by Jack London
insisted on two dances more than she had allotted him. And she
was pleased, as well as angered, when she chanced to overhear two
of the strapping young cannery girls. "The way that little
sawed-off is monopolizin' him," said one. And the other: "You'd
think she might have the good taste to run after somebody of her
own age." "Cradle-snatcher," was the final sting that sent the
angry blood into Saxon's cheeks as the two girls moved away,
unaware that they had been overheard.
Billy saw her home, kissed her at the gate, and got her consent
to go with him to the dance at Germania Hall on Friday night.
"I wasn't thinkin' of goin'," he sald. "But if you'll say the
word . . . Bert's goin' to be there."
Next day, at the ironing boards, Mary told her that she and Bert
were dated for Germania Hall.
"Are you goin'?" Mary asked.
Saxon nodded.
"Billy Roberts?"
The nod was repeated, and Mary, with suspended iron, gave her a
long and curions look.
"Say, an' what if Charley Long butts in?"
Saxon shrugged her shoulders.
They ironed swiftly and silently for a quarter of an hour.
"Well," Mary decided, "if he does butt in maybe he'll get his.
I'd like to see him get it--the big stiff! It all depends how
Billy feels--about you, I mean."
"I'm no Lily Sanderson," Saxon answered indignantly. "I'll never
give Billy Roberts a chance to turn me down."
"You will, if Charley Long butts in. Take it from me, Saxon, he
ain't no gentleman. Look what he done to Mr. Moody. That was a
awful beatin'. An' Mr. Moody only a quiet little man that
wouldn't harm a fly. Well, he won't find Billy Roberts a sissy by
a long shot."
That night, outside the laundry entrance, Saxon found Charley
Long waiting. As he stepped forward to greet her and walk
alongside, she felt the sickening palpitation that he had so
thoroughly taught her to know. The blood ebbed from her face with
the apprehension and fear his appearance caused. She was afraid
of the rough bulk of the man; of the heavy brown eyes, dominant
and confident; of the big blacksmith-hands and the thick strong
fingers with the hair-pads on the back to every first joint. He
was unlovely to the eye, and he was unlovely to all her finer
sensibilities. It was not his strength itself, but the quality of
it and the misuse of it, that affronted her. The beating he had
given the gentle Mr. Moody had meant half-hours of horror to her
afterward. Always did the memory of it come to her accompanied by
a shudder. And yet, without shock, she had seen Billy fight at
Weasel Park in the same primitive man-animal way. But it had been
different. She recognized, but could not analyze, the difference.
She was aware only of the brutishness of this man's hands and
mind.
"You're lookin' white an' all beat to a frazzle," he was saying.
"Why don't you cut the work? You got to some time, anyway. You
can't lose me, kid."
"I wish I could," she replied.
He laughed with harsh joviality. "Nothin' to it, Saxon. You're
just cut out to be Mrs. Long, an' you're sure goin' to be."
"I wish I was as certain about all things as you are," she said
with mild sarcasm that missed.
"Take it from me," he went on, "there's just one thing you can be
certain of--an' that is that I am certain." He was pleased with
the cleverness of his idea and laughed approvingly. "When I go
after anything I get it, an' if anything gets in between it gets
hurt. D'ye get that? It's me for you, an' that's all there is to
it, so you might as well make up your mind and go to workin' in
my home instead of the laundry. Why, it's a snap. There wouldn't
be much to do. I make good money, an' you wouldn't want for
anything. You know, I just washed up from work an' skinned over
here to tell it to you once more, so you wouldn't forget. I ain't
ate yet, an' that shows how much I think of you."
"You'd better go and eat then," she advised, though she knew the
futility of attempting to get rid of him.
She scarcely heard what he said. It had come upon her suddenly
that she was very tired and very small and very weak alongside
this colossus of a man. Would he dog her always? she asked
despairingly, and seemed to glimpse a vision of all her future
life stretched out before her, with always the form and face of
the burly blacksmith pursuing her.
"Come on, kid, an' kick in," he continued. "It's the good old
summer time, an' that's the time to get married."
"But I'm not going to marry you," she protested. "I've told you a
thousand times already."
"Aw, forget it. You want to get them ideas out of your think-box.
Of course, you're goin' to marry me. It's a pipe. An' I'll tell
you another pipe. You an' me's goin' acrost to Frisco Friday
night. There's goin' to be big doin's with the Horseshoers."
"Only I'm not," she contradicted.
"Oh, yes you are," he asserted with absolute assurance. "We'll
catch the last boat back, an' you'll have one fine time. An' I'll
put you next to some of the good dancers. Oh, I ain't a pincher,
an' I know you like dancin'."
"But I tell you I can't," she reiterated.
He shot a glance of suspicion at her from under the black thatch
of brows that met above his nose and were as one brow.
"Why can't you?"
"A date," she said.
"Who's the bloke?"
"None of your business, Charley Long. I've got a date, that's
all."
"I'll make it my business. Remember that lah-de-dah bookkeeper
rummy? Well, just keep on rememberin' him an' what he got."
"I wish you'd leave me alone," she pleaded resentfully. "Can't
you be kind just for once?"
The blacksmith laughed unpleasantly.
"If any rummy thinks he can butt in on you an' me, he'll learn
different, an' I'm the little boy that'll learn 'm.--Friday
night, eh? Where?"
"I won't tell you."
"Where?" he repeated.
Her lips were drawn in tight silence, and in her cheeks were
little angry spots of blood.
"Huh!--As if I couldn't guess! Germania Hall. Well, I'll be
there, an' I'll take you home afterward. D'ye get that? An' you'd
better tell the rummy to beat it unless you want to see'm get his
face hurt."
Saxon, hurt as a prideful woman can be hurt by cavalier
treatment, was tempted to cry out the name and prowess of her
new-found protector. And then came fear. This was a big man, and
Billy was only a boy. That was the way he affected her. She
remembered her first impression of his hands and glanced quickly
at the hands of the man beside her. They seemed twice as large as
Billy's, and the mats of hair seemed to advertise a terrible
strength. No, Billy could not fight this big brute. He must not.
And then to Saxon came a wicked little hope that by the
mysterious and unthinkable ability that prizefighters possessed,
Billy might be able to whip this bully and rid her
of him. With
the next glance doubt came again, for her eye dwelt on the
blacksmith's broad shoulders, the cloth of the coat
muscle-wrinkled and the sleeves bulging above the biceps.
"If you lay a hand on anybody I'm going with again---" she began.
"Why, they'll get hurt, of course," Long grinned. "And they'll
deserve it, too. Any rummy that comes between a fellow an' his
girl ought to get hurt."
"But I'm not your girl, and all your saying so doesn't make it
so."
"That's right, get mad," he approved. "I like you for that, too.
You've got spunk an' fight. I like to see it. It's what a man
needs in his wife--and not these fat cows of women. They're the
dead ones. Now you're a live one, all wool, a yard long and a
yard wide."
She stopped before the house and put her hand on the gate.
"Good-bye," she said. "I'm going in."
"Come on out afterward for a run to Idora Park," he suggested.
"No, I'm not feeling good, and I'm going straight to bed as soon
as I eat supper."
"Huh!" he sneered. "Gettin' in shape for the fling to-morrow
night, eh?"
With an impatient movement she opened the gate and stepped
inside.
"I've given it to you straight," he went on. "If you don't go
with me to-morrow night somebody'll get hurt."
"I hope it will be you," she cried vindictively.
He laughed as he threw his head back, stretched his big chest,
and half-lifted his heavy arms. The action reminded her
disgustingly of a great ape she had once seen in a circus.
"Well, good-bye," he said. "See you to-morrow night at Germania
Hall."
"I haven't told you it was Germania Hall."
"And you haven't told me it wasn't. All the same, I'll be there.
And I'll take you home, too. Be sure an' keep plenty of round
dances open fer me. That's right. Get mad. It makes you look
fine."
CHAPTER VIII
The music stopped at the end of the waltz, leaving Billy and
Saxon at the big entrance doorway of the ballroom. Her hand
rested lightly on his arm, and they were promenading on to find
seats, when Charley Long, evidently just arrived, thrust his way
in front of them.
"So you're the buttinsky, eh?" he demanded, his face malignant
with passion and menace.
"Who?--me?" Billy queried gently. "Some mistake, sport. I never
butt in."
"You're goin' to get your head beaten off if you don't make
yourself scarce pretty lively."
"I wouldn't want that to happen for the world," Billy drawled.
"Come on, Saxon. This neighborhood's unhealthy for us."
He started to go on with her, but Long thrust in front again.
"You're too fresh to keep, young fellow," he snarled. "You need
saltin' down. D'ye get me?"
Billy scratched his head, on his face exaggerated puzzlement.
"No, I don't get you," he said. "Now just what was it you said?"
But the big blacksmith turned contemptuously away from him to
Saxon.
"Come here, you. Let's see your program."
"Do you want to dance with him?" Billy asked.
She shook her head.
"Sorry, sport, nothin' doin'," Billy said, again making to start
on.
For the third time the blacksmith blocked the way.
"Get off your foot," said Billy. "You're standin' on it."
Long all but sprang upon him, his hands clenched, one arm just
starting back for the punch while at the same instant shoulders
and chest were coming forward. But he restrained himself at sight
of Billy's unstartled body and cold and cloudy ayes. He had made
no move of mind or muscle. It was as if he were unaware of the
threatened attack. All of which constituted a new thing in Long's
experience.
"Maybe you don't know who I am," he bullied.
"Yep, I do," Billy answered airily. "You're a recordbreaker at
rough-housin'." (Here Long's face showed pleasure.) "You ought to
have the Police Gazette diamond belt for rough-bousin' baby
buggies'. I guess there ain't a one you're afraid to tackle."
"Leave 'm alone, Charley," advised one of the young men who had
crowded about them. "He's Bill Roberts, the fighter. You know'm.
Big Bill."
"I don't care if he's Jim Jeffries. He can't butt in on me this
way."
Nevertheless it was noticeable, even to Saxon, that the fire had
gone out of his fierceness. Billy's name seemed to have a quieting
effect on obstreperous males.
"Do you know him?" Billy asked her.
She signified yes with her eyes, though it seemed she must cry
out a thousand things against this man who so steadfastly
persecuted her. Billy turned to the blacksmith.
"Look here, sport, you don't want trouble with me. I've got your
number. Besides, what do we want to fight for? Hasn't she got a
say so in the matter?"
"No, she hasn't. This is my affair an' yourn."
Billy shook his head slowly. "No; you're in wrong. I think she
has a say in the matter."
"Well, say it then," Long snarled at Saxon. "who're you goin' to
go with?--me or him? Let's get it settled."
For reply, Saxon reached her free hand over to the hand that
rested on Billy's arm.
"Nuff said," was Billy's remark.
Long glared at Saxon, then transferred the glare to her
protector.
"I've a good mind to mix it with you anyway," Long gritted
through his teeth.
Saxon was elated as they started to move away. Lily Sanderson's
fate had not been hers, and her wonderful man-boy, without the
threat of a blow, slow of speech and imperturbable, had conquered
the big blacksmith.
"He's forced himself upon me all the time," she whispered to
Billy. "He's tried to run me, and beaten up every man that came
near me. I never want to see him again."
Billy halted immediately. Long, who was reluctantly moving to get
out of the way, also halted.
"She says she don't want anything more to do with you," Billy
said to him. "An' what she says goes. If I get a whisper any time
that you've been botherin' her, I'll attend to your case. D'ye
get that?"
Long glowered and remained silent.
"D'ye get that?" Billy repeated, more imperatively.
A growl of assent came from the blacksmith
"All right, then. See you remember it. An' now get outa the way
or I'll walk over you."
Long slunk back, muttering inarticulate threats, and Saxon moved
on as in a dream. Charley Long had taken water. He had been
afraid of this smooth-skinned, blue-eyed boy. She was quit of
him--something no other man had dared attempt for her. And Billy
had liked her better than Lily Sanderson.
Twice Saxon tried to tell Billy the details of her acquaintance
with Long, but each time was put off.
"I don't care a rap about it," Billy said the second time.
"You're here, ain't you?"
But she insisted, and when, worked up and angry by the recital,
she had finished, he patted her hand soothingly.
"It
's all right, Saxon," he said. "He's just a big stiff. I took
his measure as soon as I looked at him. He won't bother you
again. I know his kind. He's a dog. Roughhouse? He couldn't
rough-house a milk wagon."
"But how do you do it?" she asked breathlessly. "Why are men so
afraid of you? You're just wonderful."
He smiled in an embarrassed way and changed the subject.
"Say," he said, "I like your teeth. They're so white an' regular,
an' not big, an' not dinky little baby's teeth either. They're
. . . they're just right, an' they fit you. I never seen such fine
teeth on a girl yet. D'ye know, honest, they kind of make me
hungry when I look at 'em. They're good enough to eat."
At midnight, leaving the insatiable Bert and Mary still dancing,
Billy and Saxon started for home. It was on his suggestion that
they left early, and he felt called upon to explain.
"It's one thing the fightin' game's taught me," he said. "To take
care of myself. A fellow can't work all day and dance all night
and keep in condition. It's the same way with drinkin'--an' not
that I'm a little tin angel. I know what it is. I've been soused
to the guards an' all the rest of it. I like my beer--big
schooners of it; but I don't drink all I want of it. I've tried,
but it don't pay. Take that big stiff to-night that butted in on
us. He ought to had my number. He's a dog anyway, but besides he
had beer bloat. I sized that up the first rattle, an' that's the
difference about who takes the other fellow's number. Condition,
that's what it is."
"But he is so big," Saxon protested. "Why, his fists are twice as
big as yours."
"That don't mean anything. What counts is what's behind the
fists. He'd turn loose like a buckin' bronco. If I couldn't drop
him at the start, all I'd do is to keep away, smother up, an'
wait. An' all of a sudden he'd blow up--go all to pieces, you
know, wind, heart, everything, and then I'd have him where I
wanted him. And the point is he knows it, too."
"You're the first prizefighter I ever knew," Saxon said, after a
pause.
"I'm not any more," he disclaimed hastily. "That's one thing the
fightin' game taught me--to leave it alone. It don't pay. A
fellow trains as fine as silk--till he's all silk, his skin,
everything, and he's fit to live for a hundred years; an' then he
climbs through the ropes for a hard twenty rounds with some tough
customer that's just as good as he is, and in those twenty rounds
he frazzles out all his silk an' blows in a year of his life.
Yes, sometimes he blows in five years of it, or cuts it in half,
or uses up all of it. I've watched 'em. I've seen fellows strong
as bulls fight a hard battle and die inside the year of
consumption, or kidney disease, or anything else. Now what's the
good of it? Money can't buy what they throw away. That's why I
quit the game and went back to drivin' team. I got my silk, an'
I'm goin' to keep it, that's all."
"It must make you feel proud to know you are the master of other
men," she said softly, aware herself of pride in the strength and
skill of him.
"It does," he admitted frankly. "I'm glad I went into the
game--just as glad as I am that I pulled out of it. . . . Yep, it's
taught me a lot--to keep my eyes open an' my head cool. Oh, I've
got a temper, a peach of a temper. I get scared of myself
sometimes. I used to be always breakin' loose. But the fightin'
taught me to keep down the steam an' not do things I'd be sorry
for afterward."
"Why, you're the sweetest, easiest tempered man I know," she
interjected.
"Don't you believe it. Just watch me, and sometime you'll see me
break out that bad that I won't know what I'm doin' myself. Oh,
I'm a holy terror when I get started!"