Part 32 (1/2)

”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 ma.s.seur 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 Skook.u.ms 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.