by Jim Tully
“He has gone—are you sure?”
She saw her daughter’s expression. “He left suddenly—that is all I know. One can never tell about such men—they come and go like the wind.”
“Mother,” her voice broke, “I’ll never—” a look of desolation stopped the words. Her lips trembled. Her hands went to her eyes. The words ended in a sobbing torrent. “He was like Daddy—strong and simple and sweet.”
The mother looked at her daughter.
“Did you see Professor Rogers?”
“Yes. I told him it was over—”
Before her mother could recover her surprise, she was gone.
A light gleamed from her father’s room.
His arm went round her in that enormous sympathy born of understanding. “I don’t know what to say. Nothing’s worth your tears.”
Heat lightning cut the sky. Under its slow flare the fields glistened a more vivid yellow. Thunder rolled with slight noise, like far-away empty wagons going down hill.
The harvest was soon over, and the harvesters gone their roving ways again.
XIX
Silent Tim Haney stared as Shane approached.
“Where’ve you been?” he asked.
“Never mind—I’m back.”
“You see where you’d of been—where Sully is—champion of the world.”
“It’s not too late yet.”
“Do you mean it?” asked Tim.
“Match me with anybody.”
“We’ll get you some clothes first.” Tim eyed Shane, “then we’ll start bombardin’—you can lick any man in the country—I’ll give a story to the newspapers that you’ve been roughing it in the Oregon woods.”
He took him to New York, and sent for Blinky Miller, who was now blind in one eye, oil of mustard having been rubbed into it from the glove of another fighter. “Keep him company, Blinky—and his mind busy,” Silent Tim ordered. “I’ll line up some warm-up fights for him.”
Blinky nodded, as Tim added. “Say nothing to him—he might kick over the traces again.”
“Okey.”
Silent Tim went to a large suite of offices. There he talked to a man his own age, stern and hard as himself.
“Hello, Dan—”
“Why, hello Timothy—what brings you here so early in the morning?”
“Kindness, Dan—just kindness—I want to show you how to make a hundred thousand dollars.”
“Is that all, Tim?”
“No less—and maybe more.” Tim’s eyes gleamed with a half smile. “You wouldn’t be one to be refusin’ money—would you, Dan?”
“Ah, Timothy, the man who’d refuse money you’d give would be a darin’ man, indeed.”
“How strange you talk—for a man whose walls I’ve papered with money—but we know each other too long to worry—I have a great boy, Dan, the greatest in the world—he’s a million dollar fiddle with a ten cent string in him—you know all about him—Shane Rory.”
“Yes,” nodded Dan.
“As you know, Dan—some men are born like stallions in a parade—the harder you hold them the prouder they prance, their manes high and their nostrils wide and their iron shoes strikin’ sparks from the pavement.”
“Yes, yes, Timothy.”
“Well, he’s one of the stallions and I need your help.”
“How?”
“I want to send him on a barnstormin’ trip—six good men in Portland, Seattle, ‘Frisco, Los Angeles, Chicago and Cleveland. It’s a build-up for the championship—everyone of them has to dive—and Rory can’t know it—he’s one of those funny fellows—an honest Mick.”
“Too bad,” said Dan, “too very bad.”
“It is that—he carries his own cross, Dan, and there’s splinters in it bigger’n your arm.”
“Well, Tim—”
“I know—ten percent of money up to ten thousand.” Tim saw Dan frown. “Well, I’ll raise it ten percent all the way.”
Dan played with his watch chain.
“It’s ten percent of a million or two, Danny.”
“All right, Tim—let’s see—we’ve got Leo Harvey in Portland—a win over him would make the headlines—Billy Randolph in Seattle, and Joe Mankerlitz has Barney McCoy in ‘Frisco, and Billy Weil has Slugger Regan in Los Angeles. I’ll make the schedule.”
“That’s fine, Dan—and by the time it’s over we can move in against Bangor Lang and Torpedo Jones-enough wins will make him forget his cracked jaw and his loss to Sully.”
“That’s right. We’ll not fail, Tim—we never have.”
“And we won’t now—just as sure as your name’s Daniel Muldowney.”
“We’ll make it legal, Tim—ten percent straight through—if you have bad luck in any of them towns I’ll deduct mine. It’s not chicken feed I want.”
“I know that, Dan.”
Harvey and Randolph went down and out on schedule. People began to talk of Rory’s comeback.
Instead of going down in six rounds, Barney McCoy fought viciously, and had Silent Tim worried. He glanced at Mankerlitz across the ring.
When Shane answered the gong for the seventh, Tim whispered to Blinky, “It’s a cross.”
McCoy slashed across the ring, the ancient grudge of Cheyenne in his eyes.
“He’s settlin’ down,” sighed Tim, as Rory countered twice; “five rounds after this one.”
Straining every nerve, Shane knocked McCoy out in the eleventh.
Late that night Silent Tim Haney telephoned Daniel Muldowney.
“Rory did not win until the eleventh, Dan. We thought he might win in the sixth.”
“Thank you, Tim—we’ll take McCoy off the circuit. Good night to you.”
Blinky Miller entered. “I’ve just put him to bed. He was grittin’ his teeth—he don’t love McCoy—he told me how he double-crossed him in Omaha.”
“In Omaha—what about tonight?” He sighed. “Ah, Blinky—it’s gettin’ so you can’t trust your own mother in the fight game. It’ll be hard pickin’ for McCoy from now on—a man’s word’s his word—but we’ll never peep—the papers might get it, and if we ever got a guy like Hot and Cold Daily sore he’d ride us forever.”
The talk of the sporting world, Shane arrived in Los Angeles. Dilly Dally met him at the train. Pictures were taken of the meeting. An engagement was rumored in the newspapers.
“Gee, I just knew you were goin’ places. That’s why I gave you up,” she explained. “What about that other girl?”
“What other girl?” asked Shane.
“You know—the one you told me about.”
“Oh, her—I don’t remember.” Then, “How are things comin’ with you?”
“Oh, good. I worked four days last week—a boy friend is lawyer for one of the studios—he gets me in.”
“That’s fine.” The old lure for her was strong as ever. “What’s his name?”
“Mr. Jonah Goldfinger,” she replied. “I’ll introduce you to him—he’s not jealous.”
“All right,” said Shane. “A lawyer, huh?”
“Yes—a big firm—his father and his uncle and his brother and another man.”
“Gosh,” said Shane. “If they all got after a fellow.”
Tim came upon them in the lobby of a Hollywood hotel.
“When did you meet her?”
“A couple of days ago.”
“You’re lyin’ in your soul, Shane—and to them that have your good at heart. There’s more floozies in this town than cattle in the stockyard. They graduate here—get their almer maters from small towns, as it were. But a bad girl’s like a bad fighter, Shane—they always think they’re winnin’.”
“I know,” said Shane.
“No, you don’t, or you wouldn’t be talkin’ to them in hotels.”
One of the largest crowds in the history of California pugilism saw his fight with Slugger Regan.
Amid thunderous applause Regan went to the canvas in three rounds.
Winning his next two fi
ghts on schedule, he reached New York, where his six recent victories over outstanding men were used by Silent Tim to excellent advantage.
Daniel Muldowney, president of the Outdoor Association for the Advancement of Athletics, stated in an interview that Rory was the logical contender for the heavyweight crown.
Sully’s manager pointed to Rory’s two defeats by the champion, and insisted that he fight Bangor Lang. He disposed of him with, “He’ll never get by Lang.”
“If we do, do we get Sully?” asked Tim.
“After you fight Torpedo Jones.”
“But Sully didn’t beat him.”
“He’s champion—and our terms go.”
“You’re a nice fellow, Al—an honor to the game,” Silent Tim sneered.
“I’m lookin’ after my fighter.”
“You’d better.”
A match was made with Lang.
“A broken jaw’s always stronger when it heals,” Silent Tim assured Shane. “Besides, you’ll draw a million dollar gate and Sully’ll have to fight you if you win.”
“Joe Slack’ll be in his corner,” informed Blinky Miller.
“That’ll help none,” said Tim, “Slack can’t fight his fight—they think because he fought me four times he knows what I taught you—Joe could whip any man in the world but me—he was a great fighter.”
“You were born too soon,” Shane smiled.
“Or Joe Slack too late,” returned Tim, “He was the best man I ever fought—but that won’t help Lang now.”
Nearly as tall as Shane, Lang had been champion five years.
“I’ll be sorry to beat you, Shane,” he said before the fight.
“Don’t worry about me, Bangor,” Shane smiled grimly, “or my jaw either.”
“All right—” Too big for the rancours of the ring, Bangor held out his hand, “I can think of a million men I’d rather whip.”
“So can I, Bangor.” Shane shook his hand.
“I’d say ‘good luck,’ Shane, but you’d know I didn’t mean it.”
“So would I,” laughed Shane.
Their manner changed in the ring.
During the first round, Shane’s left shoulder was nearly paralyzed in blocking a wicked right counter. Shane remembered his broken jaw. In the last ten seconds he landed the hardest punch of the round, scoring a left under Lang’s heart.
“That got him,” exclaimed a ringsider.
Lang’s knees buckled. The audience became tense. When the gong sounded, the ex-champion started for the wrong corner. Shane good-naturedly turned him around and patted his shoulder.
Lang was hardly off his chair in the second when he was aiming with deadly accuracy at Shane’s once broken jaw. Three times his blows crashed. Shane smiled and danced away. They exchanged blows again. Lang landed a hard left to the jaw. Shane took it smiling.
Lang’s surprise was not over before Shane was inside, slamming the great fighter’s anatomy as if it were a drum. Lang went to his knee, and touched the floor with his glove. The referee began to count.
Lang shook his head.
The roar of the crowd made it hard for him to hear.
Sully sat at the ringside, an alert expression on his face.
Joe Slack “accidentally” hit the gong with a cane. A dispute arose.
Silent Tim glowered at his ancient enemy.
“G’wan—take care of your palooka—he needs it,” Joe Slack sneered.
Silent Tim returned, “You callin’ your betters a palooka when you never could fight a lick.”
By the time it ended, Lang was himself again.
With ice applied to the back of his neck, and smelling salts to his nose for a minute, he whipped out of his corner as the bell rang and beat Shane to the punch with a right cross to the jaw.
“He’ll break his jaw again,” a voice thundered, as another right blazed through Shane’s guard. He “rolled” with the punch. For an instant Lang was off-guard.
Shane crashed with a right, and Bangor’s knees doubled in pain.
A left uppercut caught him. He thudded to the canvas, out for ten minutes.
Shane went to Lang’s dressing-room. The once great champion lay on a cot, his face turned to the wall.
He sobbed several times. He had lost a chance to regain a world. It was all he had.
Hearing Shane’s name, he stood up.
“We’re even, Shane—here’s my hand.”
“Thanks, Bangor—take care of that eye.”
“I will—I’ll have a lot of time—I’m hanging up the gloves forever.”
He rubbed the long muscle of his powerful right arm, and looked at his conqueror kindly.
“When you feel something leaving you, Shane, and you know it’s the years takin’ the dynamite from your hands till all that’s left is a shell, it’s time to say goodbye—”
“What do you mean—’the dynamite from your hands?’” Shane felt his jaw.
“Well I lacked something—you got me.”
“You were mighty fast, Bangor.”
“But you slowed me up by takin’ all I had and givin’ me more.”
“It’s been swell knowin’ you, Bangor, and that’s the truth—if you ever need anything—”
“Not me, Shane, thank God—I can eat dirt—I own land.”
“I was a tramp kid when I first heard of you, Bangor.”
The ex-champion laughed, “And if I hadn’t saved my money you’d of made a tramp out of me—but watch yourself, Shane, against Sully—he’s a great fighter—don’t let ’em fool you.”
“Thanks, Bangor. So long.”
“One more hurdle,” said Silent Tim, “and we filled the stadium.” He sighed, “Thank God we’re by Lang.”
“You’re right—he paralyzed me with that right to the jaw.” Shane’s hand went upward. “Trying to keep him from connecting I seemed to bump right into his glove.”
“He’d be dangerous at eighty,” mused Silent Tim. “He feinted for your heart and aimed at your jaw—a foxy fighter—”
“He’s a nice fellow though,” said Shane.
“Yes, Bangor’s all right—fightin’ was his business, and he fought like a man— ‘Never get mad at a newspaperman,’ he used to say. When Hot and Cold Daily was sore at him, he got drunk and called Bangor’s suite from the lobby of the hotel. ‘I’m coming up, Bangor, and take the championship away from you.’
“‘All right,’ says Bangor, ‘but bring it back in the morning. I’ll need it when I fight Sully.’
“‘How are you goin’ to hate a guy like that?’ says Hot and Cold Daily.”
XX
Shane was sent against Torpedo Jones—the winner to meet Sully.
When the match was made, Silent Tim, knowing he was on dangerous ground, said to Blinky Miller, “Torpedo’s the only man ever to whip Sully—it’s too bad—but if Shane can’t beat the Nigger he’ll never be champion—it’s the game.”
The words, “It’s the game,” covered for Silent Tim all the misfortunes of life. Did a man die when the heavens of happiness were opening, or a Jerry Wayne wabble out of a courtroom, demented, it was all “the game” to Silent Tim.
“Daily’ll smoke us hard—in his heart he don’t think we can get over Jones—and, after all—he’s a newspaperman—he’s got to be as tough with words as Shane is with gloves—people have to get on—just why, God knows.”
“That’s right, Boss,” agreed Blinky.
Under the heading,
RORY MATCHED WITH SULLY
and in smaller type …
IF HE DEFEATS JONES
Hot and Cold Daily wrote one of the columns that made him the most widely read writer on pugilism in the world. Combining the technique of the sideshow spieler with a flare for drama, he began:
“It’s the battle of the ages, the black gorilla and the white chimpanzee, the winner to hurl his mighty mallets of pain against the champion of the world. Make no mistake about it, Shane Rory meets a great fighter in Torpedo Jones.
<
br /> “There’s different kinds of smartness in the world, and in that ring the black gorilla’s as smart as Shakespeare.
“Torpedo Jones is a reincarnation of four wonderful colored men of other days—Joe Gans, Sam Lang-ford, Jack Johnson, and Jack Blackburn.
“He’s all of them rolled into a smirch of livid, illuminating, devastating power and skill. He has all of their good points and none of their defects. A powerful fistic machine, his coördination is perfect—a hair-trigger brain impulsing muscular action into flashing and deadly slaughter.
“Those old time Negro battlers developed a fighting system known as ‘tailing.’ It is now obsolete in sport vernacular because the bruisers of the old days are no more. Torpedo Jones is the first great ‘tailing’ fighter in twenty years.
“To ‘tail’ means to keep close to a foe and be a constant target until he is forced to slash away. The instant he makes a move to drive in with a blow, the tailer beats him to it with a punch that travels but a short distance. His blow is given added force because the foe is coming in fast toward it.
“Tailing is now called counter-punching. It is more effective than that. The Black had it instinctively, and Torpedo Jones is the crux, the master, the quintessence of them all. Rory’s manager, Silent Tim Haney, should know this. He fought Sam Langford a memorable draw when the black man was coming and he was going.
“Most boxers must pull back fist and arm to get a punch started. That’s the exact instant Torpedo Jones starts a few of those twelve-inch laudanum-laden slashes of his.
“Stolid men of the Torpedo Jones type—stolid but not stupid—are of the deadly game order. If Torpedo Jones is knocked down, he will get up fighting, more dangerous than ever. If Rory knocks him down—then what?
“A battle with Torpedo Jones would test the courage and the strength of a gorilla.
“He is at his peak now. Great fighting men reach such a peak but once—and Shane Rory is meeting a great fighting man at that peak. If he has a lapse as he did with Sully, he’s a gone goslin’.
“And more than that—Torpedo Jones is a savage on whom civilization rests no more securely than a shawl thrown over an old man’s shoulders.
“He walks like an animal. He no more looks you in the eye than does a hyena. The expression on his face is sulky and sullen.