendin'. There was only one way we could come back quick, and that was to get a return scrap with Kennedy and knock him dead, a thing that to my untutored mind looked 99 per cent impossible. In the first

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/102


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/103

 place, the hardest fight in a box-fighter's career is his first quarrel after he's been knocked out. You generally pick nothin' but tramps for him all over again, gradually gettin' his confidence back—but to rush a green kid right in again against the baby that's flattened him is absolutely idiotic, nine times outa ten. If your boy's a champ, or you got a agreement with the other guy, it's different. I had neither a champ or a agreement.

So, as I looked across our room at the Kid pacin' up and down like the inmate of the panther's cage at the zoo, I decided it was us back to the bushes again for a space, battlin' bums and sellin' tickets for the battles on a commission in the lew of a guaranteed purse.

"Well, Kid," I says fin'ly, "drag out the old suit case and we'll vamp away for the sticks. We gotta start all over again, several feet below the bottom, and jab our way back to where we was when you fell into that wallop from Kennedy. It's tough, but—"

He swung around on me like a flash. "What do you mean?" he says. "I thought you had secured me a return bout with Al Kennedy?"

Pretty good for the Kid, hey? Wantin' to step right out again with the first guy which had knocked him for a goal. The boy had heart, what?

"I had matched you with Kennedy again," I says, "but said bout is all off now!"

"He crawled out of it, eh?" he snarls, bangin' his fist down on the bureau. "Robbed me of my chance to win back the—"

"No," I interrupts, "he didn't crawl out of it.

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/103


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/104

 Nothin' would of gave Monsieur Kennedy greater delight than havin' you as his guest in the middle of a twenty-four-foot ring! I'm the baby that crabbed the thing, and it hurt me more than it does you, because we was to drag down six hundred fish for that mêlée, and the only way we can make six hundred dollars right now is to steal a counterfeitin' layout somewheres!".

"Then why the devil did you cancel that bout?" he roars, advancin' on me with a four-alarm fire in each eye. "Is this a crude preliminary to your tellin' me you're ready to' quit me because I've been knocked out?"

The Kid was towerin' over me, his fine chin shoved out at a fightin' angle, and that bone-crushin' right dyin' with impatience to land on my jaw. I stood up, put my hands in my pockets and looked him over quietly.

"Listen!" I says. "I never quit anything or anybody in my life; that's why I'm broke—which shows the copy books is all wrong! I'll tell you why I called off your return quarrel with Al Kennedy, and if you laugh at me whilst I'm tellin' it I'll take a clout at you myself. It was maniacal on my part to listen to you before and send you in against a guy as tough as that, instead of waitin' till you had a few more real battles under your belt, and I been sore at myself for doin' it ever since. You and me was raised in different hothouses, Kid—the nearest I ever been to college was the time I went up to New Haven to go behind Young Evans when he fought K. O. Hinds. I passed

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/104


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/105

 Yale on the ways to the clubhouse. So I know your idea of a box-fighter's manager is a guy which would frame his brother for a dollar-fifty, set fire to a orphan asylum just to be nasty, and rob a blind cripple for want of somethin' to do. Well, here's where the big laugh comes. Strange as it may seem, I like you, you big stiff, and I'm not gonna let you go in and get your head punched off, when I know you ain't got a chance of winnin', for a few dirty dollars! I need my bit of the six hundred men we was guaranteed to fight Kennedy the same as you do, but I ain't gonna take it for you gettin' beat up. We'll go broke together and battle our way back. Now if you wanna clout me, go to it!"

The Kid's face was a movie durin' the time I was talkin' and them big hands which was to make him a mint full of kopeks slowly fell at his sides. Then one of 'em shot up and grabbed mine till they must of heard me yell in Siberia.

"I'm all wrong!" he says with that flashin' kid grin of his. "It seems to me, old man, that I should prepare a lot of apologies and present them to you at once; it would save a lot of time. I think I'll rechristen you Gunga Din, for at times there appears to be no question but that you're a better man than I am!"

"Say, listen!" I says, tickled silly that the boy was himself again. "Lay off that Gunga Din stuff. I'm a manager, not a water-bucket holder!"

The Kid's grin widens. "Now that the airy persiflage has been disposed of," he says, grabbin' my hand again, "please believe that I value your friendship as much as I do your—er—managerial ability, and,

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/105


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/106

 whatever my fortunes may be, I'll never forget either. I am thoroughly convinced now that you had my best interests at heart when you canceled that Kennedy return bout."

"That's fine!" I says, lettin' forth several sighs of relief. "And now that we got that all settled, we—"

"But," he goes on, "I'm afraid you'll have to wire for a new contract, because my next bout will be with Al Kennedy if I have to pick a quarrel with him in the street!"

I let out a yell and collapsed on the bed. This baby was past me!

"Yes," he continues coldly, sittin' on the arm of a chair and borin' me with them steel-gray eyes of his. "I'm going to fight Kennedy again before I meet anyone else, and I'm fit enough to step into the ring with him to-night. I will not go back! I've set a goal for myself, and I may be forced out of the game altogether, but I'll never return to beating up those poor, unfortunate brutes for a few dollars a fight. Those things are not boxing bouts; they're exhibitions of bestial brutality that would have warmed the cockles of Nero's heart! No more of them for me, and that's final! I'm going ahead, not backward, old man, and a win over Kennedy means a step forward—a bout with the next man higher up to the champion. If Kennedy whips me again, I'll quit the ring and try my hand at something else; but he's got to whip me, first? You wire for a bout on any terms—I'll fight him for nothing if there's no other way. Why, the prestige of a victory over him would be worth it!"

Whilst I'm still in a trance he walks over and picks

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/106


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/107

 up his hat, gives himself a swift dollin' up before the mirror, and turns to the door.

"I'm going down and get a magazine," he says. "I'll be back shortly. You'd better file that wire at once—or I will!"

"But look here, you boob!" I hollers, jumpin' up. "We have—"

"Get me Kennedy!" he snaps, and slams the door.

I sit there lookin' at said door for the worst part of five minutes. Then I reached in my pocket and pulled out a little billet-doux I had not showed Kid Roberts. It was a answer to my telegram cancelin' the fight with Kennedy, and the words and music went like this:

I must of read that novel over about forty times. Then I got up, swore what is frequently called a round oath, kicked over a innocent waste-basket, went to the phone, and wired the Albion A. C. approval to the assassination in cold blood of the whitest guy which ever rubbed a shoe in rosin—i. e., Kid Roberts!

Down in the lobby I found everybody in the world, with the slight exception of Kid Roberts. Over to a side was one of them classy tea rooms where you really gotta drink tea now, unless you're a old customer which has been a steady patron for a few hours at the least. It's jammed as the subway at 6 p. m., with ladies which is supposed to be havin' a tough day shoppin'; tired business men which trusts they ain't recognized, but if they are what of it; young girls which should be goin'

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/107


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/108

 to school and are, but don't know it yet, and young guys which toils not neither do they spin, on account of bein' able to shake a nasty hoof. Everybody is dancin' hither and you to the soft strains of a jazz band which would get throwed out of a boiler factory for makin' too much noise.

In the midst of the above, I discover' Kid Roberts.

The boy is steppin' out with a Jane which the only thing I can tell about her from where I stand is that she's got black hair and a lot of it, but when the music had mercy and laid off and by dumb luck they come to a halt opposite me, I seen that was only one of the young lady's various charms. She's one of them medium height, curvin' knockouts which would prob'ly of made a bigger boob outa Marc Anthony than Cleo did, inside of five minutes. Also, she had a couple of eyes which would attract a crowd even if set in a scarfpin, and she had found out that they was more things could be done with 'em than merely gazin' straight ahead. Even though a experienced spectator could see her complexion come in a can, she had made a beaucoup job of it. But the expression in them starry orbs I spoke about reminded me of a boss poker player's when he's considerin' standin' a raise.

"Lookin' for me?" says the Kid pleasantly, seein' me.

"Yeh," I nods, givin' the young lady a brief glance.

"Pardon me, Miss Murray," he says, with a drawin'-room bow, "I won't be a moment, and then we'll finish our dance. Oh, let me introduce my friend, Mister—"

"Pleased t'meetcha!" butts in the charmin' young damsel, with what she no doubt thought was a killin'

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/108


text:
Page:Memoirs of Vidocq, Volume 3.djvu/210

 me (I had then just escaped from the Bagne) I secretly took a place by the diligence and absconded.

How little did I then think that, after a lapse of twenty years, I should meet again in the police office, my little Humpina of the Rue Saint Martin: the proverb would have it so: two mountains never meet.

upwards of four months, a great number of murders and highway robberies had been committed on all the roads conducting to the capital, without it having been possible to discover the perpetrators of these crimes. In vain had the police kept a strict watch upon the actions of all suspected persons—their utmost diligence was fruitless; when a fresh attempt, attended with circumstances of the most horrible nature, supplied them with hints from which they could at length anticipate bringing the culprits to justice. A man named Fontaine, a butcher living at La Courtille, was going to a fair in the district of Corbeil, carrying with him his leather bag, in which was safely deposited the sum of 1,500 francs; he had passed the Cour de France and was walking on in the direction of Essonne, when, at a trifling distance from an auberge where he had


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/109

 smile. "Never mind the rest—I kin never remember names anyways. Do you dance?"

"I was a assistant at St. Vitus Academy for years," I says, with a bewitchin' grin.

"Oh, a kidder, hey?" she comes back. Then turnin' to the Kid: "Well go ahead and see what your friend wants—if you make it snappy, I'll wait."

The Kid bows again, I don't, and we start for the elevator.

"Do you expect to lick Kennedy by trainin' in a jazzery with a dime for a sparrin' partner?" I snarls, kinda sore. "What's the idea?"

He smiles. But it's a nervous grin—there seems to be somethin' on his mind.

"I was standing in the lobby," he tells me, "and I heard them playing a waltz in there. It was one of those soft, dreamy, Mendellsohny things that brought with it visions of Newport, Tuxedo, Aiken—oh, all that used to be. I went over merely to listen—to close my eyes and fancy myself again a— However, I met Mabel—eh—Miss Murray, quite unconventionally—delightfully so. I simply respectfully asked permission to dance with her, introducing myself, before I thought, as Kane Halliday. You see, I was carried away by the spell of my imaginings and forgot that I am temporarily Kid Roberts, a pugilist. Unfortunately the lady had no sooner granted my idiotic request when the orchestra swung into that infernal din—jazz, I believe they call it—and I, of course, had to go through with it."

"It didn't seem to be causin' you no pain when I

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/109


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/110

 flashed you," I snorts. "Who the—who is this Mabel?"

"Miss Murray is in charge of the cigar counter," says the Kid. "She is a charming girl, all the more so for her naïve inconventionality. I like her immensely, and if you in any way intimate to her that I am a prize fighter, I think I shall murder you."

"Well," I remarks, "all I can say is that you are a pig for punishment with the regard to the ladies, Kid, and that's that! Go to it—this mere regular monthly romance of yours will only last a week or so at the most and then—"

"This girl is different!" snaps the Kid. "There's no pretense, no affectation about her. Her frankness—"

"Oh, all right, go ahead," I butts in, as we step outa the elevator. "As long as you don't claim she understands you and the etc., I guess it ain't fatal yet!"

As soon as we're in the room I breaks the glad tidin's: "I have got Kennedy again for you as per your instructions. We fight him six rounds or less in Philly, two weeks from to-morrow, for the modest stipend of $750, come what may. Now, Kid, you gotta train hard for this baby and—"

"I'm ready to step into the ring right now!" he cuts me off impatiently. "I'll start light training to-morrow—at present I need relaxation. Lord, that girl will think I've been kidnaped. Back in an hour!" and he's outa the door.

What could you do with a kid like that?

From then until the night we rolled up to the jammed and howlin' clubhouse in sweet old Philly, Kid Roberts and the fair Mabel was constant playfellows. By hang-

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/110


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/111

 in' onto him like a cold in the head I had him train hard and faithfully every day, but in the evenin' by the moonlight and the etc it was all different and all Mabel. Sweet Mamma, how he did fall for that Jane! She had him layin' down and rollin' over every time she snapped her fingers, and alongside of the flowers, candy, and dinners he bought her, the Follies chorus would think they was neglected. Every time a member of the less deadly sex purchased a cigar from Mabel's stand whilst the Kid was in the offin', Roberts glared at him like he was gonna bite him, and it fin'ly got so that the both of 'em was the talk of the lobby.

Still and all, I did not care for Mademoiselle Murray. To me she wasn't the Kid's kind. Let him be a pug for the time bein' or not, he was nevertheless Kane Halliday to me—a nice, big, clean kid. I freely admit that Mabel was a très bien looker and all that, but she was too wise for the boy, and I was afraid he wouldn't find that out until when he did it would hurt. I had gave him my word that I wouldn't tell her his present trade and that let me out, but it didn't prevent me from wishin' to Heavens that somethin' would bust up these bills and coos before they was nothin' left but the bills!

We had to practically clout our ways into the clubhouse and call on the assistance of the coppers to get to the dressin' room, where we found some Philly newspaper guys waitin' for us. I had let the fancy auto, valet, mask, and all the other bunk go by the board this time, because that was killed when Kennedy knocked the Kid out in one round the first time they

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/111


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/112

 met. You gotta be new all the time in the fight game, the same as in anything else, to get more than a passin' glance from the mob. Now that it was known that Kid Roberts was really Kane Halliday, the once famous Yale football and etc star, he was a bigger sensation than ever, and the sport writers was gathered around us to get a story about him for their papers.

After they have interviewed the Kid silly whilst he's gettin' into his workin' togs, one of these guys says to him:

"Kid, we're all with you and we wanna see you knock this guy for a goal, so I'm gonna slip you a few tips that may be useful when you're in there tryin', Kennedy is as foul a fighter as ever heeled a man with his glove, and he likewise swings a nasty tongue in the clinches. He's got you figured for a set-up because he flattened you before and he's set to make a show out of you to-night. Keep your head and pay no attention to his sarcastic remarks—Just tie in and he'll wilt! But be careful, because this baby will try every trick known to the game."

"Yes?" butts in the Kid, lookin' up from the table where the handlers is massagin' him. "Well, watch me! I'll be so rough with Mister Kennedy that after to-night the sight of a boxing glove will make him ill for a month. For every trick he tries on me, I'll go him one better. This is one fellow I want to knock out and I'll lick him at his own game!"

Wow!

On the square, I could scarcely believe my own ears. I had never heard the Kid pull any stuff like this before since I'd had him. Usually he was as

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/112


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/113

 nervous as a two-year-old at the post—pale, tremblin', and lickin' his lips till if you didn't know him you'd think he was yellah. Now he laid there grinnin' and kiddin' with the handlers, the most cool and collected guy in the clubhouse. All I was afraid of was that he was kiddin' himself with this stuff and might collapse on me or somethin' when I got him into the ring—I seen that happen many's the time before with other guys. But—well, wait!

When we pushed and milled down the aisle to the ring it seemed to me that, if all the guys which was packed in there had voted against prohibition, it would be a felony to-day to call for a glass of water! They had a rule against smokin', and as a result the smoke was so thick we got all the sensations of a fireman on that brief trip to the battle ground. Kennedy and his handlers had already started down from the opposite direction, and the yell which went up from them lunatics all around us was just one continuous roar, in which it was impossible to pick out any words—nothin' but plain sound, that's all. This here demonstration was neither for Roberts or Kennedy, particularly. It was caused by the same thing which makes the lions in the zoo beller when the keepers start in with the meat.

There was little time wasted in stallin' around, and five minutes after the men entered the ring they was standin' together in the center, gettin' their instructions. Then come the first real thrill—for me, anyways!

When the referee gets through with his monologue about not hittin' on the breakaways, and the like,

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/113


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/114

 Kennedy reaches over suddenly and grabs Kid Roberts by the wrist, jerkin' the arm down hard. A old stunt of gettin' a fighter's goat, right on the verge of the openin' bell.

"I'll make you yell for the cops, you bum!" he snarls. "I knocked you in a round before—well, to-night I'm gonna make you stay and like it. I'll cut you to pieces, you pink-cheeked quitter!"

Quick as a flash, the Kid shoots up his left hand, and with the heel of the glove rubs Kennedy's hair all over his bullet head, mussin' it up.

"Shut up, you big stiff!" he comes back. "When they cart you away from here in a couple of minutes, you'll have to go back driving a truck!"

Sweet Papa—I could of kissed him!

Kennedy jumped back with a surprised grunt, and the amazed referee pushes 'em apart. The crowd, seenin' this unusual byplay, rocked the buildin', and the din was so terrible I don't believe six guys heard the bell.

Kennedy come out with a rush, and the Kid brought him up short with a beautiful left uppercut that almost tore his head off. They mixed like a coupla wildcats in the middle of the ring, neither havin' a advantage and both fightin' at a pace that meant curtains in short order for somebody. The referee split 'em up, and on the break Kennedy swung a vicious right that missed by inches, for which he was warned by the referee and hissed by the howlin' mob. The Kid grinned and put a left and right to the head, but a instant later Kennedy staggered him with a wicked chop to the jaw and a overhand right to the face that

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/114


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/115

 opened up a old cut under the Kid's eye. The gore blinded him, and Kennedy roughed him to the ropes, workin' both hands to the body and face like a madman. It looked bad for the Kid, and the crowd went hysterical when Roberts suddenly straightened up and drove Kennedy back on his heels with two short chops to the jaw and a right and left uppercut to the same place. Kennedy looked scared and begin to tin-can around the ring with the Kid chasin' him and tryin' desperately to polish him off. He fin'ly pinned him in a neutral corner and they stood toe to toe and slugged till they wasn't a guy in the clubhouse with any voice or sense left. It was a cinch one of 'em must flop, and Kennedy was the first one to go. He pitched forward on his face, took a count of "nine," and come up a sorry-lookin' sight. One eye was closed, and the rest of his face was a crimson blur. He tried to dive into a clinch, but the Kid shook him off and sprawled him in a heap with a terrific right to the jaw. The referee had reached "eight" without a flicker of a muscle from Kennedy, when the bell rung.

Kid Roberts skipped to his corner grinnin' like a schoolboy on Xmas mornin' and wavin' a glove at the frenzied crowd. Outside of the cut under one eye, which I paid a lot of attention to durin' the rest, there wasn't a mark on him.

"I've got him!" he pants, whilst I'm dousin' him with water. "He'll never last out the next round!"

"Shut up, don't talk!" I growls. "Save your wind. They ain't never out till they're counted out!"

Kennedy was slow in gettin' off his stool for the

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/115


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/116

 second frame and the Kid met him before he was out of his own corner with a smash under the heart that hung him over the ropes, where he covered up and waited for it. But the Kid stepped away, payin' no attention to the groans of the mob, and Kennedy suddenly jabbed his left to the face, fallin' in and clinchin' with the punch. I couldn't figure the move till I seen his knee come up with a jerk and then I shrieked—but it was too late. That big stiff's bony kneecap caught the Kid in the pit of the stomach, and Roberts slid slowly to the floor, gaspin', his face twisted in the agony of the lowest foul known to the prize ring. That, of course, was Kennedy's game—to cripple the boy. He'd had enough, and he wanted to lose on a foul rather than be knocked out. He'd made no attempt to conceal the thing, which was plain to every one of the wildly yelpin' customers. The referee waved Kennedy to his corner, and me and my merry men jumped into the ring and ran to the Kid, which was now sittin' up and bitin' his lips till they was a thin red stream tricklin' down his drawn face, but the look in his eyes, fastened on Kennedy, was terrible to see. We helped him up and started to half carry him to his corner, but he pushed us away and braced himself against the ropes, seemin'ly gettin' stronger every second. That kid's vitality was remarkable! The referee held up his hand and gradually the noise died down.

"Gentlemen!" he says, "I award this bout to Kid Roberts on a foul and—"

The rest was lost in the uproar, but the Kid grabs the referee's arm. "Don't award me anything," he

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/116


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/117

 gasps. "I want to knock that dog out. Let the fight go on—I'm all right!"

The referee's eyes come near partin' forever with his head.

"You're crazy, son!" he grunts. Then, turnin' to me: "Hey, you better look after your man. Is there a doctor in—"

Kid Roberts breaks away from him and walks to the center of the ring, holdin' up both hands and like magic the yells dies away again.

"Gentlemen," says the Kid, slowly and painfully, "you came here to witness a boxing exhibition, and unfortunately it has been interrupted. I am perfectly willing and able to continue, and that's what I want to do! The referee says I've been fouled—that's correct. But I'm not badly hurt and if I'm willing to take a chance, why shouldn't he?"

Sweet Mamma—you should of heard them babies out in front then!

So many things come off in such sensationally quick succession after that that it's hard to get 'em in order. I tried to drag the Kid to his corner and got shoved half-way through the ropes. The mob surged back and forth yellin' for the fight to go on, and in Kennedy's corner they took up the shout. They was only too anxious now. Their man had got a rest, and the Kid was plainly all in. Here was a chance to turn defeat into a certain knockout for Kennedy. The referee hesitated, looked out at the crowd, shook his head, and fin'ly threw up his hands and walked to the ropes. Somebody rung the bell, and, like a flash, Kennedy was off his stool, plungin' at the Kid, which

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/117


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/118

 turned to meet him with a twisted grin. The referee hollered and started between 'em, caught the growl of ten thousand animals, shrugged his shoulders, and stepped away. And then they were at it again like wild men!

A fight, what?

The first solid wallop the Kid landed showed Kennedy what a simp he was to think Roberts was the same as out. It broke his nose and made him a study in red from chin to hips. He began back-pedalin' again, but the Kid gave him no chance. He punched him from pillar to post, from one side of the ring to the other. He hit him with every blow known to boxin', and inside of a minute had him flounderin' blindly about the ring, drunk with punishment. A hurricane of left and right hooks almost knocked Kennedy through the ropes, and swish—a sponge came hurtlin' into the ring from his corner. It rolled to the edge of the platform, quivered there a minute, and then the blazin'-eyed referee with a flick of his heel sent it spinnin' down on the reporters.

"Fight, you yellah bum!" he roars in Kennedy's battered ear. "You wanted it; now take it!"

Kennedy, seein' they was no way out of it, staggered forward and swung wildly with both hands. The Kid laughed out loud, measured him with his left, and floored him with a right cross to the button of the jaw. Kennedy, glassy-eyed, rolled over on his back at "six," gazed up at the Kid he had tried to maim for life a few minutes back, and waved a weak hand.

"I—got—enough!" he pants and quit like a dog!

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/118


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/119

 Then, with a happy smile on his lips, Kid Roberts slid through my arms to the canvas in a dead faint.

It was three or four days after we got back to New York again before I had the pleasure of viewin' Miss Mabel Murray, the fascinatin' cigar seller. I went over to the stand to buy a paper, and she presented me with a killin' smile, callin' me up to her end of the counter with a charmin'ly intimate nod. "Say!" she says. "That bird Halliday must of figured I just got shipped in here from Hensfoot Corners or somethin', didn't he?"

"Why?" I says, with the greatest of interest.

"Well," she says, confidentially, "I'll tell you. Y'know, if I do say it myself, there's worse lookers than me, and I gotta stand for a lotta kiddin' duri' the hours I put in here every day sellin' these here Roperinos to the male's sex. I get four-fiushed to death from 8 a. m. to 5 p. m. daily except Sunday, by everything from travelin' salesmen to risin' young bill clerks, which can't control their generosity and crave my company at lunch and so forth. Accordin' to them, they're all millionaires' sons in disguise or black sheeps of grand old families, and none of 'em makes less than $5,000 a week, not countin' tips. Of course all this goes in one ear and out another with me, but I thought this Halliday was different. He's such a good looker, his manners would make a head waiter look like a stevedore, and his language—well, half the time I didn't even know what he was talkin' about! I admit I was on the verge of fallin' for him— Mother mine, how he can dance! But I found out yesterday I'd been bunked again."

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/119


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/120

 "I don't make you, kid," I says. "What did the boy do?"

She leans over and grins.

"Say," she says. "It's a scream! He comes over here very serious and says he's got somethin' important to tell me—somethin' I gotta know before our friendship can go any farther, get me? Of course I had him pegged from the go in for what he is—one of them tea-room boys which will stop at nothin' but work! Naturally, I figured he was about to make a touch. What d'ye think he told me?"

"Shoot!" I says. "I never win a guess in my life."

She leans back and busts right out laughin'.

"He claims he's Kid Roberts, the prize fighter," she chortles. "That bird a fighter! Say, if anybody ever threatened to wallop him, he'd pass away in a swoon! How is it that none of you guys can ever tell a woman the truth?"

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/120


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/121

of the unusually interestin' courses at my college, viz., the University of Experience, is the study of laughter—prob'ly the most abused and powerful single agent for good or bad in the world. They's no doubt that many's the delicate situation has been saved by a well-placed giggle, but far more cases has been shot to pieces by a poorly timed one. A good-natured laugh for the example, has frequently been known to prevent murder, but, on the other hand, billions of guys has been bumped off for no more cause than a single, sneerin' grin. The chuckle is the boob's natural defense and the wise guy's offense, and it's a beaucoup dangerous weapon either way!

But, in mass formation, the humble titter stands alone as a maker or breaker of men! The laugh of the mob has kept Chaplin away from the almshouse and Bryan away from the White House. They guffawed Henry Ford into a fortune and Doc Cook out of one. The Wright brothers was showered with snickers, but they fin'ly made the world fly and the Anti-Saloon League, a long-standin' object of mirth, is fin'ly makin' it dry.

So ridicule is roast duck to some guys and carbolic

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/121


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/122

 to others. It's stung thousands of losers into gettin' across and thousands of winners into gettin' the raspberry. I could undoubtlessly trot out a hundred cases of both, but a glance at the daily papers will supply you with much fresher lists than I got. However, boys and girls, if you'll keep your lustrous eyes glued to the followin' pages for a few minutes, I will give you a sensational example of how the jeerin' chortle of a mob queered one of the most shrewdly crooked schemes I ever was framed for, whilst as a box-fight impresario I was endeavorin' to make Kid Roberts reignin' king of the Leather Pushers. After the Kennedy muss, I took the Kid for a dash around the usual heavyweight circuit from Harlem to Frisco, takin' on all corners and always bellerin' for a muss with the champ. The Kid made Annette Kellermanns out of the bulk of his men, and the high divin' which was had on that trip would of caused the extremely fair Ann to give up the swimmin' game in disgust!

Out of twelve guys he went versus with, six of 'em succumbed to the sleepin' sickness in from one to three rounds, three lasted less than a minute, two scraps was stopped to save the Kid from a manslaughter charge; and one bird stayed ten frames and was presented with a draw by a referee which had to be gave aid and succor by the cops immediately after he whispered his decision to the stupefied crowd. The gent which went the limit with the Kid was called Tiger Capato. As they remarked when Roosevelt was a infant, you'll hear more about that guy later.

As we stood to date, we'd had sixteen quarrels and win fourteen by knockouts, and if that ain't a record

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/122


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/123

 to get chesty about, then neither was Napoleon's! Also, we'd gathered together numerous shekels and our guarantees now run from $3,000 to $7,000 a fight, accordin' to where it was and with which. Seven thousand berries is interestin' money even to Charley Schwab, and I was satisfied to leave well enough alone and go right back over the trail bouncin' them same babies once more for auld lang sang and, of course, the pennies. But, brother, it was all different with my food card, Kid Roberts. That boy was as full of ambition as Pancho Villa and he wanted the champion now or nobody! He still hated the box-fight game from pit to dome and had swore on several phone books that the minute he win the title and copped one large, juicy purse, he'd leave the ring flat on its back and go in some business. A business, for the example, where, if anybody kept wavin' a dirty towel up and down in front of him, he would at the least have the pleasure of throwin' him out of his office, instead of havin' to sit on a backless stool and like it, as he did now!

How the soever, the champ turned a bevy of deaf ears to our frenzied demands for a crack at his crown and we might as well of tried to pick a fight with a nervous rabbit. In the two years he'd held the title, this cuckoo had fought exactly 901 guys—one set-up which lasted four rounds and 900 movie supers which lasted four reels. He was out on the goldiest gold coast of America, or, to get technical, Los Angeles, Calipickford, makin' a picture labeled "Up from the Gutter and Half Ways Back" or "From Dockhand to Champion!" The screen slave drivers

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/123


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/124

 had him sewed up for several months on a chilled-steel contract callin' for a couple of hours' work every sunshiny day at a niggardly pittance of $60,000 cash and 10 per cent of the loot from the film. Likewise he was allowed to wear white flannel pants and make up his eyebrows in the last reel, and the Jane which took off the part of the innocent little damsel he rescued from the Home for Wayward Girls, or the like, was a second Diana.

Now did that bird want to hurl all this overboard, go into heavy trainin' for a coupla months and then get roughed and jostled all over a ring by my young bone crusher? Sweet Spirits of Niter—NO!!

But the indignant sport writers come to our assistance and without no preliminary warnin' opened up with their heavy guns on the peacefully inclined heavyweight champion of our present world. All the ways across Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean, them guys begin runnin' pictures of Kid Roberts with his amazin' casualty list alongside of 'em—then they took their typewriters in hand and let the keys run wild!

In the first place, Kid Roberts was always what is known as "good copy" in the newspaper game. Just gaze over the layout again; it'll only take a second. Here was a ex-famous college star who'd entered the prize ring to put his bankrupt father on his feet, who against all the dope was knockin' everybody dead, whose heiress had gave him the gate on the strength of it and who'd fin'ly punched his way to a chance at the world's championship. There we have as much romance, human interest, thrill, and suspense as they was in the French Revolution, as some bird wrote after

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/124


text: Memoirs of Vidocq, Volume III/Chapter 41


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/125

 samplin' one of them new antidotes for prohibition. Was a guy which had did all that to be kept from the happy endin'? Far be it from such!

So the young men went at the thing with a will, printin' the actor-champ's somewhat mild record opposite the Kid's and demandin' that he leave the bathin' beauties be and defend his title like a gent and a scholar, or else resign and concede it to the Kid. Half a million bucks wouldn't of bought the publicity we was gettin' every day, and it didn't cost me a pleasant smile. The big, handsome Kid's personality, the air of class his blood and college had gave him, and his willin'ness to fight anybody but the battleship Pennsylvania, put 'em in back of him to a man. They's no squarer shooter or better sport on the earth than your average newspaper guy. Likewise I discovered a long ways back that he's a great guy to have in your corner and a tough one to have off of you. Show him you got the merchandise and he'll drop everything to help you deliver it, but try and slip one over on him and Sweet Mamma—he shakes a nasty ink!

The champ simply grinned at this newspaper barrage, but the guys which had sank their sugar in his movie didn't! Contrary to the layman's opinion, they is several ounces of brains invested in the films, and these birds seen immediately that, unless their boxer star come out of his hole and made a noise like a scrapper, his ten-reeler was due to be a terrible bust. Already advance announcements of it was beginnin' to draw some scattered hisses hithers and yon, and the panic was on!

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/125


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/126

 It's unfortunately true that our dear old hardworkin' U. S. likes to relax every now and then and gets hysterical over them foreign whatnots which comes here to grab off some real dough for a change and then goes back and roasts us to a fare-thee-well. But in spite of this slight weakness, we are far from a nation of come-ons, as many of them patronizin' tourists discovered, after the first wild cheers had died out. We don't care how much we spend for our toys, but we do wanna see 'em go! We insist that our plumbers plumb, our bankers bank, our actors act, and our fighters fight. We allow no guy to stall unless he gets sentenced to Congress—the only cruel and unusual punishment now legal under our punch-drunk Constitution!

Well, after a conference with his manager, press agents, and photoplay magnates, the champ presented the press with a statement in which he claimed he'd be willin' to listen to us on the subject of fisticuffs the minute he laid off elevatin' the screen, or, in the other words, three months. In the mean's while, we wouldst have to dispose of the Hon. Tiger Capato, the only heavy in captivity which Kid Roberts had been unable to make kiss the canvas and recline thereon till the referee had pronounced him dead.

The Kid almost wept for joy when the news reached him that he was gonna get a crack at the world's championship. He tore into our bower at the big-league hotel we was stablin' at now, wavin' a bunch of evenin' papers and grinnin' like a second Fairbanks.

"Six months from now I'll be champion!" he yells, with a slap on my back that loosened four buttons on

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/126


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/127

 the front of my vest. "Then one scrap for a couple of hundred thousand and I'm through! I'll throw my title to the pack and let 'em fight it, while I'll—"

"Whilst you'll blow your end of the gate, go broke and come back to the hit-and-run game again!" I butts in. "Listen, young feller, don't feed me none of that desertin'-the-ring-stuff—I was engaged in the gift of pilotin' pugs when you thought a uppercut was a euchre term. Once the heavy money, the thrill of landin' a perfectly timed right cross, the screamin' mob; the bein' constantly in the public's eye, and all the rest of it gets into your arteries, you can't throw it off like a old coat—and that's that! No, sir, son; right up to the time the embalmer says: 'Well, I guess I'll finish this one and then go home!' you'll be tellin' your fellow ghosts that you could of licked the current crop of heavies in the same ring if you hadn't bumped off. Ever hear of a ex-champ that didn't try to stage a comeback, regardless of age or condition? Take a squint at the books—John L., Corbett, Fitzsimmons, Jeff, Bat Nelson, Abe Attell, Young Corbett, Lavigne, McGovern, Gans, Ritchie, Wolgast, Coulon, Papke, and the etc. All of them boys was champs amongst champs and all of 'em was tryin' to crawl out of the pugilistic ash heap back to the calcium for years after they'd been nothin' but a faint memory to the mob!"

"Just a second!" flings the Kid over his shoulder, rippin' off his collar and draggin' out the shavin' apparatus. "There's no comparison between myself and those men, either in boxing ability or—well, let's call it temperament. Without exception, all those fellows you rattled off were born fighters—it was

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/127


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/128

 in the blood! They fought for money, of course, but it was principally the sheer love of battle that drove them to crawl through the ropes to kill or get killed, long after their star had set. I am not a born pugilist. I say that without any intent to sneer at what might have been a great game if it could have been kept clean! But it is a genealogical fact that I was born and reared in an entirely different atmosphere. I have no love for professional boxing, and I'm simply using it as a means to an end."

I sit and watched this big blond shavin' for a minute, feastin' my trained orbs on the easy play of ripplin' muscle over them white shoulders which loomed up out of his summer lingerie. A fighter? Say—they was champion wrote all over him, from the heel of his shoe to the roof of his dome! The only thing which spoiled the general effect was his intelligent look.

"I wouldst fain differ with thee, Big Guy," I grins, after a while, "on the subject of you not bein' born no fighter and likewise how ill in the abdomen the box-fightin' game makes you. I admit that, from the nursery up to a recent date, you was more used to afternoon tea parties than twenty-four-foot rings and that in your first few brawls you liked to cried your eyes out every time you knocked some bimbo for a goal. But a great change has come to the pass, Kid, and whether you noticed it or not, I don't know, but I did, because I'm gettin' paid to notice everything which is in the slightest way connected with you—get me? I only wish I had a photo to show

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/128


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/129

 you of your last coupla quarrels. I'd particularly crave one of the fight with Soldier Gorman at St. Paul—a picture of our meek little college boy gettin' floored in Round One, tearin' out of my arms for Round Two, standin' toe to toe with this near gorilla Gorman, which stood up to it to the extent of fracturin' one of your ribs before he went out cold, whilst teacher's pet, which hates to strike anybody, crouched over him pantin', bloody and snarlin', till I had to drag him back to his little corner! You sick of the game? Kid, prize fightin' is your dish, and a flash at your face when you get hurt tells that part of it to the world!"

He suddenly quit shavin' and swung around on me, with the razor still poised in the air and his face flamin' as red as a oil-well fire where it wasn't lathered. Then that give way to a worried look, as he leaned back against the bureau and laid down the razor.

"Gad!" he says. "Is that a fact? I seem to enjoy this beastly business?"

"Oh, easily that!" I chuckles. "You have took to pushin' leather like Theda Bara took to a camera. And another thing, Kid, you have become one tough baby—praise be Allah! When you're in there tryin' these days, the way you go about your job would make the wildest guy in Borneo swoon away with pure fright!"

Hidin' behind another blush, the Kid give vent to a disgusted little shiver, looks at me kinda funny, and then takes a long view of himself in the mirror, like's he's mullin' over in his mind what I have just told him.

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/129


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/130

 Fin'ly he lets forth a sigh, picks up the razor, and continues on with the shavin'.

"So I'm degenerating into a beast, eh?" he says half to himself whilst he scrapes away viciously. "Well, I'm glad you called my attention to that—though it would be strange indeed if the vapor of sordid, bestial atmosphere surrounding my present—eh—profession, did not slightly tarnish the highly sensitive polish of some generations of refinement. I suppose," he adds, with a short laugh, "when I get out of this infernal game I'll have to spend some time in a finishing school before I'll trust myself to enter a drawing room!"

Slappin' on the bay rum, he was grinnin' again like the kid he was.

"Now about this Tiger Capato, the fellow I have to whip before I meet"—his voice shook a bit with pure, undiluted joy—"before I meet the champion. Are you getting in touch with him?"

For answer I pointed to the bed, which was cluttered with telegrams from every fight club in North America, with the possible exception of the Mexican Senate. We went over 'em together and fin'ly decided the best offer come from New Orleans, the fracas to be held there within a month and to be a fifteen-round rough-house to a referee's decision. That last item give me a giggle. In fifteen rounds Kid Roberts could of licked 850 Tiger Capatos and, as for the decision thing, all we craved was a guy which could count up to "ten" in a loud and melodious voice!

The vulgar financial details of the bout was a

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/130


text:
Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/131

 $25,000 purse to be split 60-40 and the wire also says that the matchmaker of the club, with Tiger Capato's manager, will meet me at the Claridge in a couple of days, to post appearance forfeits, sign articles, and the like.

I went down to the Claridge, as advertised, and asked for the matchmaker, bein' immediately escorted to a dead fall on the third floor. I just missed qualifying for the morgue when the door is opened by no less than the only enemy Kid Roberts had in the wide, wide world, to wit, Dummy Carney!

The way that baby kept on top of us from the time he first laid a eye on Roberts and started him pushin' leather, till the Kid made his pile and quit, was somethin' remarkable! Dummy couldn't forgive himself for lettin' the Kid get away from him, and he swore he'd never stop tryin' till a scrapper from his stable knocked my infant prodigy cold. Now he stood there with a twisted smile on his thick lips and them beady eyes of his enjoyin' my amazement to the last inch.

Before I can let out a bleat, he grabs me by the arm and yanks me into the room.

"Where's the Kid?" he whispers hoarsely, lookin' around.

"Doin' some road work," I says, still up to my ears in astonishment. "What are you doin' here? Where's Capato's manager and—"

Dummy closes the door and grins. "He's here," he says. "Sit down and take a load off your feet."

"Look here, Dummy," I says, facin' him. "This here's got a wrong look to me! I come here to sign articles with Capato's manager, not to—"

title: Page:The Leather Pushers (1921).pdf/131