The Definite Object

by Jeffery Farnol

  “Very often, lately.”

  “I mean—you ain’t opened your ‘eart to her—matrimonially, have you?”

  “No!”

  “Why, then, I’ll tell you what—there’s been times when I’ve been afraid that for the sake o’ that b’y she’d sacrifice herself to Bud M’Ginnis.”

  “No, she would never do that, Mrs. Trapes.”

  “Oh, but she would.”

  “But, you see, she couldn’t!”

  “And why not?”

  “Oh, well, because—er—I should kill him first.”

  “Land sakes, Mr. Geoffrey!” and Mrs. Trapes actually blenched before the glare in his eyes that was so strangely at odds with his soft, lazy tones.

  “And that ends it!” he nodded. “Mrs. Trapes, I’ve made up my mind!”

  “What about?”

  “Mr. M’Ginnis. I’ll begin to-day.”

  “Begin what?”

  “To prepare myself to bestow on him the thrashing of his life!” So saying, Ravenslee stretched lazily and finally got up. “Good morning, Mrs. Trapes!” said he.

  “But where are ye going?” she demanded.

  “To my peanuts,” he answered gravely. “‘Man is born to labour,’ you, know.”

  “But it’s early yet.”

  “But I have much to do—and she laughed at me for being a peanut man, did she, Mrs. Trapes—she frowned and flushed and stamped her pretty foot at me, did she?”

  “She did so, Mr. Geoffrey!”

  “I’m glad!” he answered. “Yes, I’m very glad she frowned and stamped her foot at me. By the way, I like that text in my bedroom.”

  “Text?” said Mrs. Trapes, staring.

  “‘Love one another,’” he nodded. “It is a very—very beautiful sentiment—sometimes. Anyway, I’m glad she frowned and stamped at me, Mrs. Trapes; you can tell her I said so if you happen to think of it when she comes home.” And Ravenslee smiled, and turning away, was gone.

  “Well,” said Mrs. Trapes, staring at the closed door, “of all the—well, well!” Then she sighed, shook her head, and fell to washing up the breakfast things.

  CHAPTER XV

  WHICH INTRODUCES JOE AND THE OLD UN

  The clocks were striking nine as, according to his custom of late, Geoffrey Ravenslee trundled his barrow blithely along Thirty-eighth Street, halting now and then at the shrill, imperious summons of some small customer, or by reason of the congestion of early traffic, or to swear whole-heartedly and be sworn at by some indignant Jehu. At length he came to Eleventh Avenue and to a certain quarter where the whistle of a peanut barrow was seldom heard, and peanuts were a luxury.

  And here, in a dismal, small street hard by the river, behold Ravenslee halt his gaily painted pushcart, whereat a shrill clamour arises that swells upon the air, a joyous babel; and forth from small and dismal homes, from narrow courts and the purlieus adjacent, his customers appear. They race, they gambol, they run and toddle, for these customers are very small and tender and grimy, but each small face is alight with joyous welcome, and they hail him with rapturous acclaim. Even the few tired-looking mothers, peeping from windows or glancing from doorways, smile and nod and forget awhile their weariness in the children’s delight, as Ravenslee, the battered hat cocked at knowing angle, proceeds to “business.” Shrill voices supplicate him, little feet patter close around him, small hands, eagerly outstretched, appeal to him. Anon rise shrieks and infantile crowings of delight as each small hand is drawn back grasping a plump paper bag—shrieks and crowings that languish and die away, one by one, since no human child may shriek properly and chew peanuts at one and the same time. And in a while, his stock greatly diminished, Ravenslee trundles off and leaves behind him women who smile still and small boys and girls who munch in a rapturous silence.

  On he went, his oven whistling soft and shrill, his long legs striding between the shafts, until, reaching a certain bleak corner, he halted again, though to be sure there were few people hereabouts and no children. But upon the opposite corner was a saloon, with a large annex and many outbuildings behind, backing upon the river, and Ravenslee, lounging on the handles of his barrow, examined this unlovely building with keen eye from beneath his hat brim, for above the swing doors appeared the words:

  O’ROURKE’S SALOON

  He was in the act of lighting his pipe when the doors of the saloon were swung open, and three men came out, in one of whom he recognised the tall, powerful figure and broad shoulders of Bud M’Ginnis; his companions were remarkable, but in very opposite ways, the one being slender and youthful and very smartly dressed, with a face which, despite its seeming youth, was strangely haggard and of an unhealthy pallor, while the other was plethoric, red-faced and middle-aged, a man hoarse of voice and roughly clad, and Ravenslee noticed that this fellow lacked the upper half of one ear.

  “Saturday night, mind!” said M’Ginnis, loud and authoritative.

  “But say, Bud,” demanded the smartly dressed youth, “what’s coming to us on that last deal?”

  “Nix—that’s what you get, Soapy!” The youth’s pale cheek grew livid.

  “So you’ve got the deck stacked against us, eh, Bud?” said he.

  “I got a close mouth, Soapy, I guess you don’t want me t’ open it very wide—now or any other old time. Saturday night, mind!” and nodding, M’Ginnis turned away. The youth looked after him with venomous eyes, and his right hand made a sinister movement toward his hip pocket.

  “Aw—quit it; are ye crazy?” grunted his companion. “Bud’s got us cinched.”

  “Got us—hell!” snarled the youth. “Bud’s askin’ for it, an’ some day he’s goin’ t’ get it—good!”

  Toward afternoon, Ravenslee was trundling light-heartedly eastward, his barrow emptied to the last peanut. Having reached Fifth Avenue, he paused to mop his perspiring brow when a long, low automobile, powerfully engined, that was creeping along behind, pulled up with a sudden jerk, and its driver, whose immense shoulders were clad in a very smart livery, pushed up the peak of his smart cap to run his fingers through his close-cropped hair, while his mild blue eyes grew very wide and round.

  “Crikey!” said he at last. “Is that you, sir, or ain’t it?”

  “How much?” demanded Ravenslee gruffly.

  “Crumbs!” said the chauffeur. “Sir, if you—ain’t you, all I say is—I ain’t me!”

  “Aw—what’s bitin’ ye, bo?” growled Ravenslee.

  “Well, if this ain’t the rummest go, I’m a perisher!”

  “Say, now, crank up d’ machine an’ beat it while d’ goin’ ‘s good. How’s that, Joe?”

  “Lord, Mr. Ravenslee—so you are my guv’nor, and blow me tight—shoving a barrer! I knowed it was you, sir; leastways I knowed your legs an’ the set o’ them shoulders, but—with a barrer! Excuse me, sir, but the idea o’ you pushing a perishing peanut barrer so gay an’ ‘appy-‘earted—well, all I can say is love-a-duck!”

  “Well now, cut along, Joe, and get ready. I mean to put in some real hard work with you this afternoon.”

  “Right-o, sir!” nodded Joe eagerly. “Lord, but we’ve missed you terrible—the Old Un an’ me.”

  “Glad of it, Joe! Tell Patterson to have my bath ready when we’ve finished. Off with you—drive in the Fifth Avenue entrance.”

  Joe nodded, and the big car turned and crept silently away, while Ravenslee, trundling onward, turned off to the left and so into a very large, exceedingly neat garage where stood five or six automobiles of various patterns in one of which, a luxurious limousine, an old, old man snored blissfully. At the rumble of the barrow, however, this ancient being choked upon a snore, coughed, swore plaintively, and finally sat up. Perceiving Ravenslee, he blinked, rubbed his eyes, and stepping from the car very nimbly despite his years, faced the intruder with a ferocious scowl.

  He was indeed a very ancient man, though very nattily dressed from spotless collar to shiny patent leather shoes, a small, dandified, bright-eyed man whose broken
nose and battered features bore eloquent testimony to long and hard usage.

  “‘Ook it!” he croaked, with square bony jaw fiercely outthrust. “We don’t want no peanuts ‘ere, d’j ‘ear? ‘Op off, ‘ook it before I break every blessed bone in yer bloomin’ body!”

  “What, Old Un, don’t you know me, either?”

  “Lumme!” exclaimed the little old man, blinking beneath hoary brows. “Ho, lor’ lumme, it’s ‘im! Blimy, it’s the Guv’nor—’ow do, Guv!” and shooting immaculate cuffs over bony wrists he extended a clawlike hand.

  “How are you, Old Un?”

  “Well, sir, what with the rheumatix an’ a stiff j’int or two an’ a touch o’ lumbager, not to mention all my other ailments, I ain’t quite s’ spry as I was!”

  “But you look very well!”

  “That’s where your heyes deceives you, Guv. A great sufferer I be, though patient under haffliction, ho, yus—except for a swear now an’ then which do me a power o’ good—yus! If I was to tell you all the woes as my poor old carkiss is hair to, you could write a book on ‘em—a big ‘un. I got everything the matter wi’ me, I ‘ave, from a thick ear an’ broke nose as I took in Brummagem sixty an’ five years ago to a hactive liver.”

  “A what?” enquired Ravenslee.

  “A hactive liver. Lord, Guv, my liver gets that hactive lately as I can’t set still—Joe knows, ax Joe! All as I ain’t got o’ human woes is toothache, not ‘avin’ no teeth to ache, y’ see, an’ them s’ rotten as it ‘ud make yer ‘eart bleed. An’ then I get took short o’ breath—look at me now, dang it!”

  “Why, then, sit down, Old Un,” said Ravenslee, drawing up a somewhat worn armchair. “Joe and I are going at it hard and fast this afternoon, and I want you to time the rounds.” And he proceeded to remove his garments.

  “Oh, j’y!” cried the Old Un, hugging himself in bony arms. “Oh, j’yful words. Ah, but you peels like a good un, sir,” he croaked, viewing white flesh and bulging muscle with knowing old eyes, “good an’ long in the arm an’ wide slope o’ shoulder. You might ha’ done well in the ring if you’d been blessed wi’ poverty an’ I’d ‘ad the ‘andling of ye—a world’s unbeat champion, like Joe. A good fighter were I an’ a wonnerful trainer! Ho, yus, I might ha’ made a top-notcher of ye if you ‘adn’t been cursed wi’ money.”

  “I suppose,” said Ravenslee thoughtfully, “I suppose Joe was one of the best all-round fighting men that ever climbed into a ring?”

  “Ah—that ‘e were! Joe were better ‘n the best—only don’t let ‘im ‘ear me say so, ‘e ‘d be that puffed up—Lord! But nobody could beat Joe—black, yaller or white; they all tried danged ‘ard, but Joe were a world-beater—y’ see, I trained Joe! An’ to-day ‘e ‘s as good as ever ‘e was. Y’ see, Joe’s allus lived clean, sir, consequent Joe’s sound, wind an’ limb. Joe could go back an’ beat all these fancy bruisers and stringy young champs to-day—if ‘e only would—but don’t let ‘im ‘ear me say so.”

  “You’re fond of Joe, Old Un?”

  “An’ why for not, sir—s’ long as ‘e don’t know it? Didn’t ‘e look arter poor old me when ‘e ‘ad money, an’ when ‘e lost everything, didn’t ‘e look arter me still? An’ now ‘e ‘s your shuvver, don’ ‘e keep a roof over me poor old ‘ead like a son—don’t ‘e give me the run o’ jour garridge an’ let me watch ‘im spar wi’ you an’ your gentlemen friends? Ain’t ‘e the best an’ truest-‘earted man as ever drawed breath? Ah, a king o’ men is Joe, in the ring an’ out, sir—only never let ‘im ‘ear me say so—’e ‘d be that proud, Lord! there’d be no livin’ wi’ ‘im—sh, ‘ere ‘e be, sir.”

  Joe had laid by his chauffeur’s garb and looked even bigger and grimmer in flannels and sweater.

  “Ho you, Joe,” cried the old man, scowling, “did ye bring me that ‘bacca?”

  “S’posin’ I didn’t?” demanded Joe.

  “Then dang ye—twice!”

  “An’ s’posin’ I did?”

  “Then—give it ‘ere!”

  “An’ that’s his gratitood, sir!” growled Joe, shaking his head and giving the packet into the old man’s clutching fingers. “A unnat’ral old bag-o’-bones, that’s what ‘e is, sir!”

  “Bones!” croaked the Old Un viciously. “Bag-o’-bones am I? Yah—look at ye’self—pork, that’s what you are, all run to pork an’ blubber an’ fat, Joe, me pore lad—”

  “Fat!” growled Joe. “Y’ know I ain’t fat; y’ know I’m as good a man as ever I was—look at that, you old sarpent!” And he smote himself with mighty fist—a blow to fell an ox. “Fat, am I?”

  “As—lard!” nodded the old man, filling half an inch of blackened clay pipe with trembling fingers, “as a ‘og—”

  “Now my crumbs—” began Joe fiercely.

  “You’re flabby an’ soft, me pore lad,” grinned the old man. “Flabby as a babby an’ soft as a woman an’ fat as a—”

  Joe reached out very suddenly, and picking up the old man, armchair and all, shook him to and fro until he croaked for mercy.

  “Lor’ gorramighty!” he panted, as Joe set him down again.

  “Fat, am I?” demanded Joe, scowling.

  “Fat as a ‘og—fat as forty bloomin’ ‘ogs!” cried the old man vindictively. “An’ what’s more, your wind’s all gone—you couldn’t go five rounds wi’ a good ‘un!”

  “Couldn’t I?”

  “No!” shrieked the Old Un, “you’d be ‘anging on an’ blowing like a grampus!”

  “Should I?”

  “Ah—like a grampus!”

  “Right-o!” nodded Joe, turning away, “no jam for your tea to-night.”

  “Eh, what—what, would ye rob a pore old man of ‘is jam, Joe—a pore afflicted old cove as is dependent on ye ‘and an’ fut, Joe—a pore old gaffer as you’ve just shook up to that degree as ‘is pore old liver is a-bobbin’ about in ‘is innards like a jelly. Joe, ye couldn’t be so ‘eartless!”

  “Ah, but I can!” nodded Joe. “An’ if ye give me any more lip, it’ll be no sugar in ye tea—”

  “No sugar!” wailed the Old Un, then clenching a trembling old fist, he shook it in Joe’s scowling face. “Then dang ye—three times!” he cried. “What’s the old song say?

  “‘Dang the man with three times three Who in ‘is ‘eathen rage Can ‘arm a ‘armless man like me Who’s ‘ead is bowed wi’ age!’

  “An’ there’s for ye. Now listen again:

  “‘Some men is this an’ some is that, But ‘ere’s a truth I know: A fightin’ cove who’s run to fat Is bound t’ puff an’ blow!’

  “An’ there’s for ye again!”

  Saying which, the Old Un nodded ferociously and proceeded to light his fragmentary pipe. During this colloquy Ravenslee had laid by his shabby clothes and now appeared clad and shod for the ring.

  “Sir,” said Joe, taking a set of gloves from a locker, “if you are ready to box a round or so—”

  “Why, no,” answered Ravenslee, “I don’t want to box to-day, Joe.”

  “Eh?” said Joe, staring, “not?”

  “I want to fight, Joe.”

  “To—fight, sir?” repeated Joe.

  “Fight?” cried the Old Un rapturously. “Oh, music—sweet music t’ me old ears! Fight? Oh, j’yful words! What’s the old song say?

  “”Appy is the first as goes To black a eye or punch a nose!’”

  “Get the mufflers on, Joe; get ‘em on an’ don’t stand staring like a fool!”

  “But, sir,” said Joe, his mild eyes kindling, “d’ ye mean as you want—the real thing?”

  “To-day,” said Ravenslee, “instead of boxing a round or two with Joe Madden, my chauffeur and mechanic, I want to see how long I can stand up to Joe Madden, undefeated champion of the world.”

  Joe’s lean cheek flushed and he looked Ravenslee over with eyes of yearning; noted the thin flanks and slender legs that showed speed, the breadth of shoulder and long arms that spoke strength, and the deep, arched chest t
hat showed endurance; Joe looked and sighed and shook his head.

  “Sir,” said he, “I honour and respect you to that degree as it would be a joy to fight such a man as you and a rare privilege t’ knock you down—but, sir, if I was to knock ye down—”

  “You’d earn a five-dollar bill.”

  “Five dollars—for knockin’ you down, sir?”

  “Every time!” nodded Ravenslee.

  “But Lord, sir—”

  “Shut up, Joe, shut up,” snarled the Old Un, hopping out of the armchair. “Don’t gape like a perishin’ fish; come on up-stairs an’ knock the Guv’nor down like ‘e tells ye—an’ ‘arves on the money, mind; it was me as taught ye all you know or ever will, so ‘arves on the money, Joe, ‘arves on the money. Come on, Joe—d’j ‘ear?”

  “Crumbs!” said Joe.

  “Look at ‘im. Guv—look at ‘im!” shrieked the old man, dancing to and fro in his impatience, “‘ere’s a chance for ‘im to earn a pore old cove a bit o’ ‘bacca money, an’, what’s better still, t’ show a pore old fightin’ man a bit o’ real sport—an’ there ‘e stands, staring like a perishing pork pig! Blimy, Guv, get behind an’ ‘elp me to shove ‘im up-stairs.”

  “But, crikey, sir!” said Joe, “five dollars every time I—”

  “Yus, yus, you bloomin’ hadjective—two dollars fifty for each of us! ‘Urry up, oh, ‘urry up afore ‘e changes ‘is mind an’ begins to ‘edge.”

  So Joe follows his “Guv’nor” and the Old Un up a flight of stairs and into a large chamber fitted as a gymnasium, where are four roped and padded posts socketed into the floor; close by is a high-backed armchair in which the Old Un seats himself with an air of heavy portent.

  But when Joe would have ducked under the ropes, the Old Un stayed him with an imperious gesture, and, clambering into the ring, advanced to the centre and bowed gravely as if to a countless multitude.

  “Gentlemen,” he piped in his shrill old voice, “I take pleasure to introduce Joe Madden, undefeated ‘eavyweight champion o’ the world, an’ the Guv—both members of this club an’ both trained by me, Jack Bowser, once lightweight champion of England an’ hall the Americas. Gentlemen, it will be a fight to a finish—Markis o’ Queensberry rules. Gentlemen—I thank ye.” Having said which, the Old Un bowed again, gravely stepped from the ring, and ensconcing himself in the armchair, drew out a large and highly ornate watch, while Ravenslee and Joe vaulted over the ropes.