Changeling, and Other Stories
clinch. No longer the referee called, "Break! break!" but tore at them
with hysterical hands. A tacit understanding grew between them to
protect at all times, and as they drew apart they hooked and
uppercutted, Irish with an insane mood of fighting, the Italian with a
quick deliberation: _Snap! Snap!_ the punches.
Patter of feet, and creak of the boards, and little whine of the ropes.
The great blue light overhead, the click of the telegraph instruments
below. The running feet of the referee and the nervous patting of his
hands, _clop! clop!_ The seconds with their eyes glued on the fighting
men, and their hands sparring in sympathy. The mooing roar of the
crowd and their louder tense silence. And the regular gong, the short
respite, hardly a second it seemed, though the interval was a
minute--and the gong again.
Once they were so carried away they paid no attention to it, but fought
on. Only the referee parted them. Irish held out his glove in apology
and they shook hands. The garden seemed to shake to the cheering.
Whip of lead in the tenth round, crash of counter, deep sock of
infighting. Clinch; break. A half-second's inattention on the
Italian's part, and the left hand of Irish crashed home to the jaw.
Himself did not understand what had happened until he noticed the
crumpled figure on the boards and heard the referee:
"Get back, McCann. Get back! ... One! ... two..." An immense hysteria
of sound filled the house. Men jumped on seats. The telegraph
instruments clattered madly. Somewhere near the ring was a fist fight.
"Three!"
The crumpled figure twitched. At four it was dragging itself to its
hands. The glazed eyes blinked. Life returned. The Italian shook his
head. At seven he was on his hands and knees, his head clearing. At
eight he was kneeling on one knee, one glove resting on boards. God!
how long the seconds were, Irish thought.
"Nine!" Slowly the Italian rose.
The Garden was no longer filled with human beings but with instruments
of baritone sound. It hit the roof, rebounded, whirled, surged. All
about Irish was sound, sound. In front of him the Italian weak at the
knees. The referee hunched like a bowler. Irish jumped in, fists
swinging. His fists met crossed arms, elbows, shoulders, but not jaw
or head. And suddenly the Italian was clinging to him, as a terrified
cat will cling--he could n't tear himself loose. It took the referee
and him to tear the Italian away.
Insane with the din, blind with excitement, he rushed again to meet the
beautiful diagonal coverup, left arm across heart and plexus, right
crooked about throat and jaw. Again the clinging of the cat. And he
felt the Italian growing stronger. It was like a dead man coming to
life again. Life was flowing slowly back to shoulders, from shoulders
to arms and hands, to hips and knees.
He stood back to consider this miracle, to think what to do next. Two
shaking lefts caught him in the face.
And the gong rang and his chance was gone.
Yes another six months and he could have won. He would have known how
to keep his head, how to finish the Italian crisply. He had him out,
out clean. Another punch would have finished it. And he had n't
experience enough--another six months.
Well, what was the use of grousing! It could n't be helped. He could
n't pass the fight up when it was offered to him. Right at home, and
so much money.
The money had been needed for the home and the old man. It was funny
how much a home cost even on Twenty-fourth Street, and the old man was
used to a certain way of living. He liked to have a cook, and a girl
to do the work around the house. That was the way it was in Ireland.
And the old man needed his decent clothes and his spending money for
his little drink and his tobacco and papers, and things like that. He
couldn't very well put the old man in lodgings. He wasn't accustomed
to that. He wanted his home and the cook and girl. He always was
accustomed to it, and why should n't he have it?
But a house took an awful lot of money. For what the house cost he and
the old man could have stayed at a swell hotel. But the old man liked
to be by himself. You could n't blame him; the old man was entitled to
a home. He was a queer, crusty sort, the old man. No harm in him, you
know, but just could n't get on.
And for all that people thought, a boxer's money was n't easy. A
middle-weight did n't get the money light-weights and heavy-weights
got. If he 'd won the championship--ah, that was all right! Let it
go! But when you split fifty-fifty with your manager, there was only
half of what you fought for; and there was expenses, too. You had to
travel a lot, and be nice to people, too. You had to spend a lot in
saloons, though you never drank yourself. Keep your end up with the
crowd. And there was always old fighters out of luck, and some of them
had families, too. You could n't refuse them even if you 'd wanted to.
And who 's going to help out a fighter except a fighter? And there was
always a lot of poor folks.
It seemed a pity, even for the money end, not to have waited. If he 'd
waited he 'd have had the championship, and then he 'd have been fixed
for life.
If his old man had been a different kind of old man he 'd have gone to
him and said: "Hey, old timer, how about going easy on the jack for a
while, hey? Just lay off a bit until I get things right. Gi' me
another half-dozen fights under my belt, see, and I 'll drop this
Guinea cold. And then the champion 'll have to give me a fight--the
papers 'll make him, and you know what he is. He 's a bum. So what do
you say we get us a couple o' rooms, hey, and go easy for a while?
What do you say?"
A different kind of old man would have said: "Sure. We 'll take our
time, and we 'll knock this Guinea for a row of jam-jars. And as for
the champion, it's a cinch."
But he was n't that kind of old man. He did n't hold with this
fighting, nohow. He had no use for it. And he was n't the kind of old
guy you could talk to. Irish thought he must have had a hard time in
his life.
Ah, well; he was entitled to a good time now. Let him have his own
way. Irish could always make money. It did n't matter so much, after
all, did it? The only thing that hurt him was that he would never draw
the Stars and Stripes through the green Irish tights....
And he could have, if he 'd had only six months.
Irish was aware now as he answered the bell that his bolt was shot.
The high pitch of concentration had gone. With the dropping of the
Italian, and the Italian's escape, he had reached the high point of his
fighting, and now must go down. His punch would be heavy still, but it
would lack the terrific speed, the speed of shock, that carries a
knock-out. And the effect of the cumulation of blows from the Italian
sharpshooter was beginning to tell. Through the bruises on his body
and neck and the puffiness of his face, energy was flowing out of him
like water from some pierced vessel. The stinging lefts to his face
had made it hard for him to breathe, and his hands were swollen inside
his gloves, and all of a sudden his legs were tired.
Into ten rounds of whirlwind fighting he had foolishly put everything,
gambled energy and hands and brain.
And he sensed with a great sinking of his heart that Chip was drawing
ahead of him now, drawing away from him in the contest, with the
inevitableness of the winner drawing away from the beaten man, forging
ahead while the other plods hopelessly on.... With the quick telepathy
of the ring the Italian knew Irish had cracked, that he was gone. And
now the energy he had saved by making his man come to him he could use,
he must use. For that knock-down in the tenth was a high score of
points against him. And he was afraid of a draw. He would have to
fight Irish again. Not again! He must knock him out.
He met the futile rushes with stinging lefts. At close quarters he
ripped home his hands mercilessly. As they drew apart he stalked his
man. _Smack! Smack!_ It was no hard matter to avoid the rushing of
Irish. God! what a glutton Irish was! What he could take without
going down!
Mechanically, stolidly, dully, Irish boxed. All about him now was the
hoarse murmur of speculation, and the din of it dazed him a little, and
the light. And from a cut in his forehead the blood was running into
his eyes.
Four times the gong crashed, the end and opening of a round, and the
end and opening of another round. Dully he went to his corner. The
splash of water in his face did not revive him, nor the current from
the whipping towels, nor the slapping of his legs.
"Don't let him knock you out, Irish. Hold him. Only two more rounds.
Don't let him knock you out." Maher's fierce whisper hit at his
ear-drums. So it was as bad as that, hey?
"Hold on to him, kid. Don't fight him. Hold him."
The bell rang. They pushed him to his seat. Wearily he moved toward
the center of the ring.
"Look out!" some one called.
The Italian had sprung from his corner with the spring of a cat. And
Irish felt surprisedly that he had been struck with two terrific
hammers on the jaw. And as he wondered who had hit him his knees
buckled surprisingly, and he was on his hands and knees on the floor.
And he heard some one say: "... three ... four..." He struggled to his
feet. Somewhere Maher was shouting. "Take the count, Irish." Irish
dully wondered what he meant.
And now Chip was in front of him, concentrated, poised. And once more
the hammer crashed on the jaw. And he tumbled to the boards on his
side.
He was very dull, very dazed. For a while he knew nothing. And then
he understood; the referee pumping his hand up and down, and the roar
of the crowd.
"Eight!"
As he moved he felt the ropes, and blindly he groped for them, pulling
himself to his feet somehow. About him the din surged. The referee
stepped back. The Italian was pawing at the referee's arm, protesting.
Irish understood. Chip wanted the fight stopped, did n't want to hit
him any more. Ah, he was a good kid, Chip was.
And then the ring slithered underneath him; the hand grasping the rope
grew lifeless, let go; and the lights went out for him; and Irish
crashed forward on his face.
The old man looked at the battered face above the blue serge suit.
"Well," he said, "it must have been a grand fight entirely!"
"It was a great fight," Irish grinned, "and a good man won."
"Meaning yourself?"
"No, meaning the Guinea."
"So you were beat, eh?" the old man jeered. "I never thought you were
much good at it."
"Ah, I don't know." And Irish grinned again.
"Tell me," the old man snapped, "did you bring me 'The Advocate'?"
"I did." And Irish handed it over.
"'T is a wonder you remembered it," the old man snarled. "And the fine
lacing you 're after taking!"
And Irish grinned again. Wasn't he a queer, grumpy old man!
BY ORDEAL OF JUSTICE
Very much as though he were entering a disreputable place, Matthew
Kerrigan slipped furtively from the taxicab into the hallway of the old
New York mansion made over into an apartment-house. He stood at the
door, portly, important, wrapped in his fur coat. He pushed the button
marked "Mr. Sergius." A young Russian butler admitted him.
"Just say a Mr. Smith," Kerrigan announced importantly. Across the
Russian boy's harsh features there was the shadow of contempt. He
reappeared in an instant and held open a door for Kerrigan.
Kerrigan had been expecting something of the dark, perfumed, cheap
interior of a palmist's studio; or the meretricious mystery of a
clairvoyant apartment with its crystal glass on faded velvet. Even