by Jack London
wabbly. I reckon they come out on my account an' not for the
ponies. But me for the brave kid that likes the ponies. You're
the real goods, Saxon, honest to God you are. Why, I can talk
like a streak with you. The rest of 'em make me sick. I'm like a
clam. They don't know nothin', an' they're that scared all the
time--well, I guess you get me"
"You have to be born to love horses, maybe," she answered. "Maybe
it's because I always think of my father on his roan war-horse
that makes me love horses. But, anyway, I do. When I was a little
girl I was drawing horses all the time. My mother always
encouraged me. I've a scrapbook mostly filled with horses I drew
when I was little. Do you know, Billy, sometimes I dream I
actually own a horse, all my own. And lots of times I dream I'm
on a horse's back, or driving him."
"I'll let you drive 'em, after a while, when they've worked their
edge off. They're pullin' now.--There, put your hands in front of
mine--take hold tight. Feel that? Sure you feel it. An' you ain't
feelin' it all by a long shot. I don't dast slack, you bein' such
a lightweight."
Her eyes sparkled as she felt the apportioned pull of the mouths
of the beautiful, live things; and he, looking at her, sparkled
with her in her delight.
"What's the good of a woman if she can't keep up with a man?" he
broke out enthusiastically.
"People that like the same things always get along best
together," she answered, with a triteness that concealed the joy
that was hers at being so spontaneously in touch with him.
"Why, Saxon, I've fought battles, good ones, frazzlin' my silk
away to beat the band before whisky-soaked, smokin' audiences of
rotten fight-fans, that just made me sick clean through. An'
them, that couldn't take just one stiff jolt or hook to jaw or
stomach, a-cheerin' me an' yellin' for blood. Blood, mind you!
An' them without the blood of a shrimp in their bodies. Why,
honest, now, I'd sooner fight before an audience of one--you for
instance, or anybody I liked. It'd do me proud. But them
sickenin', sap-headed stiffs, with the grit of rabbits and the
silk of mangy ky-yi's, a-cheerin' me--ME! Can you blame me for
quittin' the dirty game?--Why, I'd sooner fight before broke-down
old plugs of work-horses that's candidates for chicken-meat, than
before them rotten bunches of stiffs with nothin' thicker'n water
in their veins, an' Contra Costa water at that when the rains is
heavy on the hills."
"I . . . I didn't know prizefighting was like that," she faltered, as
she released her hold on the lines and sank back again beside
him.
"It ain't the fightin', it's the fight-crowds," he defended with
instant jealousy. "Of course, fightin' hurts a young fellow
because it frazzles the silk outa him an' all that. But it's the
low-lifers in the audience that gets me. Why the good things they
say to me, the praise an' that, is insulting. Do you get me? It
makes me cheap. Think of it--booze-guzzlin' stiffs that 'd be
afraid to mix it with a sick cat, not fit to hold the coat of any
decent man, think of them a-standin' up on their hind legs an'
yellin' an' cheerin' me--ME!"
"Ha! ha! What d'ye think of that? Ain't he a rogue?"
A big bulldog, sliding obliquely and silently across the street,
unconcerned with the team he was avoiding, had passed so close
that Prince, baring his teeth like a stallion, plunged his head
down against reins and check in an effort to seize the dog.
"Now he's some fighter, that Prince. An' he's natural. He didn't
make that reach just for some low-lifer to yell'm on. He just
done it outa pure cussedness and himself. That's clean. That's
right. Because it's natural. But them fight-fans! Honest to God,
Saxon. . . ."
And Saxon, glimpsing him sidewise, as he watched the horses and
their way on the Sunday morning streets, checking them back
suddenly and swerving to avoid two boys coasting across street on
a toy wagon, saw in him deeps and intensities, all the magic
connotations of temperament, the glimmer and hint of rages
profound, bleaknesses as cold and far as the stars, savagery as
keen as a wolf's and clean as a stallion's, wrath as implacable
as a destroying angel's, and youth that was fire and life beyond
time and place. She was awed and fascinated, with the hunger of
woman bridging the vastness to him, daring to love him with arms
and breast that ached to him, murmuring to herself and through
all the halls of her soul, "You dear, you dear."
"Honest to God, Saxon," he took up the broken thread, "they's
times when I've hated them, when I wanted to jump over the ropes
and wade into them, knock-down and drag-out, an' show'm what
fightin' was. Take that night with Billy Murphy. Billy
Murphy!--if you only knew him. My friend. As clean an' game a boy
as ever jumped inside the ropes to take the decision. Him! We
went to the Durant School together. We grew up chums. His fight
was my fight. My trouble was his trouble. We both took to the
fightin' game. They matched us. Not the first time. Twice we'd
fought draws. Once the decision was his; once it was mine. The
fifth fight of two lovin' men that just loved each other. He's
three years older'n me. He's a wife and two or three kids, an' I
know them, too. And he's my friend. Get it?
"I'm ten pounds heavier--but with heavyweights that 'a all right.
He can't time an' distance as good as me, an' I can keep set
better, too. But he's cleverer an' quicker. I never was quick
like him. We both can take punishment, an' we're both two-handed,
a wallop in all our fists. I know the kick of his, an' he knows
my kick, an' we're both real respectful. And we're even-matched.
Two draws, and a decision to each. Honest, I ain't any kind of a
hunch who's gain' to win, we're that even.
"Now, the fight.--You ain't squeamish, are you?"
"No, no," she cried. "I'd just love to hear--you are so
wonderful."
He took the praise with a clear, unwavering look, and without
hint of acknowledgment.
"We go along--six rounds--seven rounds--eight rounds; an' honors
even. I've been timin' his rushes an' straight-leftin' him, an'
meetin' his duck with a wicked little right upper-cut, an' he's
shaken me on the jaw an' walloped my ears till my head's all
singin' an' buzzin'. An' everything lovely with both of us, with
a noise like a draw decision in sight. Twenty rounds is the
distance, you know.
"An' then his bad luck comes. We're just mixin' into a clinch
that ain't arrived yet, when he shoots a short hook to my
head--his left, an' a real hay-maker if it reaches my jaw. I make
a forward duck, not quick enough, an' he lands bingo on the side
of my head. Honest to God, Saxon, it's that heavy I see some
stars. But it don't hurt an' ain't serious, that high up where
the bone's thick. An' right there he finishes himself, for his
bad thumb, which I've known since he
first got it as a kid
fightin' in the sandlot at Watts Tract--he smashes that thumb
right there, on my hard head, back into the socket with an
out-twist, an' all the old cords that'd never got strong gets
theirs again. I didn't mean it. A dirty trick, fair in the game,
though, to make a guy smash his hand on your head. But not
between friends. I couldn't a-done that to Bill Murphy for a
million dollars. It was a accident, just because I was slow,
because I was born slow.
"The hurt of it! Honest, Saxon, you don't know what hurt is till
you've got a old hurt like that hurt again. What can Billy Murphy
do but slow down? He's got to. He ain't fightin' two-handed any
more. He knows it; I know it; The referee knows it; but nobody
else. He goes on a-moving that left of his like it's all right.
But it ain't. It's hurtin' him like a knife dug into him. He
don't dast strike a real blow with that left of his. But it
hurts, anyway. Just to move it or not move it hurts, an' every
little dab-feint that I'm too wise to guard, knowin' there's no
weight behind, why them little dab-touches on that poor thumb
goes right to the heart of him, an' hurts worse than a thousand
boils or a thousand knockouts--just hurts all over again, an'
worse, each time an' touch.
"Now suppose he an' me was boxin' for fun, out in the back yard,
an' he hurts his thumb that way, why we'd have the gloves off in
a jiffy an' I'd be putting cold compresses on that poor thumb of
his an' bandagin' it that tight to keep the inflammation down.
But no. This is a fight for fight-fans that's paid their
admission for blood, an' blood they're goin' to get. They ain't
men. They're wolves.
"He has to go easy, now, an' I ain't a-forcin' him none. I'm all
shot to pieces. I don't know what to do. So I slow down, an' the
fans get hep to it. 'Why don't you fight?' they begin to yell;
'Fake! Fake!' 'Why don't you kiss'm?' 'Lovin' cup for yours, Bill
Roberts!' an' that sort of bunk.
"'Fight!' says The referee to me, low an' savage. 'Fight, or I'll
disqualify you--you, Bill, I mean you.' An' this to me, with a
touch on the shoulder 'so they's no mistakin'.
"It ain't pretty. It ain't right. D'ye know what we was fightin'
for? A hundred bucks. Think of it! An' the game is we got to do
our best to put our man down for the count because of the fans
has bet on us. Sweet, ain't it? Well, that's my last fight. It
finishes me deado. Never again for yours truly.
"'Quit,' I says to Billy Murphy in a clinch; 'for the love of
God, Bill, quit.' An' he says back, in a whisper, 'I can't,
Bill--you know that.'
"An' then the referee drags us apart, an' a lot of the fans
begins to hoot an' boo.
"'Now kick in, damn you, Bill Roberts, an' finish'm' the referee
says to me, an' I tell'm to go to hell as Bill an' me flop into
the next clinch, not hittin', an' Bill touches his thumb again,
an' I see the pain shoot across his face. Game? That good boy's
the limit. An' to look into the eyes of a brave man that's sick
with pain, an' love 'm, an' see love in them eyes of his, an'
then have to go on givin' 'm pain--call that sport? I can't see
it. But the crowd's got its money on us. We don't count. We've
sold ourselves for a hundred bucks, an' we gotta deliver the
goods.
"Let me tell you, Saxon, honest to God, that was one of the times
I wanted to go through the ropes an' drop them fans a-yellin' for
blood an' show 'em what blood is.
"'For God's sake finish me, Bill,' Bill says to me in that
clinch; 'put her over an' I'll fall for it, but I can't lay
down.'
"D'ye want to know? I cry there, right in the ring, in that
clinch. The weeps for me. 'I can't do it, Bill,' I whisper back,
hangin' onto'm like a brother an' the referee ragin' an' draggin'
at us to get us apart, an' all the wolves in the house snarlin'.
"'You got 'm!' the audience is yellin'. 'Go in an' finish 'm!'
'The hay for him, Bill; put her across to the jaw an' see 'm
fall!'
"'You got to, Bill, or you're a dog,' Bill says, lookin' love at
me in his eyes as the referee's grip untangles us clear.
"An' them wolves of fans yellin': 'Fake! Fake! Fake!' like that,
an' keepin' it up.
"Well, I done it. They's only that way out. I done it. By God, I
done it. I had to. I feint for 'm, draw his left, duck to the
right past it, takin' it across my shoulder, an come up with my
right to his jaw. An' he knows the trick. He's hep. He's beaten
me to it an' blocked it with his shoulder a thousan' times. But
this time he don't. He keeps himself wide open on purpose. Blim!
It lands. He's dead in the air, an' he goes down sideways,
strikin' his face first on the rosin-canvas an' then layin' dead,
his head twisted under 'm till you'd a-thought his neck was
broke. ME--I did that for a hundred bucks an' a bunch of stiffs
I'd be ashamed to wipe my feet on. An' then I pick Bill up in my
arms an' carry'm to his corner, an' help bring'm around. Well,
they ain't no kick comin'. They pay their money an' they get
their blood, an' a knockout. An' a better man than them, that I
love, layin' there dead to the world with a skinned face on the
mat."
For a moment he was still, gazing straight before him at the
horses, his face hard and angry. He sighed, looked at Saxon, and
smiled.
"An' I quit the game right there. An' Billy Murphy's laughed at
me for it. He still follows it. A side-line, you know, because he
works at a good trade. But once in a while, when the house needs
paintin', or the doctor bills are up, or his oldest kid wants a
bicycle, he jumps out an' makes fifty or a hundred bucks before
some of the clubs. I want you to meet him when it comes handy.
He's some boy I'm tellin' you. But it did make me sick that
night."
Again the harshness and anger were in his face, and Saxon amazed
herself by doing unconsciously what women higher in the social
scale have done with deliberate sincerity. Her hand went out
impulsively to his holding the lines, resting on top of it for a
moment with quick, firm pressure. Her reward was a smile from
lips and eyes, as his face turned toward her.
"Gee!" he exclaimed. "I never talk a streak like this to anybody.
I just hold my hush an' keep my thinks to myself. But, somehow, I
guess it's funny, I kind of have a feelin' I want to make good
with you. An' that's why I'm tellin' you my thinks. Anybody can
dance."
The way led uptown, past the City Hall and the Fourteenth Street
skyscrapers, and out Broadway to Mountain View. Turning to the
right at the cemetery, they climbed the Piedmont Heights to Blair
Park and plunged into the green coolness of Jack Hayes Canyon.
Saxon could not suppress her surprise and joy at the quickness
with which they covered the ground.
"They are beautiful," she said. "I never dreamed I'd ever ride
behind horses like the
m. I'm afraid I'll wake up now and find
it's a dream. You know, I dream horses all the time. I'd give
anything to own one some time."
"It's funny, ain't it?" Billy answered. "I like horses that way.
The boss says I'm a wooz at horses. An' I know he's a dub. He
don't know the first thing. An' yet he owns two hundred big heavy
draughts besides this light drivin' pair, an' I don't own one."
"Yet God makes the horses," Saxon said.
"It's a sure thing the boss don't. Then how does he have so
many?--two hundred of 'em, I'm tellin' you. He thinks he likes
horses. Honest to God, Saxon, he don't like all his horses as
much as I like the last hair on the last tail of the scrubbiest
of the bunch. Yet they're his. Wouldn't it jar you?"
"Wouldn't it?" Saxon laughed appreciatively. "I just love fancy
shirtwaists, an' I spent my life ironing some of the
beautifullest I've ever seen. It's funny, an' it isn't fair."
Billy gritted his teeth in another of his rages.
"An' the way some of them women gets their shirtwaists. It makes
me sick, thinkin' of you ironin' 'em. You know what I mean,
Saxon. They ain't no use wastin' words over it. You know. I know.
Everybody knows. An' it's a hell of a world if men an' women
sometimes can't talk to each other about such things." His manner
was almost apologetic yet it was defiantly and assertively right.
"I never talk this way to other girls. They'd think I'm workin up
to designs on 'em. They make me sick the way they're always
lookin' for them designs. But you're different I can talk to you
that way. I know I've got to. It's the square thing. You're like
Billy Murphy, or any other man a man can talk to."
She sighed with a great happiness, and looked at him with
unconscious, love-shining eyes.
"It's the same way with me," she said. "The fellows I've run with
I've never dared let talk about such things, because I knew
they'd take advantage of it. Why, all the time, with them, I've a
feeling that we're cheating and lying to each other, playing a
game like at a masquerade ball." She paused for a moment,
hesitant and debating, then went on in a queer low voice. "I
haven't been asleep. I've seen . . . and heard. I've had my chances,
when I was that tired of the laundry I'd have done almost
anything. I could have got those fancy shirtwaists . . . an' all the
rest . . . and maybe a horse to ride. There was a bank cashier . . .
married, too, if you please. He talked to me straight out. I
didn't count, you know. I wasn't a girl, with a girl's feelings,
or anything. I was nobody. It was just like a business talk. I
learned about men from him. He told me what he'd do. He . . ."
Her voice died away in sadness, and in the silence she could hear
Billy grit his teeth.
"You can't tell me," he cried. "I know. It's a dirty world--an
unfair, lousy world. I can't make it out. They's no squareness in
it.--Women, with the best that's in 'em, bought an' sold like
horses. I don't understand women that way. I don't understand men
that way. I can't see how a man gets anything but cheated when he
buys such things. It's funny, ain't it? Take my boss an' his
horses. He owns women, too. He might a-owned you, just because
he's got the price. An', Saxon, you was made for fancy
shirtwaists an' all that, but, honest to God, I can't see you
payin' for them that way. It'd be a crime--"
He broke off abruptly and reined in the horses. Around a sharp
turn, speeding down the grade upon them, had appeared an
automobile. With slamming of brakes it was brought to a stop,
while the faces of the occupants took new lease of interest of
life and stared at the young man and woman in the light rig that
barred the way. Billy held up his hand.
"Take the outside, sport," he said to the chauffeur.
"Nothin' doin', kiddo," came the answer, as the chauffeur
measured with hard, wise eyes the crumbling edge of the road and
the downfall of the outside bank.
"Then we camp," Billy announced cheerfully. "I know the rules of