Part 35 (1/2)
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, a.s.sertive, confident. A prophet? I was not ready to admit that.
After the third bout three women and three men, following an usher, pa.s.sed 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 s.p.a.ce 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 rus.h.i.+ng 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 m.u.f.fled 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 unders.h.i.+rt 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.
CHAPTER XVI