Paradise Garden: The Satirical Narrative of a Great Experiment

JERRY GOES INTO TRAINING

Outside the restaurant I changed my plans. I decided not to go to Flynn's that afternoon, for I wanted Jerry to understand how little I was in sympathy with his prize fight. And after the first day he no longer insisted on my going with him. But he came to Ballard's apartment and we had several talks in which, after one final and fruitless effort to dissuade him from his fight, I gave up and we talked of other things.

It was not necessary for me to tell Jerry that I had overheard his interview with Una Habberton. And when he spoke of the incident, I encouraged him to talk until I learned just how much—and how little—the meeting meant to him. The impression, the rather unique impression she had first made upon the clean, fair surface of his mind, remained indelibly printed: the first female creature he had seen and talked with, a youthful being, like himself, with whom he could talk as he talked with me, without care or restraint,—a creature of ideals, humor, and a fine feeling for human companionship which she did not hesitate to share; a friend like Skookums or me, but of an infinitely finer grain, with a gentler voice, a smoother skin and softer eyes, better to look at; in short, more agreeable, more surprising, more sympathetic, more appealing. This chance meeting, I think, merely confirmed the previous impression, reasserting an early conception of femininity with which the charms of Marcia Van Wyck could have nothing in common. He must have compared them, but with different standards of comparison, for each in Jerry's mind was sui generis. The glamour of Marcia, her perfumes, her artistry, the lure of her voice and eyes, her absorbing abstractions and sudden enthusiasms—how could Una's quaint transitions compare with such as these? And yet I am sure that he judged Una Habberton not unfavorably in Marcia's reflected glamour, for he spoke of the character in her hands (thinking of Marcia's rosy nails) and the radiancy of her smile (thinking of Marcia's red lips). And whatever he may have thought of her personal pulchritude or the quiet magnetism of her friendliness, there was no room in his mind just now for the merely spiritual. If Una had a place in his heart, it was where the ebb and flow were quiet, not in the mid-stream of hot blood. But Jerry kept his word. His check for Una's day nursery went forward on the day following their meeting and Jerry found time in the intervals between Marcia, business and the gymnasium to call upon Una and talk over in a general way the great project in which their interest was involved. I heard little of these few meetings, for after a short visit with Ballard, during which we discussed Jerry's plans in despair, I went back to the Manor to resume my much neglected work.

It was now March. I missed Jerry as I knew I should miss him always at this season when it had been our custom to fare forth in search of woodland adventure and the early signs of spring. I wondered if Jerry in the city could be feeling the call of the wanderlust as I did. I managed to work a few hours of each day, but my habit of concentration seemed to fail me, and my thoughts kept recurring unpleasantly to the ruin Jerry was courting both for his reputation and his spirit. Clean as he was, he couldn't play too long with pitch and not be defiled. I heard one day that Briar Hills had just been opened and I pricked up my ears. Aha! It couldn't be long now before the bird would come homing.

The notice of this home-coming reached me in the form of a wire.

"Will arrive with party tomorrow. Have six bedrooms prepared for guests. Will explain when I see you."

Six bedrooms! A house party—in the very midst of his training! I couldn't understand. A fine hope surged in me. A house party—guests! Could it be that something had happened to change his plans? Had he given up his bout with Clancy? I could hardly restrain my impatience and tried to get Jack Ballard on the telephone. He had left town. It was very curious; for somewhere in me vague misgivings stirred. What if—!

The morrow brought the painful solution of my uncertainties. For toward four o'clock of the afternoon there was a roaring of automobiles in the drive which brought me to the study window, from which vantage point I saw Jerry dismounting from the car in front with three other men, Flynn, Christopher and a large colored man, while from the other car, a hired machine, by the look of it, four other figures descended—all unloading suit-cases upon the terrace steps—a motley crowd in flannel shirts and sweaters, with cropped heads, thick necks and red hands, all talking loudly and staring up at the towers of the house as though they expected them to fall on them. This then was Jerry's house-party—! Thugs, cut-throats, apaches—his pugilist friends from Flynn's!

Jerry hurried along the terrace and met me at the hall door, where he burst into unseemly laughter. I suppose at the expression of dismay which must have been written upon my countenance. He seized me by both hands and led me indoors.

"There wasn't any use wiring you the truth, Roger. I didn't want to make you unhappy any sooner than I had to. Are you upset?"

"Nothing can ever upset me again," I said with dignity. "It's your house. I can move out."

"But you won't, Roger," he clapped an arm around my shoulders and walked me into the study. "We're not going to bother you. But we just had to get away from town for some road work—and it's devilish conspicuous anywhere near the city, people watching, reporters and all that sort of thing."

He turned, for the dismayed servants had come out and stood in a row in the hall aghast at the appearance of the visitors who stood awkwardly shifting their feet in the main doorway, their suit-cases and bundles in their arms, awaiting directions.

"Take those things upstairs—show 'em, Christopher," says Jerry. "You show 'em to their rooms, Poole. And when you're washed up, Flynn, come down here again."

Over his shoulder I watched the hulking devils go past in sheepish single file with furtive glances at me. When they had passed out of sight, Jerry explained rapidly.

"You see, Roger, we had to do it. There was no other way. I needed some running badly and there wasn't a chance for it—without the whole thing coming out in the papers."

I smiled ironically. "And you think you've chosen a way to avoid publicity by bringing these"—I restrained myself with difficulty—"these gentlemen here? Don't you know that every paper in New York will have a man here writing the thing up?"

"No, they won't. They can't get in. I stopped at the Lodge as I came by and gave my orders."

"But they'll know that Jim Robinson and Jerry Benham are the same."

Jerry winked an eye and laid a finger along his nose.

"No, they won't, old Dry-as-dust, for the very simple reason that he isn't."

"I don't understand."

"Well, you see, I'm Jim Robinson and you are Jerry Benham."

"I!" I gasped.

"Precisely. You are Jerry Benham, patron of the manly art—Mæcenas, friend and backer of Robinson aforesaid, whom you've invited to Horsham Manor to complete his training."

"Preposterous! These—these bruisers" (I let go now) "think I'm you?"

"No, dear Roger, not I, who am Robinson, but Jerry Benham, multi-millionaire and king of good fellows. Flynn knows the truth, of course, but he's shut as tight as a clam. He won't talk, for his own interests are involved."

"You expect me to play the part of good fellow," I broke out when I had sufficiently recovered from the shock of his information. "You expect me to entertain this motley aggregation of assorted criminals as Jerry Benham! Well, I won't, and that's flat."

"Now, Roger, don't be unreasonable," he said with a cajoling smile. "They're a pretty decent lot, really. Sagorski—the big chap with the fuzzy hair, he's not half bad when you know him; and Carty, the one with the cauliflower ear, his fight comes off inside of a week. We're helping him out, too, you see—good food, clean air—bully fellow—a little too finely drawn just now and a bit irritable—"

"I see. A bit irritable—so am I—"

"And then," he went on, "the other big fellow is Tim O'Halloran, my chopping block, has a nasty left—and is a demon for punishment. The little fellow is Kid Spatola, an Italian, one of my handlers, the bootblack champion. Oh, they're a fine lot, Roger—You'll get to like 'em. Nothing like being thrown with chaps a lot to know what they're like—inside of 'em, I mean."

"Quite true," I remarked with desperate calmness. "And who, if I may ask, is the colored gentleman in the yellow sweater?"

"Oh!" said Jerry pleasantly. "That's Danny Monroe, my rubber. He's the best masseur outside of Sweden, knows all the tricks; wait until you see him rubbing me down."

"I shall try to possess my soul in patience until then," I said. "Have you designated which of the spare rooms these gentlemen are to occupy?"

"Ah, don't be stodgy, Roger," he said. "They'll all be in the wing. They won't bother you. I'm counting on you to help. Just try, won't you? It will only be for about three weeks."

I gasped and sank into the nearest chair. Three weeks in which this gang of hoodlums must be fed, looked after and entertained. I was helpless. Radford, the superintendent, had gone for a lengthy visit to relatives in California.

"I hope you have their criminal records—also a private detective to watch the silver," I murmured weakly.

"No, I haven't," Jerry retorted. "I'm not afraid of any of them. It's rather narrow, Roger, to think, just because a chap goes into pugilism as a business, that he isn't straight. You've taught me that one man is as good as another and now you're—you're crawling. That's what you're doing—crawling."

I was indeed, crawling, groveling. I strove upward, but remained prostrate.

"How could you do such a thing, Jerry?" I remonstrated feebly.

He patted me on the back—much, I think, as he would have patted Skookums in encouragement.

"Oh, be a good sport, Roger. You can be when you want to, you know. We won't bother you. We'll be in the gym or on the road most of the day, and in bed at nine sharp."

"What do you—want me to do?" I stammered at last.

"Why nothing," he said, his face brightening. "Just to be Jerry Benham for awhile. It isn't such a lot to ask, is it? Just make believe you're pleased as punch to have 'em around—come and watch me work" (he had the jargon at his tongue's tip) "and show some interest in the proceedings. You are interested, Roger."

"I'm not."

"You don't want to see me licked, do you?"

I sighed. The affair was out of my hands.

"What shall you want to eat?" I asked meekly.

"Oh, beefsteak, lots of it—and other things. Flynn will tell you." He folded his arms and gazed down at me contentedly. "Thanks, old man," he said gratefully. "I knew you would. It's fine of you. I won't forget it."

"Nor will I," I said. Jerry only laughed. D—n the boy. It was rank tyranny.

Flynn and Sagorski were already down the stairs. I eyed them malevolently, but rose and went to the kitchen to give the necessary orders. There I found the force of servants in executive session and my appearance was the signal for immediate notice from the entire lot. I hadn't foreseen this difficulty which immediately assumed the proportions of a calamity. They stated their objections, which may well be imagined, most respectfully but in no uncertain terms. They could have endured Mr. Flynn, Mr. Carty and Mr. Sagorski, but they balked at Mr. Danny Monroe. I had balked at him, too, but I didn't tell them so. The upstairs maids (we had chambermaids now) absolutely refused to consider any of my arguments in rebuttal and were already pinning on their hats, when Jerry, who had gotten wind of the mutiny from Christopher (poor Christopher!), came running and planting himself in their very midst, demolished their objections with a laugh and an offer of double wages. They smiled at a joke he made, weakened, finally unpinned their hats and took up their aprons. I have never in my experience seen such an example of the blandishment of wealth.

Peace restored and the orders given, which included a pledge of secrecy as to Jerry's real identity and mine, I made my way to the gymnasium with Jerry in a valiant effort to "be a good sport" and to appear as "pleased as punch" at the invasion of my sanctuary by Jerry's Huns. Carty and Flynn were having a fast "go" of it on the floor, with Monroe, the Swedish negro, keeping time, while from beyond came sounds of howling where "Kid" Spatola and Tim O'Halloran were sporting like healthy grampuses in Jerry's—my—marble pool. Jerry made the introductions gayly and O'Halloran splashed a greeting, while Spatola eyed my rusty black serge critically (Spatola was the Beau Brummel of the party as I discovered later) nodded, and then did a back flip-flap from the diving board.

But unwelcome as they were to me, they were not nearly so unpleasant in a state of nature as they had been in their clothing, for when considered as sentient beings they left much to be desired; as healthy human animals, I had to admit that they were a success, and having conceded the fact that they were animals and Horsham Manor was for the present a zoo, the rest was merely a matter of mental adjustment. I played my part of host, I fear, with a bad grace, but as manners held no high place in their code of being, my deficiencies passed unnoticed.

Was this triumph of matter over mind nature's cynical reply to my years of care and study in bringing Jerry to perfect manhood? Had I erred in giving importance to the growth and development of Jerry's body? Or was it, as Jack Ballard had said, merely that the nice adjustment of mind and matter had been suddenly disarranged? How far was this muscular orgy to carry him? And where would it end? After Madison Square Garden—what?

Dinner found me no nearer a solution and I sighed as my glance passed the length of the table, along the row of villainous faces to where opposite me Jim Robinson grinned cheerfully over his plate. It was quite wonderful to see these Vandals eat—beefsteak, bread, vegetables, eggs, milk—everything put before them vanished as if by magic, while Poole and Christopher with set and scornful faces hurried to the pantry, bearing in their empty dishes the mute evidence of the gastronomic miracles that were being performed beneath their very eyes. For my part I confess that I was so fascinated in watching the way in which Sagorski used his knife and fork and the dexterous manner in which he dispatched his food in spite of such a handicap that I ate nothing. They talked in mono-syllables and grunts for the most part, and when really conversing used language which I found it most difficult to understand. Their dinner finished, they rose, stretching and eructating in true Rabelaisian fashion.

"A stroll in the Park, byes, now. And then—the feathers," said Flynn, passing the chewing gum.

"A fine lot, ain't they, Mr. Benham?" said Jerry to me as they filed out.

"Extraordinary," I replied, with a fictitious smile, "most extraordinary."

He grinned at me and followed them.

It was not until the next day in the hour between road and gym work that I managed to get Flynn aside. He had thus far succeeded in avoiding me, but I caught him by the arm as he was passing, dragged him into my study and shut the door.

"See here, Flynn," I said with some warmth, "it's not my affair to interfere with any of Mr. Benham's plans. He's his own master now and can do what he pleases, but you and I have always been good enough friends, and I should like to know just how much or how little you've had to do with getting the boy into this match at the Garden—"

He looked at me quizzically for a moment and then grinned.

"Ye've got a right to ask me that, Mr. Canby. An' I'll give ye a fair answer. I had nothin' to do wid it, sor—honor bright—" He paused and grinned again. "Mind ye, I'm not sayin' I'm sorry he's doin' it, for I won't lie to ye. I'd like to see him lick Sailor Clancy an' I'm doin' my best to help him to it. But for havin' a hand in puttin' Masther Jerry up to the game ye can count me out. 'Twas Masther Jerry himself, sor. He got it into his head someway an' there was no gettin' rid of it. I made the match for the bye because he wanted it—an' that's a fact—nothin' else."

He looked me in the eye and I knew that he told the truth.

"What chance has Jerry of winning, Flynn?" I asked.

"Ah, there ye've got me, sor. Jerry's a rare one, he is, and plucky—and quick as any man of his weight in the wor-rld—but Clancy is a good 'un, too—young, strong as a bull an' expayrienced. Fought steady for three years, an' winning, sor. He'll have the confidence—but Masther Jerry is a wonder. He'll have a chanct, sor, more than an even chanct, I'd say, if he don't waste nothin'."

"Waste nothing?"

"He's got to land, sor—every time and waste no whiffs on nothin'."

"I see."

Flynn was eyeing the door impatiently. He was a busy man and had no time to answer foolish questions.

"There's no chance of getting out of it?" I asked.

"None, sor. He couldn't quit now. Ye wouldn't want him to, would you, sor?" he finished in a reproachful tone, which just missed being disagreeable.

I opened the door and he lost no time in getting to the gymnasium.

That next afternoon in the midst of the work out, I had another surprise, for a wagon arrived from the station and in it were Marcia Van Wyck and Miss Gore, the latter dragged against her will to play a part she little cared for. I happened to meet them in the hall, where, since none of the pugilists were present, Marcia put aside subterfuge, nodded coolly and asked for Jerry. She wore the badly fitting suit her maid had procured for her and chewed gum incessantly. I looked anxiously at Miss Gore, but it seems that even her martyrdom stopped at that. I led the way to the gymnasium where Jerry and the irritable Carty were resting between rounds. The girl nodded to Jerry, who waved his glove, and took one of the chairs by the ring-side, the obedient Miss Gore next her.

"What round?" she asked masticating leisurely.

"Third," said Flynn with his gaze on his watch, "Time!"

And they went at it hammer and tongs. From my chair beside Miss Gore I watched the girl. Her hands were clasped over her knees as she leaned forward, her eyes glowing, watching the swift motions of the two men as they moved backward and forward. Miss Gore wore the fixed smile of the perpetually bored. She watched Jerry and Carty exchanging their blows, with a sphinxlike air as though inspecting half-naked men dancing around each other was her usual afternoon's employment. She was admirable, accepting her lot in life with a philosophy which had in it something of the stoic. Only when Carty landed on Jerry's lip and the blood showed did she wince.

"You—approve of this?" she whispered, then to me.

"No. I'm helpless," I returned.

"You know?"

"Yes. It's madness. She made him do—"

"Sh—" she warned, for the round had ended, and Marcia turned toward her. But I knew that she understood.

"You're a good sport, Mr. Benham," said Marcia to me, assuming her role with an air of enjoyment, "havin' the boys up here to train. Jim's comin' fast, ain't he?"

I nodded uncomfortably.

Her eyes twinkled mischievously. "You might of sent your honk-honk to the train for us though. Cost us a dollar from the station. What d'ye think of that? Don't like the ladies, do you, Mr. Benham?" she laughed.

"I'll be glad to send you back," I said quickly enough.

"Oh, there ain't a doubt of that, I'm sure. Nice house you've got—gym an' all. You might ask us to stay awhile. Won't you, Mr. Benham?"

She was very much amused at the awkwardness of the situation.

"I'm afraid I haven't any more room," I replied stiffly. How I hated that girl! The sight of blood had inflamed me. I believe I could have throttled her where she sat, but fortunately Flynn called "Time" and the bout went on.

It was to be war between us two from this moment. I knew what she meant. She had accepted my challenge and was defying me. Since I had not been able to dissuade Jerry from his fight, she was sure of her power. He was her creature now, to do with as she chose, I watched her furtively during the next round. She was silent, her gaze fixed upon Jerry, her eyes gleaming. There was something morbid in her suppressed excitement—something strange and unnatural in the fascination of her attention. She chewed gum constantly and was utterly absorbed, driven, it seemed to me, by some inner fire which she made no effort to control. She was primitive, savage. When Jerry's blows landed, her lips parted and she breathed hard. I think at this moment he was the only man for her, her mate in savagery, the finest human beast in the world. When the round ended I moved away. I had seen enough.

Later, while the men were being rubbed down, Miss Gore, leaving Marcia with Flynn, came out to me on the terrace, where I had gone alone for a breath of clean air. I was utterly absorbed in my misery and I did not hear her step. Her deep voice just at my ear startled me.

"Well, Mr. Canby," she said softly. "Your dream-castle totters."

I glanced up at her quickly, but she still smiled.

"It has fallen," I groaned.

"No—not yet," still cheerfully. She paused a moment, and, leaning her elbows on the balustrade, looked out down the valley.

"All will be well," she said at last slowly.

Our glances met. "I have that presentiment," she added.

"Based on what?" I said bitterly. "A man who can inspire such a passion as this is no more than a beast—"

"Or no less than a man," she muttered quickly. "You forget that Jerry is what you've made him—"

"Not this—the body the servant—not the mind—"

"The mind will survive," she put in evenly. "It must. The whole thing is hypnotic. He will pass out of it soon."

"And she—?"

She shrugged lightly. "I don't know. I've never seen her like this before. I think if Jerry were to seize her by force and carry her away today—now—she couldn't resist him."

"Ah—!"

"But he won't. He treats her as though she were a flower, caresses her with his eyes, touches her petals timidly—"

"Bah! I could crush her—"

She smiled indulgently.

"She is a strange creature. Love is an enigma to her. That's why she follows this mad whim for Jerry—she doesn't mistake it for love, she knows too much—but it's a fair imitation."

"It is morbid, unhealthy."

"Perhaps, but like other diseases, will pass."

"Leaving Jerry sick?"

"He will recover."

A calm fell upon me. Was she right after all? What reason had I to lose faith in Jerry when this woman, almost a stranger to me, believed in him? I turned and laid my hands quietly over hers.

"Thanks," I stammered. "You're very kind." And then realizing the silly impulsiveness of my action, straightened for fear that she might misunderstand. Without moving from her position, she turned her head and smiled at me quizzically. If her eyes hadn't been kind I would have thought she was laughing at me.

THE UNKNOWN UNMASKED

The three weeks of training passed quickly and Carty had won his fight, a favorable augury for the camp of Flynn. Jerry worked hard, too hard it almost seemed for flesh and blood to endure, but he seemed tireless. He had lost weight, of course, and his face was haggard and drawn, but he ate and slept well and though a little irritable at times, seemed cheerful enough. Marcia came frequently, always with Miss Gore, and the word was passed around that Jim Robinson's "chicken" was staying in the village. I think Jerry's wooing prospered. There were no Channing Lloyds at Briar Hills now. To all appearances the girl was with him heart and soul and when Jerry rested on the terrace in a reclining chair wrapped in blankets, Marcia sat beside him, talking in subdued tones. Sometimes I heard their voices raised, but whatever their differences they were not such as to cause a breach between them. They were hardly ever entirely alone and for purposes of endearment the terrace was not the most secluded spot that could have been found. Flynn's word was law and his eye constantly watchful. If he had been paid to make Jerry win this fight, he was going to earn his money, he said, and anyone who interfered with the training would be put out and kept out of the grounds. Whatever her own wishes, the girl recognized Flynn's authority, and came and went at fixed times which could not interfere with the rigid rules. Jerry rose at five and took to the road with Flynn on horseback and either O'Halloran or Sagorski afoot. When he came in he had his shower, rubdown and then breakfast. After a rest, Flynn boxed four or five rounds with him, after which came rope jumping, and exercises with the machines to strengthen his arms and wrists. In this way the morning passed and after the midday meal came the real work-out of the day with his training-partners, where real blows were exchanged and blood often flowed. Jerry had improved immeasurably. Even I, tyro as I was, could see that his encounters with these professionals had rubbed off all signs of the amateur. He had always been a good judge of distance, Flynn had said, but he had been schooled recently to make every movement count—to "waste nothing." In spite of myself, the excitement of the game was getting into my blood. If for the while Jerry was to be a beast, why should he not be the best beast of them all? Stories came to us from the camp of the Terrible Sailor, who was training down on the Jersey shore. He was "coming" fast, they said, and was strong and confident. The newspapers followed him carefully and sent their reporters to Horsham Manor, one of whom, denied entrance at the Lodge, climbed over the wall and even reached the gymnasium where Jerry was boxing with O'Halloran, to be put out at my orders (as Jeremiah Benham) before he got a fact for his pains. The result of this of course was an account full of misstatements about the millionaire Jeremiah Benham and his protégé which brought a protest in the mails from Ballard the elder who, fortunately for Jerry, hadn't gotten at the truth of the matter.

Once or twice I had been on the point of going to Ballard's office and making a clean breast of Jerry's plans, hoping that Clancy might be bought off and the match canceled. But I could not bring myself, even now, to the point of betraying the boy. I am not a fatalist by profession or philosophy, but Miss Gore had made me pause and I had resolved to see the thing through, trying to believe as she believed that Jerry could only be toughened to the usages of life by the rigor of circumstance. And so I was silent.

On the morning of the great event I found myself, instead of properly censorious, intensely eager for the night to come. Jerry had been brought secretly to town the day before in a closed machine and was resting under the care of Flynn at Jerry's own house uptown. It was at Jerry's request that Jack Ballard and I stayed away from him, and so the day passed slowly enough in speculations as to the possibility of overtraining and as to Jerry's ability to stand punishment. Of his pluck there was no question between us. Both of us had had too many proofs of it to doubt, but there was always the chance of the unlucky blow early in the battle which might mean defeat where victory seemed the only thing possible. I believed that Jerry would win. I think that I actually believed him to be invulnerable. I knew that Flynn was confident, and that Sagorski, Spatola and O'Halloran had put their money on him. Of course he would win. There was no man in the world who could stand up against Jerry when he meant to do a thing. No one knew better than I what victory meant to Jerry. Money, championship laurels—of course they were nothing. However much or little Marcia's theories as to the superman meant to Jerry, he was committed to her—and she, I suspected, to him. His laurels were in the touch of her rosy fingers, the flash of her dark eyes, the gleam of her small white teeth when she smiled. Those were his reward, all that he had worked for—all that he prized. She expected him to win. He couldn't lose.

The day passed slowly. I visited the gymnasium with Jack. Flynn was still with Jerry, but confidence reigned. There was a story going the rounds of the press that Clancy had gone stale, that he had strained a tendon, that he had broken a finger, that his mother had just died.

"Buncombe!" said Jack, who knew the game. "They want to worry the odds down a bit. He's fit as a fiddle. You can be sure of that."

The early afternoon papers contained the first hint that Jim Robinson was not what he was supposed to be. A heading on the sporting page caught my eyes. I have kept it among my papers and give it verbatim.

PUGILIST SOCIETY MAN
JIM ROBINSON, THE HEAVY WEIGHT, A
MASQUERADER.

I read the type below hurriedly:

A story is going the rounds that Jim Robinson, the heavyweight, who goes against Sailor Clancy in the principal event at the Garden tonight, is not Robinson at all, but a well-known society man and millionaire. From the hour when this match was made in May last there has been a mystery attached to the personality of this fighter never before heard of in Fistiana in New York. Flynn, his backer and trainer, could not be found to deny or affirm the rumor, and his sparring partners at Flynn's Gymnasium, of course, denied it, but every circumstance, including the size of the purse, now believed to be five thousand dollars, would indicate that Flynn's Unknown, unless a well-known Westerner in disguise, is a man of more than usual ability—or else a millionaire sport, bent on enriching the hard-fisted sailor, who thinks he sees a chance of picking up some easy money besides his share of the gate. Whoever Jim Robinson is, we welcome him cordially.

But we also warn him that New York is tired of ring fakes and that nothing but a good mill will justify the prices asked.

I showed the thing to Ballard, who read it through eagerly, his lips emitting a thin whistle.

"Ph-ew! They're getting 'warm,' Pope. Somebody's leaked."

"But who—?"

"May be the management—to draw the crowd." And then, looking at the front page, "That's only the twelve o'clock edition. Perhaps—"

He paused and rang the bell (we were at his rooms again), instructing his man to go out on the street and buy copies of the latest editions of all the afternoon papers.

"It would be the deuce if they followed that up."

He walked to and fro while we waited impatiently. And in a short while our worst fears were realized, for when the papers came we saw the dreadful facts in scare heads on the first page of the yellowest of them. I give the item here:

JEREMIAH BENHAM—PRIZE FIGHTER.
MULTI-MILLIONAIRE SEEKS LAURELS IN RING.
FLYNN'S MYSTERIOUS UNKNOWN REVEALED
IN PERSON OF MILLIONAIRE SPORTSMAN.

Jack Ballard swore softly, but I read on over his shoulder, breathlessly:

"Slender—rather crusty!" muttered Ballard. "You! D—n the fellow!"

The murder was out. We searched the other papers. Nothing.

"A beat!" muttered Jack. "I'd like to show the fellow what a beating is."

Jack Ballard was merely angry. I was bewildered into a state of helplessness. What should we do? What could we do? The damage was done. Telling Jerry wouldn't help matters and might unnerve him. We disconnected the telephone and dined at the apartment, making a pretense of eating, nervously awaiting the hour when we should go to the Garden. We had reached the coffee, of which we were much in need, when there was a ring at the bell and Ballard Senior came into the room, a copy of the Despatch in his hand.

"Have you seen this?" he snapped.

"We have," said Jack with an assumption of calmness.

"It's a lie?"

"No. It's the truth."

The old man raged the length of the room and turned.

"Do you mean that you've let this thing go on without trying to stop it—without letting me know—"

"We did try to stop it. There was no use in letting you know. Jerry's mind was made up."

"Jerry! The fool is ruining himself—and us. The thing must be stopped—at once."

Jack smiled coolly. "I don't see how you're going to do that."

The father stamped the length of the room again. "I'll show you. Where is Clancy?"

"I don't know. You'll find him at Madison Square Garden about ten."

"But where is he now?" he snapped.

Jack shrugged. "I don't know."

"Well, you must come with me. I've got to find him."

"What are you going to do?"

"Buy him off. This match can't take place."

"Do you mean that?" asked Jack with a smile.

"Did you ever know me to waste words?—Come!"

However lenient Henry Ballard had been to his son, at that moment the parental word was law, and Jack obeyed, taking up his hat and gloves, and laying a pink ticket on the table.

"Yours, Pope. I'll see you later."

And they went out hastily, the old man from beginning to end having ignored me completely. I sank in a chair, my gaze shifting from the ticket to the brandy bottle and cigarettes. I wanted to do something—I didn't know what. I hadn't drunk or smoked for twelve years, but that' night I did both. The brandy steadied, the cigarette quieted my nerves. I sat there alone over the half-cleared dinner table, resolutely impelling calmness. The ticket stared at me, a symbol of Jerry's destiny.... My thought shifted curiously to the placid Miss Gore. Whatever Fate had in store for Jerry, this phase of his life would pass as she had said, the mind would survive. Something told me that tonight would mark a turning point in Jerry's career—how or what I could not know, but for the first time I realized how deeply I was committed to Jerry's plans. I wanted the bout to take place. I wanted to see it—win or lose I was committed to it and to Jerry.

It had grown dark outside. I rose, slowly putting the ticket in my pocket, and went out. The night was sultry. It would be hot there in the ring—but it would be hot for both of them. Muscle for muscle and tissue for tissue, Jerry could stand what another could. I glanced at my watch. It was now nine. The preliminary bouts would be beginning, but I had no interest in these. I walked down town, purposely delaying my steps, but found my footsteps hurrying in spite of me, and it was only half after nine when I entered the building.

I remembered a six-day bicycle race that I had witnessed there years ago, but I was not prepared for the sight of the crowd that had gathered under the enormous roof. The match had been well advertised and the article in the Despatch must have lent an added spice to the attraction. The heated air was already a blue fog of tobacco smoke, through which beyond the glare of the ring, tiny spots of light flared and disappeared like glow-worms—where in the gallery the smokers lighted their tobacco. As I entered I scanned the crowd. Eager, stupid or brutal faces, the washed and the unwashed, the gloved and the ungloved, cheek by jowl, all talking, smoking, cheering, jeering or waiting calmly for the expected thrill. They had paid their money to see blood, and as I found my seat I realized the inevitableness of Jerry's appearance. He could not disappoint these people now.

My seat was in a box, in the second row of boxes, the first row being just back of the press seats which were along the sides of the ring. In this vast crowd I would be lost to Jerry and I was thankful not to be directly under the ring where the sight of my anxious face might have diverted him. A bout was in progress now, of six rounds, between two lightweights, a rapid affair which drew to a conclusion none too quickly for me. The final bout was to take place at ten, but I knew from the long intervals between these preliminaries that the hour would be much later. I thought for a moment of going out and walking the streets for awhile, but realized that I should be even more unhappy there than here; so I sat quietly absorbing the scene, listening to the conversation of my neighbors in the next box, who seemed to have their money on the sailor. One of their comments aroused my ire.

"What's this goldfish their feedin' to the sea lion? Say, that story ain't straight about young Benham bein' Robinson?"

"Sure thing. Clancy will eat him alive—eat him alive," the man repeated, slowly and with unction.

I glanced at the speaker. Squat, stout, heavy jowled—with a neck that pushed over the back of his collar—a follower of the ring, smug, assertive, confident. A prophet? I was not ready to admit that.

After the third bout three women and three men, following an usher, passed along the aisle just in front of me. I recognized her instantly in spite of the dark suit, large hat and heavy veil, for her walk betrayed her. One of the women was Marcia Van Wyck. Followed by the gaze of the men nearest them, they went to a box in the second tier just around the corner of the ring where I could see the girl distinctly. The other women of the party or the men I did not recognize, but Marcia attracted the attention of my neighbors.

"Some dame, that," said one of them admiringly. "Know her, Charlie?"

"Naw," replied the stout man. "Swells, I reckon, friends of the goldfish."

As the bout on the boards proceeded and the attention of those nearest her was diverted, the girl settled into her seat and coolly removed her veil, watching the fight calmly, now and then exchanging a word with her companions. She was beautiful, distinguished looking, but in this moment of restraint, cold and unfeeling almost to the point of cruelty. She looked across the space that separated us, caught my gaze and held it, challenging, defying—with no other sign of recognition—and presently looked away.

The preliminaries ended, there was a rustle and stir of expectation. Men were rushing back and forth from the dressing rooms to the ring and whispering to the master of ceremonies between his introductions of various pugilists in a great variety of street clothes, who claimed the right to challenge the winner of the night's heavyweight event. I had heard many of their names during the past three weeks at the Manor, and knowing something of the customs of the ring, was not surprised to see Tim O'Halloran and Sagorski. It was a little free advertising which meant much to these gentlemen and cost little. O'Halloran grinned toothlessly, at the plaudits that greeted his name, shuffled his feet awkwardly and bobbed down. Sagorski was not so popular, but the crowd received him good-naturedly enough, and amid cries of "Clancy" and "Bring on the Sailor" the Jew ungracefully retired.

I glanced at the girl; she was smiling up into the faces of these men as at old acquaintances. If there was any regret in her—any revulsion at the vulgarity of this scene into which she had plunged Jerry Benham—she gave no sign of it. It seemed to me that she was in her element; as though in this adventure, the most unusual she had perhaps ever attempted, she had found the very acme, the climax of her experience.

When the introductions were finished, the hubbub began anew. Had Henry Ballard succeeded in buying Clancy off? I hoped and I feared it. Men came from the dressing-rooms and whispered in the ear of the announcer who sent them back hurriedly. The crowd was becoming impatient. There were no more pugilists to introduce and the man in the ring walked to and fro mopping his perspiring brow. At last when the sounds from the crowd became one muffled roar, he clambered down through the ropes and went himself to the dressing-rooms, returning in a while with the referee of the match whom he presented. The new referee looked at his watch and announced that there was a slight delay and begged the crowd to be patient a few moments longer.

But when the moments were no longer few and there were no signs from the dressing-room doors the people in the rear seats rose howling in a body. There were cries of "Fake" and "Give us our money" and the man in the ring, Diamond Joe Gannon, held up his hands in vain for silence. For awhile it looked as though there would be a riot. Had Ballard Senior succeeded?

Suddenly the howling was hushed and merged into shouts of acclaim. "Good boy, Kid! Here he comes," and, rising with the others, I saw coming down the aisle from the dressing-rooms "Kid" Spatola, the bootblack champion. He carried a bucket, sponges and towels and after a word with the clamorous reporters clambered up into the ring, followed by a colored man, in whom I recognized Danny Monroe, the Swedish negro. He wore suspenders over his undershirt and carried several bottles which he placed in the corner of the ring beside the bucket. The eyes of the crowd were focused upon the door from which Spatola had emerged. I saw two figures come out, one grim and silent who made his way toward the street doors, the other who came quickly down the aisle—Ballard Senior and Jack. The latter questioned an usher and was shown directly to my box, by his prominence investing both himself and me with immediate publicity. I felt the gaze of our neighbors upon us, but Jack seated himself coolly and lighted a cigarette.

"What happened?" I questioned in a whisper.

"They're going to fight," he returned.

"Your father—?"

He smiled a little. "Mad as a hornet. Jerry blocked the game."

"How—?"

"Dad offered Clancy five thousand and his share of the gate money to quit."

"Clancy refused?"

"He was very white about it. He sent the message over to Jerry."

"And Jerry?"

"The boy doubled any amount dad offered if Clancy would go on. Clancy stands to win fifteen thousand. Dad quit. I told him Jerry had made up his mind. He realizes it now."

"Fifteen thousand! Clancy will work for it."

Jack smiled grimly. "I think Jerry wants him to."

The boy was mad—clean mad.

THE FIGHT

But the madness of the moment had gotten into my blood and Jack's. The fight was going to take place. We were glad of it. We felt the magnetism of the crowd, the pulse of its excitement, and, as impatient as those around us, eagerly awaited developments. The seconds and trainers had hardly clambered into Clancy's corner when Clancy himself, followed by Terry Riley, appeared and leaped into the ring. The crowd roared approval and he bowed right and left, waving his hands and nodding to acquaintances whom he recognized at the ring-side. He wore a pale blue dressing-gown and though broad of shoulder seemed not even so tall as Sagorski, but he had a bullet head which at the cerebellum joined his thick neck, without indentation, in a straight line and his arms reached almost to his knees—gorilla of a man—a superbrute. I caught a glimpse of Marcia watching him intently, and tried to read her thoughts. She examined him with the critical gaze which she might have given a hackney at a horse show.

Jerry's appearance with Flynn a moment later was the signal for another outburst from the crowd—not so long a greeting nor so prolonged a one as that which had greeted Clancy, but warm enough to make the boy feel that he was not without friends in the house. His face was a little pale but he smiled cheerfully enough when he reached the ring. He shook hands with Gannon, whom he had met at Finnegan's, and then, with a show of real enjoyment, with Clancy—conversing with a composure that left nothing to be desired.

The crowd, like Jack and me, was comparing them. Jerry's six feet two topped the sailor by more than two inches, though I believe the latter would have a few pounds of extra weight.

"Big rascal, ain't he?" the sportsman in the adjoining box commented.

"Yep," grunted the stolid one. "But too leggy. Clancy'll eat him alive—eat him alive," he repeated with more unction than before.

"Maybe," said the other, "but I want to be shown. There was another leggy feller—the freckled one."

"Fitz—but Fitz was a fighter."

"Well, I like his looks—good-lookin' feller, ain't he?"

"Aw! This ain't no beauty parlor. He's got a glass jaw, I'll bet. 'S a goldfish, I tell you. The sea lion will eat him alive—eat him alive!"

I don't know why the reiteration of this phrase of the fat man irritated me, but it did exceedingly, and I turned around and glared at him, a sharp retort on the tip of my tongue. Ballard's fingers closed on my arm and I was silent. But the fat man's glances and mine had met and held each other.

"What's the matter, perfessor?" he asked testily. "Friend of yours, eh? Oh, well—no harm done. But if you'd like to back your judgment with a little something—say fifty—"

But I had already turned my back on the fellow.

In the ring the men had thrown aside their dressing-gowns and the opposing seconds were examining the bandages upon their hands. Clancy wore bright green trunks, which if his name had failed would have betrayed his lineage, and his great chest and arms were covered with designs in tattoo. Jerry wore dark trunks. And as his wonderful arms and torso were exposed to view, a murmur of approval went over the audience. In spite of his training in the open his skin was still very white beside the bronzed figure of his adversary, but the muscles rippled smoothly and strongly under the fair skin—and bulked large at thigh and forearm as he moved his limbs. It was not the strong man's figure nor yet, like Clancy's, the stocky, thickly built structure of the professional fighter's, yet it was so solid, so admirably compact that his great height was unnoticeable. I could see from the expressions upon the faces of those about me and the calls from the seats behind us, that Jerry's appearance had already gained the respect of the crowd, some members of which were already hailing him by his first name. "Good boy, Jerry," they cried, or "All right, old boy. You've got the goods—but look out for his right."

Even the stout person beside me was silent and I heard nothing more about the goldfish. Fortunately for him, and for me, I suspect, for had he repeated his phrase, I might have brained him with a chair.

The preliminary conferences at an end, the principals took their corners, fresh ones not used in the preliminaries, Jerry luckily with his back toward the box in which the Van Wyck girl was sitting. If their glances had met, I did not notice. For all that I knew. Jerry might have been unaware that she was in the house. He did not look around in a search for her and seemed totally absorbed in his instructions from Flynn, who stood outside the ropes just behind him whispering continuously in his ear, Jerry nodding from time to time and glancing across the ring to Clancy's corner, where the superbeast was sprawled, his long arms extended upon the ropes. Spatola and the black Swede were seeing to Jerry's gloves and looking over every detail of the corner with careful eyes.

The referee called the two men to the center of the ring and gave them some final instructions, to which they nodded assent, and they had hardly returned to their corners when the gong clanged, stools and paraphernalia were whipped out of the ring, the seconds and trainers crouched outside and the fight was on. As the men came together the disparity in their sizes became less marked for, while Clancy was the shorter, he made up by his huge bulk what he lacked in height. He was a dangerous man, but there was no timidity in Jerry's eyes and he came forward sparring carefully, gliding backward and forward feeling out the other man's length and speed. Clancy's left grazed Jerry's ear and the boy countered lightly. His color was rising now and his eyes were sparkling. It was good, it was a game he loved. The moment of stage fright had passed. He had forgotten the crowd. His foot-work was fast and made Clancy seem almost sluggish by comparison. That was the danger. Would he waste himself too early? Ten rounds! Not too long for Jerry, if the other didn't land dangerously and more often than he. Clancy played for the head, and caught the boy fairly on the jaw, but got a blow in the ribs that made him grunt. Jerry did most of the leading, ducking a vicious swing of Clancy's right, that made the Sailor look foolish, and brought a roar of delight from the crowd. Clancy grinned cheerfully and came on, stabbing with his long left arm at Jerry's head, but getting only his trouble for his pains. At the close of the round the honors were even, and both were smiling in their corners.

"He's got the science," said the optimist next door, "a pretty piece o' work—very pretty."

"Just you wait, Petey," said the stout man, while behind us an Irishman shouted, "Get them green tights workin', Clancy."

The second round was clearly Jerry's. Even the stout man admitted it. Clancy's famous crouching pose met with mishap early in the round, for Jerry by fine judgment twice evaded the advancing left arm and straightened Clancy with terrific upper cuts, the kind that Flynn had said were like tons of coal. At the end of the round Clancy realized, I think, that his opponent was well worth considering seriously, for when he came to the center of the ring again, his face washed clean, he wore a solemn expression curious and respectful, but villainously determined. He began boring in, as the phrase is, leading constantly and taking what came. He hit Jerry hard, always when the boy was going away, however, and caught some well-judged ones in return. He swung a hard right which caught Jerry napping and sent him against the ropes, but before he could follow up the advantage the boy had slipped out of danger. They exchanged blows here, toe to toe, and the crowd howled with delight. Here was a mere boxer who wasn't afraid to take what he gave. In the exchange Jerry profited, for Clancy, lunging with his right and missing, fell into a clinch where Jerry gave his ribs a fearful beating. At the end of the round both were breathing hard, but the crowd was cheering, Jerry.

I find myself slipping into the phraseology of the sporting page, and little wonder when for weeks the boxer's terms were the only phrases I had heard. I hope I will not be blamed for dwelling with too great a particularity upon this affair, which, whatever its merits as a test of strength and skill, was nothing less than a contest in brutality.

During the minute of time Monroe and Spatola rubbed Jerry vigorously and when the gong clanged, though still breathing hard, Jerry was ready for Clancy's rush. He had been prepared for this by Flynn, who knew the fighter's methods. For before the seconds were well out of the ring Clancy had crossed toward Jerry's corner, planning by sheer bulk and viciousness to sap some of Jerry's strength. But Jerry avoided the rush, stinging Clancy's stomach with a terrific blow as he got out of danger. With the whole of the ring back of him he stood up and shifting suddenly got inside of Clancy's guard with his right on the jaw, which, catching the Sailor off his balance, sent him to the ropes, where he sank to the floor. He took a count of six leisurely and was up again smiling and fighting hard. Jerry's lip was cut in this exchange, but at least during this round Clancy rushed no more. They were both landing freely now, Jerry apparently willing to take his share of punishment in order to make a good showing. I heard Jack Ballard muttering at my ear. This was a mistake; I wondered if Flynn knew it. With his skill, Jerry could have kept away and cut the man to ribbons. But he was no slacker; this was no boxing tournament, as Jerry afterwards explained, but a fight, which meant pugnacity as well as skill.

But the crowd appreciated his efforts. They were ring followers and knew "science" when they saw it, but more than skill they loved "sand" and more than "sand," aggressiveness. With the beginning of the seventh round the honors had all been with Jerry. He had scored the first blood and the first knock-down and Clancy's rushes had proved unavailing. The professional's lip was swollen, one eye was nearly closed, and his ribs were crimson from the terrible beating Jerry had given them. Though his face was not so badly punished as Clancy's, Jerry had not gotten off unscathed. He was grim, determined, and cuts at the lip and eyes made him no handsomer than he should have been. But he was breathing more easily than Clancy, and, though he had lost much of his speed, he still seemed able to avoid his opponent at will and to hold him off with his straight left arm. Six rounds in which science had been more than a match for all Clancy's bull strength and ring experience! That in itself was something of an achievement, but Jerry was still further to show his strength, for in this seventh round Clancy went to the floor twice, the first time by a clean blow to the jaw through a beautiful opening that Jerry planned deliberately, feinting for the body, bringing a lead which Jerry half-ducked and then side stepped, throwing all the weight of his body into a blow with his right, timed and aimed with beautiful precision.

The crowd were on their feet, silent. They thought that the end had come, for at the call of three Clancy had not moved, Flynn and Spatola were already above the level of the ring clinging to the ropes and Jerry stood breathing heavily, his arms at his sides watching the prostrate man. At the count of six Clancy was on one elbow, eight found him on his knees struggling to his feet. He swayed a little, but rose and fell into a clinch which saved him. The referee tore the men apart and Jerry at once assumed the aggressive, making the weary Clancy move warily. But one of Jerry's left-hand blows caught him again, and he went half through the ropes.

It was here that Jerry earned the wild applause of the crowd by an act of magnanimity that was nothing less than Quixotic. But it was like Jerry. He wanted to take no unfair advantages. He bent forward, lifting the upper rope, and helped Clancy into the ring. There the round ended in a roar of cheering that did my heart and Jack's good to hear.

But the thing was foolhardy. The man was not done yet, as Jerry was to find out in a moment. I saw Flynn frowning and protesting in Jerry's ear, for the boy had been set for a knockout and the bout in all probability would have been ended. Jerry listened, his arms stretched out along the ropes, smiling up at the glaring electric lights. He was breathing convulsively and Spatola swung his towel furiously, fanning the heavy air into the boy's gasping lungs. He had had all the advantage so far and with good generalship could still win on points if he fought his own battle and not Clancy's. But would he? I knew what Flynn was saying to him, what he was warning him against. I had heard the warning often in the bouts at the Manor. Failing in science and skill Clancy would "slug" (Flynn's word, not mine), trusting to the prodigious length of his arms, taking the punishment that came to him, biding his time and the possible lucky blow which would turn the tide in his favor.

I glanced at Clancy's corner. There was anxiety there. I think during the seventh round, Clancy had seen his fifteen thousand going a-glimmering and Riley was no less emphatic than Flynn. There were but three more rounds—three rounds in which the Sailor could regain his lost ground and the heavyweight laurels that seemed to be slipping from him.

When the gong clanged, it was immediately to be seen that Clancy's whole plan of battle had changed. From some hidden sources in that great hulk of a body he drew new forces of energy. You will see the same thing in any wild beast of the jungle, a hidden reserve of nervous power and viciousness, most dangerous apparently when nearest extinction. He was ugly—his jowls shot forward, his brow lowering, his long arms shooting like pistons—a jungle beast at bay. Jerry stopped his progress again—again—with straight thrusts and uppercuts, but the man only covered up, crouched lower, and came on again. Once he caught Jerry in the stomach and I saw the boy wince with pain; again he reached Jerry's head, a terrific blow which would have sent him to the floor had Jerry not been moving away. And all the while Jerry's blows were landing, cutting the man, blinding him, but still he came on. Was there no limit to the amount of punishment that he could endure? Jerry's blows were not the leads of a boxer, but fighting blows, and Clancy's face and body would bear testimony to their strength for many a day, but he always came on for more—a superbeast that as long as breath came and blood flowed, was untamed and unconquerable. Jerry was tiring now and throwing discretion to the winds was trying for a knockout. Two swings he missed by mere wildness and weariness of eye, and Flynn's voice rose above the wild clamor of the of the crowd. "Keep him off, Jerry—keep him off!" But Jerry did not hear or did not choose to hear, for he no longer avoided Clancy's blows or his advances, standing his ground and slugging wildly as Clancy was doing. Jack Ballard saw the danger and sprang to his feet seconding Flynn's advice, but he could not be heard above the roar of the crowd. It was a wild moment. A chance blow by either man would end the battle then. I was no longer Roger Canby, ex-tutor and philosopher, but a mad mother-beast whose cub was fighting for its life. "Keep him off, Jerry," I yelled hoarsely again and again, but the boy still stood, his toe to Clancy's, fighting wildly. Three times they fell into clinches from sheer exhaustion to be pried apart by the referee, only to go at each other again. This was no test of skill, but of brutality and chance. I think that Jerry was mad—brute mad, for, though Clancy's blows were now reaching him, he didn't seem to be aware of them. His face was distorted with rage—animal rage. When the gong clanged at the end of this round, the eighth, they still fought even when Gannon thrust his bulk between them.

The crowd sank back into their seats gasping. It was a long while since New York had seen a fight such as this.

"What d' I tell you, Charlie?" whispered the optimist next to me hoarsely.

"By—, he's good an' no mistake," confessed the fat man.

"He's got the Sailor goin'."

Jack Ballard and I were in an agony of apprehension, watching the faces of the excited men in Jerry's corner, who were trying to warn him before it was too late. But we could see that Jerry was stubborn, for when Flynn pleaded with him he shook his head. Spatola and the negro massaged him furiously, adding their anxious pleas to Flynn's, but Jerry would not listen. He was taking the foul air in huge gasps, his eyes closed, fighting for recuperation.

When the ninth round opened the men were both groggy and stumbled to the center of the ring like two blind men groping for each other, swinging wildly and moving slowly. Each was intent upon a knockout. Twice each swung and missed rights, avoiding the blows by remnants of their craft and cleverness. Twice they stumbled into clinches and were torn apart by the pitiless Gannon. In the in-fighting (a technical term) Jerry I think must have been struck—I did not see the blow, but it must have been a terrific one—for his knees sagged and his hands dropped to his sides while his mouth gaped open painfully. At the cries from his corner Clancy drove a vicious blow, but Jerry weakly managed to avoid it. But he couldn't raise his arms. Jerry was hurt, grievously hurt. In a moment they were raised again, but he could not seem to see his mark and his swings were wild. In agony I rose, my arm in Ballard's, ready for the worst. Clancy straightened, tried to collect what remained of his scattered wits and strength, poised himself and with a terrible blow, struck Jerry at the point of his chin.

He went down with a crash, his head striking the floor, and remained motionless. Over him, one hand restraining Clancy, Gannon counted. Jerry's figure writhed upon the floor, twisting upon its head struggling to rise and then relaxed. The fight was over.

A curious hush had fallen over the great hall. Here and there Clancy's friends were shouting in glee, but the great mass of the crowd, those whom Jerry had won by his skill and pluck, seemed bewildered. The end had come too suddenly for them to realize what had happened and how it had happened. The match was his. He had won it. It had only been a question of rounds. And then, "Chance blow in the solar-plexus," someone was saying.

It is curious how many and how lasting are the impressions that can be crowded into a second of time. I clambered out of the box with Jack Ballard toward the ring, fearful of the blow to Jerry's head upon the boards, and as I pushed my way through the bewildered crowd, I caught just a glimpse of Marcia Van Wyck's party. They were all standing up in their box, looking toward the ring. A man beside her made a remark at the girl's ear. I saw her turn and flash a bright glance up at him and had a glimpse of her small white teeth. She was laughing. This is just an impression of a momentary glimpse, but it means much. In this situation is the psychology of the real Marcia. Jerry, her man-god, her brute-god, lay prone at her feet a quivering mass of bruised flesh, beaten and broken mind and body, and she could smile.

Tingling with rage at this incident, which I thanked God Jerry had not seen, I fought my way behind Jack to the aisle to the dressing-room, whither willing hands had carried the boy. All around us we heard the encomiums of the crowd.

"Luck," one said, "mere luck."

"It's all in the game. But Benham's the better man."

"Lucky for Clancy that Jerry mixed it. Could 'a cut the Sailor to pieces."

"Some fight—what?"

"The best in years. The boy's a wonder."

All this from hardened followers of the ring. The door to the dressing-room was jammed and a force of policemen was keeping back the people. Our anxious queries were passed along to the doorway.

"He's coming around all right," said the sergeant. "Now move along there, gents. No admittance here."

But Jack and I awaited our chance and when Sagorski poked his head out of the door he saw us and the sergeant let us through.

It was a very crestfallen group that greeted us. Flynn and the negro, Monroe, were working over Jerry, who lay on a cot-bed near the window. He had recovered consciousness and even as we entered he raised his head wearily and looked around. His face was battered and bruised, and his smile as he greeted us partook of the character of his injuries. But he was whole and I hoped not badly hurt. Youth and strength, the best of medicines, were already reviving him.

"Well, Roger," he muttered dully, "I'm licked."

"Luck," I said laconically. Jack Ballard had clasped his big congested hand, "Proud of you, Jerry, old boy! You ought to have won. Why the Devil did you let him coax you into close quarters?"

"I thought—I could stand—what he could," grunted Jerry.

"Not the lucky blow. He had it. If you'd stood him off—"

"I came here to fight—" said Jerry sinking back on his mattress wearily.

I think his mind was beginning to work slowly around to the real meaning of his defeat, not the mere failure of his science and skill, but the failure of his body and mind as against the mind and body of a trained brute, whom he had set his heart on conquering. I knew as no one else there knew what the victory meant to him, and the memory of the brief glimpse I had had of the Van Wyck girl's face when he lay in the ring inflamed me anew. I know not what—some vestige of my thought reached him, for he drew me toward him and when I bent my head he whispered in my ear,

"Marcia—was there?"

I nodded.

"She stayed—saw—?"

"Yes."

He made no sound, and submitted silently to the ministrations of his trainers.

Flynn was philosophical.

"The fortunes of war, Misther Canby. 'T'was a gran' fight, as fine a mill as you'll see in a loife time—wid the best man losin'—'S a shame, sor; but Masther Jerry w'u'd have his way—bad cess to 'm. You can't swap swipes wid a gorilla, sor. It ain't done."

"He beat me fairly," said Jerry sitting up.

"Who? Clancy? I'll match you agin him tomorrow, Masther Jerry," and he grinned cheerfully, "if ye'll but take advice."

"Advice!" sighed Jerry. "You were right Flynn—I—I was wrong."

"I wudden't mind if it wasn't for thinkin' of that fifteen thousand."

"I think he earned it," laughed Jack.

Jerry sat up on the edge of the bed and stared around, one eye only visible. The other was concealed behind a piece of raw meat that Flynn was holding over it.

"You lost something, Flynn?" he asked.

"A trifle, sor."

"And the Kid and Tim?"

"And Rozy and Dan—all of us a bit, sor. But it don't matther."

"Well," he said with a laugh. "I'll make it up to you, all of you, d' you hear? And I'm very much obliged for your confidence."

It didn't need this munificence on Jerry's part to win the affection of these bruisers, but they were none the less cheerful on account of it. As Jim Robinson he had won their esteem, and all the evening they had stood a little in awe of Jerry Benham, but before they left him that night he gave them a good handshake all around and invited them to his house on the morrow. Between the crowd of us we got him into street clothes and a closed automobile in which Jack and I went with him to his house uptown.