Making Friends
“That was just before I licked Whitey Brown,” said Lazelle, alias Gazelle, alias the Rocky Mountain Goat and the Gutter Pup. “Cracky, that was a fight!”
“How many rounds?” asked Lovely Mead, disrobing for the night.
“Eleven and a half. Knocked him to the count in the middle of the twelfth with a left jab to the bellows,” said the Gutter Pup professionally. “He weighed ten pounds more than me. Ever do any fighting?”
“Sure,” said the new arrival instantly.
“How many times?”
“Oh, I can’t remember.”
“You don’t look it.”
“Why not?”
“Your complexion’s too lovely; and you’re only a shaver, you know.”
“I’m fifteen, almost sixteen,” said Lovely, bridling up and surveying his new roommate with a calculating glance. “How old are you?”
“I’ve been three years at Lawrenceville, freshman,” said the Gutter Pup severely. “That’s the difference. What’s your longest fight?”
“Twenty-one rounds,” said Lovely, promptly.
“Oh,” said the Gutter Pup in profound disappointment. “He licked you?”
“No.”
“You licked him?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“They stopped us.”
“Huh!”
“We had to let it go over to the next day.”
“And then?”
“Then I put him out in the thirteenth.”
“Yes, you did!”
“Yes, I did.”
The two fiery-haired champions stood measuring each other with their glances. Lovely Mead ran his eye over the wiry arms and chest opposite him and wondered. The Gutter Pup in veteran disdain was about to remark that Lovely was a cheerful liar when the tolling of the gym bell broke in on a dangerous situation. The Gutter Pup dove into bed and, reaching for a slipper, hurled it across the room, striking the candle fair and square and plunging the room into darkness.
“I learned that trick,” he said, “the year I put the Welsh Rarebit to sleep in six.” He stopped and ruminated over Lovely’s story of his two-day fight, and then spoke scornfully from the dark: “I never fought anybody over eleven rounds. I never had to.”
Lovely heard and possessed his soul in patience. He was on his second day at the school, his spirit not a whit subdued, though considerably awed, by the sacred dignities of the old boys. He liked the Gutter Pup, with one reservation, and that was an instinctive antagonism for which there was no logical explanation. But at the first fistic reminiscence of the Gutter Pup he had sought in his soul anxiously and asked himself, “Can I lick him?” Each time the question repeated itself he felt an overwhelming impulse to throw down the gage and settle the awful doubt then and there. It was pure instinct, nothing more. The Gutter Pup was really a good sort and had adopted him in quite a decent way without taking an undue advantage. In fact, Lovely was certain that in his roommate he had met the congenial soul, the chum, the best friend among all friends for whom he had waited and yearned. His heart went out to the joyous, friendly Gazelle, but his fingers contracted convulsively. Theirs was to be an enduring friendship, a sacred, Three Musketeer sort of friendship—after one small detail was settled.
The next morning Lovely Mead bounded up with the rising bell and started nervously to dress. There was a lazy commotion in the opposite bed, and then, after a few languid movements of the covers, the Gutter Pup’s reddish head appeared in surprise.
“Why, Lovely, what are you doing?
“Dressing. Didn’t you hear the bell?”
“Jimminy crickets, what a waste, what an awful waste of time,” said the Gutter Pup, luxuriously, stretching his arms and yawning. “Say, Lovely, I like you. You’re a good sort and that was a rattlin’ plucky tackle you made yesterday. Say, we’re going to get on famously together, only, Lovely, you are green, you know.”
“I suppose I am.”
“You are. Of course, you can’t help it, you know. Every one starts that way. Lordy, Lovely, you remind me of the first time I hit this old place, three weeks after I fought Mucker Dennis, of the Seventy-second Street gang.”
Lovely Mead’s gorge swelled up with indignation. To hide his emotion, he plunged his head into the basin and emerged dripping.
“I say, Lovely, I must give you some pointers,” said the Gutter Pup affably. “Everything depends, you know, on the start. You want to stand in with the masters, you know. Study hard the first week and get your lessons down fine, and work up their weak points, and you’ll slide through the term with ease and pleasure.”
“What are these weak points?” inquired Lovely from the depths of a clean shirt.
“Oh, I mean the side they’re most approachable. Now the Roman, you know, when he makes a joke you always want to laugh as though you were going to die.”
“Does he make many jokes?” asked Lovely.
“Cracky, yes. Then there’s one very important one he makes around Thanksgiving that every one watches for. I’ll put you on, but you must be very careful.”
“What? The same joke every year?” said Lovely.
“Regular. It’s about Volturcius in Cæsar—the ‘c’ is soft, you know, but you have to pronounce it—Vol-turk-ious.”
“Why so?”
“So the Roman can say, ‘No-o, no-o, not even the near approach of Thanksgiving will justify such a pronunciation.’ See? That’s the cue to laugh until the tears wet the page. It’s most important.”
“What about the Doctor?”
“Easy, dead easy; just ask questions, side-path questions that’ll lead him away from the lesson and give him a chance to discourse. Say—another thing, Lovely, don’t go and buy anything in the village; let me do that for you.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m on to their games, you know; I’m wise. Oh, say, another pointer—about the jigger-shop. You want to build up your credit with Al, you know.”
“How d’you mean?”
“The best way is to get trusted right off while you’ve got the chink and then pay up promptly at the end of a week, and repeat the operation a couple of times. Then Al thinks you’re conscientious about debts and that sort of thing, and when the hard-up months come he’ll let you go the limit.”
“I say, Lazelle,” said Lovely, admiringly, “you’ve got it down pretty fine, haven’t you? It’s real white of you to look after me this way.”
“You’re all right,” said the Gutter Pup, still lolling in bed. “All you want is to lay low for a month or so and no one’ll bother you. Besides, I’ll see to that.”
“Thank you.”
“You see, Lovely, I’ve taken a fancy to you: a real, live, fat, young fancy. You remind me of Bozy Walker that was fired for introducing geese into the Muffin Head’s bedroom; dear old Bozy, he stood up to me for seven rounds.”
Lovely Mead dropped the hairbrush in his agitation and drew a long breath. How much longer could his weak human nature hold out? Downstairs the gong began to call them to breakfast. With the first sound the Gutter Pup was in the middle of the floor, out of his pajamas and into his clothes before the gong had ceased to ring. He plunged his head into the basin already filled with water, dried himself, parted the moist hair with one sweeping stroke of his comb, snapped a dickey about his neck and struggled into his coat while Lovely was still staring with amazement.
“That’s the way it’s done,” said the Gutter Pup, triumphantly. “There’s only one fellow in the school can beat me out, and that’s that old Hickey, over in the Dickinson; but I’ll beat him yet. Are you ready? Come on!”
The trouble was that the Gutter Pup was absolutely unaware of the disturbance in Lovely’s mind, or that his reminiscences provoked such thoughts of combat. He took Lovely to the village and fitted him out, hectoring the tradesmen and smashing prices with debonair impudence that Lovely sneakingly envied. Certainly the Gutter Pup was unusually cordial and did not in the least make him feel the indignities of his position of newcomer, as he had a right to do.
After supper they worked on the arrangement of their room. The Gutter Pup grew ecstatic as Lovely produced his treasures from the bottom of the trunk.
“My aunt’s cat’s kittens!” he ejaculated as Lovely produced a set of pennants in gaudy arrangement. “Will we have the boss room, though! Lovely, you are a treasure! This will make the Waladoo Bird turn pale and weep for sorrow. Supposin’ we ruminate.”
They ranged their accumulated possessions on the floor, and sat back to consider.
“Well,” said the Gutter Pup, “let’s begin by putting the cushions on the window-seat and the rugs on the floor. Now the question is—what’s to have the place of honour?”
“What have you got?” asked Lovely, considering.
“I’ve got a signed photograph of John L. Sullivan,” said the Gutter Pup, proudly producing it. “It used to be cleaner, but Butsey White blew up with a root-beer bottle and spattered it.”
“Is it his own signature?” inquired Lovely, gazing in awe.
“Sure. Dear old John L. He was a fighter. Now, what have you got?”
“I’ve got a picture of an actress.”
“Honest?”
“Sure.”
“Who is it?”
“Maude Adams.”
“You don’t say so!”
“Fact.”
“It isn’t signed, Lovely—it can’t be?”
“It is.”
“Cracky! That is a prize. Maude Adams! Think of it! What will the Waladoo Bird say?”
The Gutter Pup gazed reverently at the priceless photograph and said in a breath:
“Maude Adams and John L.; think of it, Lovely!” He paused and added in a burst of gratitude: “Say, you can call me Gazelle or Razzle-dazzle now, if you want; afterward we’ll see about Gutter Pup.”
Lovely was too overcome by this advance to voice his feelings, but his heart went out to his new friend, all irritation forgotten. After long discussion it was decided that the two photographs, being of unique and equal value, should be hung side by side on the background of an American flag. The pennants were strung as a border around the walls, but were speedily hidden under an imposing procession of light-weight and middle-weight champions, sporting prints, posters and lithographic reproductions of comic opera favourites, boxing gloves, fencing masks, lacrosse sticks, Japanese swords, bird nests, stolen signs, photographs of athletic teams, cotillon favours and emblems of the school and the Woodhull. They stopped and gazed in awe and admiration, and falling gleefully into each other’s arms, executed a dance about the room. Then Lovely Mead, in an unthinking moment, standing before the photograph of the mighty John L., exclaimed: “Say, Gazelle, isn’t he a wonder, though! How long have you had it?”
“I got it,” said the Gutter Pup, putting his head on one side and reflecting, “right after I fought Whitey Brown—just before my mill with Doggie Shephard—a year and a half ago, I should say.”
All the joy of the home-building left Lovely. He sat down on the bed and pulled at his shoe-strings so viciously that they broke off in his hand.
“What’s the matter?” said the Gutter Pup in surprise.
“Nothing.”
“You look sort of put out.”
“Oh, no.”
“Whitey was a tough one,” resumed the Gutter Pup, lolling on the window-seat, “but Doggie was no great shakes. Too fat and overgrown. He did look big, but he had no footwork and his wind was bad—very bad.”
Lovely Mead listened with averted eyes.
If he had only been an old boy he would have thrown down the gauntlet then and there; but he was a freshman and must check the tugging within. Besides, there must be some excuse. He could not openly, out of clear sky, provoke an old boy who had taken him under his protection and had done everything to make him feel at home. Such an act would be fresh, and would bring down on him the condemnation of the whole school.
“Why the deuce should I care, after all?” he asked himself gloomily that night. “What difference does it make how many fellows he’s licked. I suppose it’s because I’m a coward. That’s it; it’s because I’m afraid that he would lick me that it rankles so. Am I a coward, after all, I wonder?”
This internal questioning became an obsession. It clouded his days and took the edges from the keen joy of romping over the football field and earning the good word of Tough McCarthy for his neat diving tackles. Could the Gutter Pup lick him, after all? He wondered, he debated, he doubted. He began to brood over it until he became perfectly unapproachable, and the Gutter Pup, without a suspicion of the real cause, began to assure Hasbrouck that Lovely was being overtrained.
Meanwhile, matters were approaching a crisis with Lovely. Each morning he calculated the strength of the Gutter Pup’s chest and arms, and wondered what was the staying power of his legs. Sometimes he admitted to himself that he wouldn’t last three rounds. At others he figured out a whole plan of campaign that must wear down the Gutter Pup and send him to a crashing defeat. Waking, he went through imaginary rounds, received without wincing tremendous, imaginary blows, and sent in sledge-hammer replies that inevitably landed the champion prone on his back. At night his dreams were a long conglomeration of tussling and battle in the most unexpected places. He fought the Gutter Pup at the top of the water-tower and saw him vanish over the edge as the result of a smashing blow on the point of the jaw; he fought him on the football field and in the classroom, while the Roman held the watch and the head master insisted on refereeing.
The worst of it was, he knew he was going to pieces and moping in a way to render himself a nuisance to all his associates; and yet he couldn’t help it. Try as he would to skip the mention of any subject that could be tagged to a date, every now and then an opening would come, and the Gutter Pup would begin: “Let me see; that must have been just after I fought——”
At last, one night, unable to bear the strain longer, Lovely went to his room resolved to end it. He bided his opportunity, gazing with unseeing eyes at the pages of the divine Virgil. Finally he raised his head and said, abruptly: “Say, Lazelle, what do you think of our chances for the football championship?”
“Fair, only fair,” said the Gutter, glad for any excuse to stop studying. “The Davis and the Dickinson look better to me.”
“How long has it been since we won?” said Lovely, scarcely breathing.
“Let me see,” said the Gutter Pup, unsuspecting. “We won the fall I fought Legs Brownell behind the Davis house.”
“Lazelle,” said Lovely, rising desperately, “I can lick you!”
“What?”
“I can lick you!”
“Hello,” said the Gutter Pup, considering him in amazement; “what does this mean?”
“It means I can lick you,” repeated Lovely doggedly, advancing and clenching his fists.
“You want a fight?”
“I do.”
“Why, bully for you!”
The Gutter Pup considered, joyfully, with a glance at the clock.
“It’s too late now to pull it off. We’ll let it go until to-morrow night. Besides, you’ll be in better condition then, and you can watch your food, which is important. I’ll notify Hickey. You don’t mind fighting by lamplight?”
“Huh!”
“Of course, we’ll fight under the auspices of the Sporting Club, with a ring and sponges and that sort of thing,” said the Gutter Pup cheerfully. “You’ll like it. It’s a secret organisation and it’s a great honour to belong. Hickey, at the Dickinson, got it up. He’s president, and referees. I’m the official timekeeper, but that don’t matter. They’ll arrange for seconds and all that sort of thing, and Doc Macnooder is always there for medical assistance. You’re sure the lights won’t bother you?”
“No.”
“It’s a queer effect, though. First time I fought Snapper Bell——”
“Lazelle,” said Lovely, choking with rage, “I can lick you, right now—here—and I don’t believe you ever licked anyone in your life!”
“Look here, freshman,” said the Gutter Pup, at once on his dignity; “I’ve stood enough of your impertinence. You’ll do just as I say, and you’ll act like a gentleman and a sport and not like a member of the Seventy-second Street gang. We’ll fight like sportsmen, to-morrow, at midnight, under the auspices of the Sporting Club, in the baseball cage, and until then I’ll dispense with your conversation! Do you hear me?”
Lovely Mead felt the justice of the reproof. Yes, he had acted like a member of the Seventy-second Street gang! He glanced up at the photograph (slightly spotted) of John L., and he thought of Ivanhoe and the Three Musketeers, and Sir Nigel of the White Company, and presently he said, tentatively:
“I say——”
No answer.
“Lazelle——”
Still no answer.
“Say, I want to—to apologise. You’re right about the Seventy-second Street gang. I’m sorry.”
“All right,” said the Gutter Pup, not quite appeased. “I’m glad you apologised.”
“But we fight to-morrow—to the end—to the limit!”
“You’re on!”
They spoke no more that night, undressing in silence, each covertly swelling his muscles and glancing with stolen looks at his opponent’s knotted torso. By morning the Gutter Pup’s serenity had returned.
“Well, how’re you feeling? How did you sleep?” he asked, poking his nose over the coverlets.
“Like a log,” returned Lovely, lying gloriously.
“Good. Better take a nap in the afternoon, though, if you’re not used to midnight scrapping.”
“Thanks.”
“Mind the food—no hot biscuits, and that sort of thing. A dish of popovers almost put me to the bad the first time I met Bull Dunham. Fact, and he didn’t know enough to counter.”
Lovely dressed and hurriedly left the room.
At two o’clock, to his amazement, Charley De Soto, the great quarterback, in person, waited on him in company with the gigantic Turkey Reiter, tackle on the eleven, and informed him that they had been appointed his seconds and anxiously inquired after his welfare.
“I—oh, I’m doing pretty well, thank you, sir,” said Lovely, overcome with embarrassment and pride.
“Say, Charley,” said Turkey, after an approving examination, “I kind of hanker to the looks of this here bantam. He’s got the proper colour hair and the protruding jaw. Danged if I don’t believe he’ll give the Gutter Pup the fight of his life.”
“Can you lick him?” said De Soto, looking Lovely tensely in the eyes.
“I’ll do it or die,” said Lovely, with a lump in his throat.
“Good, but mind this, youngster: no funking. I don’t stand second to any quitter. If I’m behind you, you’ve got to win.”
Lovely thought at that moment that death on the rack would be a delight if it only could win a nod of approbation from Charley De Soto.
“How’s your muscles?” asked Turkey. He ran his fingers over him, slapped his chest and punched his hips, saying:
“Hard as a rock, Charley.”
“How’s your wind?” said De Soto.
“Pretty well, thank you, sir,” said Lovely, quite overcome by the august presence.
“Now keep your mind off things. Don’t let the Gutter Pup bluff you. Slip over to the Upper, right after lights, and I’ll take charge of the rest. By the way, Turk, who’s in the corner with the Gutter Pup?”
“Billy Condit and the Triumphant Egghead.”
“Good. We’ll just saunter over and lay a little bet. So-long, youngster. No jiggers or éclairs. See you later.”
“So-long, old Sporting Life,” added Turkey, with a friendly tap on the shoulder. “Mind now, keep cheerful.”
Lovely’s mood was not exactly cheerful. In fact he felt as if the bottom had fallen out of things. He tried his best to follow Charley De Soto’s advice and not think of the coming encounter, but, do what he would, his mind slipped ahead to the crowded baseball cage, the small, ill-lighted ring, and the Gutter Pup.
“After all, will he lick me?” he said, almost aloud. His heart sank, or rather it was a depression in the pit of his stomach.
“Supposing he does?” he went on, pressing his knuckles against his teeth. What a humiliation after his boast! There would be only one thing to do—leave school at once, and never, never return!
He had wandered down to the football field where the candidates for the school eleven were passing and falling on the ball under the shouted directions of the veterans. The bulky figure of Turkey Reiter, gigantic with its padded shoulders and voluminous sweater, hove into view, and the tackle’s rumbling voice cried out:
“Hi there, old Sockarooster, this won’t do! Keep a-laughin’; keep cheerful; tumble down here and shag for me.”
Lovely Mead went gratefully to fetch the balls that Turkey booted, far down the field, to the waiting halfbacks.
“Feeling a bit serious, eh?” said Turkey.
“Well——”
“Sure you are. That’s nothing. Don’t let the Gutter Pup see it, though. He’s got to believe we are holding you in, chaining you up, keepin’ you under the bars, ’cause you’re barking to get at him. Savvy? Chuck in a bluff, old sport, and—keep cheerful. Better now?”
“Yes, thank you,” said Lovely, who was in nowise suffering from an excess of hilarity.
He did not see the Gutter Pup until supper, and then had to undergo again his solicitous inquiries. By a horrible effort he succeeded in telling a funny story at the table, and laughed until his own voice alarmed him. Then he relapsed into silence, smiling furiously at every remark, and chewing endlessly on food that had no flavour for him.
“Lovely,” said the Gutter Pup upstairs, shaking his head, “you don’t look fit; you’re getting nervous.”
“Sure,” said Lovely, remembering Turkey’s injunction. “I’m a high-strung, vicious temperament!”
“Your eye acts sort of loose,” said the Gutter Pup, unconvinced. “You’re new to fighting before a big assemblage. It’s no wonder. I don’t want any accidental advantages. Say the word and we’ll put it over.”
“No,” said Lovely, quite upset by his friendly offer. “I only hope, Lazelle, I can hold myself in. I’ve got an awful temper; I’m afraid I’ll kill a man some day.”
“No, Lovely,” said Gutter Pup, shaking his head. “You don’t deceive me. You are ill—ill, I tell you, and you might as well own up.”
The truth was, Lovely was ill and rapidly getting worse under the insouciance of the veteran of the ring.
“Why, my aunt’s cat’s pants, Lovely,” said the Gutter Pup seriously. “That’s nothing to be ashamed of. Didn’t I get it the same way the first time I went up against Bloody Davis, of the Murray Hill gang, on a bet I’d stick out three rounds?”
Lovely Mead drew a sigh of relief. The red blood seemed to rush back into his veins once more, and his lungs to resume their appointed functions.
“September’s a good month for these little things,” he said hopefully.
“October’s better, more snap in the air,” said the Gutter Pup. “September’s muggy. I remember when I was matched against Slugger Kelly; it was so hot I lost ten pounds, and the fight only went five rounds, at that.”
The old provocation had roused up the old antagonism in Lovely. He hardly dared trust himself longer in the room, so he bolted and slipped down to the Waladoo’s room and out into the campus.
“Gee,” he said to himself, with a sigh of relief, “if I could only get at him now!”
At taps he went cautiously to the Upper, by the back way, and gained the room of Charley De Soto, where he was told to turn in on the window-seat and take it easy.
Presently Turkey Reiter and Macnooder arrived to discuss the probabilities. Then Bojo Lowry, who could play anything, sat down at the piano and performed the most wonderful variations and medleys, until Lovely forgot any future engagement in the delight of gazing from his cushioned recess on real Fourth Formers, enjoying the perquisites and liberties of the Upper House.
Suddenly Macnooder glanced at his watch and announced that it was almost midnight. Lovely sprang up feverishly.
“Here, young Sporting Life,” cried Turkey, “no champing on the bit! Just a dash of calm and tranquillity.”
“Easy, easy there,” said De Soto, with a professional glance.
“Ready here,” said Macnooder, picking up a brown satchel. “I’ll bleed him if he faints.”
They separated, and, on tiptoe, by various routes, departed from the Upper, making wide circles in the darkness before seeking the baseball cage, Lovely Mead supported on either side by Charley De Soto and Turkey.
They gave the countersign at the door, and were admitted noiselessly into the utter blackness of the baseball cage. Lovely waited in awe, unable to distinguish anything, clutching at Turkey’s arm.
“Is the Gutter Pup here yet?” said De Soto’s voice, in a whisper.
Another voice, equally guarded, replied: “Just in.”
From time to time the door opened on the starry night and vague forms flitted in. Then other voices spoke:
“What time is it?”
“Midnight, Hickey.”
“Lock the door; no admittance now. Egghead, show up with the light. Strike up, Morning Glory!”
A bull’s-eye flashed out from one corner, and then two lanterns filled the gloom with their trembling flicker.
Out of the mist suddenly sprang forty-odd members of the Sporting Club, grouped about a vacant square in the middle of the cage which had been roped off. De Soto and Turkey pushed forward to their appointed stations, where chairs had been placed for the principals. Lovely seated himself and glanced across the ropes. The Gutter Pup was already in his corner, stripped to the waist, and being gently massaged by the Triumphant Egghead and Billy Condit, captain of the eleven.
In the middle of the ring, Hickey, in his quality of president and referee, was giving his directions in low, quick syllables. The assembled sporting gentlemen pressed forward for the advantage of position; the two front ranks assuming sitting or crouching positions, over which the back rows craned. Lovely gazed in awe at the select assembly. The élite of the school was there. He saw Glendenning, Rock Bemis and Tough McCarthy of his own house, scattered among such celebrities as Crazy Opdyke, the Mugwump Politician, Goat Phillips, who ate the necktie, and the Duke of Bilgewater, Wash Simmons, Cap Kiefer, Stonewall Jackson, Tug Moffat, Slugger Jones, Ginger-Pop Rooker, Cheyenne Baxter, Red Dog, Hungry Smeed, and Beauty Sawtelle, all silently estimating the strength of the freshman who had to go up against the veteran Gutter Pup.
Referee Hickey paid a quick visit to the contending camps, and was assured that each antagonist was restrained from flying at his opponent’s throat only by the combined efforts of his seconds.
“Gentlemen of the Sporting Club,” said Hickey, scraping one foot and shooting his collar, as referees do, “Before proceeding with the evening’s entertainment, the management begs to remind you that the labours incident to the opening of the school have been unusually heavy—unusually so; and, as we particularly desire that nothing shall be done to disturb the slumbers of our overworked Faculty, we will ask you to applaud only in the English fashion, by whispering to your neighbour, ‘Oh, very well struck, indeed,’ when you are moved to excitement. We gently remind you that any one breaking forth into cheers will be first slugged and then expelled.
“Gentlemen of the Sporting Club, I have the honour to present to you the evening’s contestants. On the right, our well-known sporting authority, Mr. Gutter Pup Lazelle, known professionally as the Crouching Kangaroo. On the left, Mr. Lovely Mead, the dark horse from Erie, Pennsylvania, who has been specially fed on raw beef in preparation for the encounter. Both boys are members of the Woodhull branch of this club. The rounds will be of three minutes each—one minute intermission. Mr. Welsh Rabbit Simpson will act as timekeeper, and will return the stop-watch immediately on conclusion of the exercises. Both contestants have signified their desire to abide strictly to the rules laid down by the late Marquess of Queensberry, bless him! No fouls will be tolerated, and only one blow may be struck in the break-away.
“In the corner for the Gutter Pup, Mr. William Condit, the tiddledy-winks champion, and the only Triumphant Egghead in captivity.
“In the corner for Lovely, Mr. Turkey Reiter, the Dickinson Mud Lark, and Mr. Charles De Soto, the famous crochet expert. Doctor Macnooder, the Trenton veterinary, is in attendance, but will not be allowed to practice. The referee of the evening will be that upright and popular sportsman, the Honourable Hickey Hicks. Let the contestants step into the ring.”
Lovely was shoved to his feet and propelled forward by a resounding slap on his shoulders from Turkey Reiter. He had sat in a daze, awed by the strange, imposing countenances of the school celebrities, duly submitting to the invigorating massage of his seconds, hearing nothing of the directions showered on him. Now he was actually in the ring, feeling the hard earth under his feet, looking into the eyes of the Gutter Pup, who came up cheerfully extending his hand. Surprised, Lovely took it, and grinned a sheepish grin.
“Ready—go!” came the command.
Instantly the Gutter Pup sprang back, assuming that low, protective attitude which had earned from Hickey the epithet of the Crouching Kangaroo. Lovely, very much embarrassed, extended his left arm, holding his right in readiness while he moved mechanically forward on the point of his toes. The Gutter Pup, smiling at him, churned his arms and shifted slightly to one side. Strangely enough, Lovely felt all his resentment vanish. He no longer had the slightest desire to hurl himself on his antagonist. Indeed, it would at that moment have seemed quite a natural act to extend his hand to the joyful Gutter Pup and close the incident with a laugh. But there he was, irrevocably destined to fight before the assembled Sporting Club, under penalty of everlasting disgrace. He made a tentative jab and sprang lightly back from the Gutter Pup’s reply. Then he moved forward and backward, feinting with his left and right, wishing all the time that the Gutter Pup would rush in and strike him, that he might attack with anger instead of this weakening mental attitude to which he was at present a prisoner. Twice the Gutter Pup’s blows grazed his head, and once landed lightly on his chest, without his being at all moved from his calm. The call of “Time” surprised him. He went to his seconds frowning.
“What’s wrong, young’n?” said De Soto. “You’re not in the game.”
“No,” said Lovely, shaking his head. “I—I’ve got to get mad first.”
“All right, that’ll come. Keep cool and play to tire him out,” said De Soto, satisfied. “Make him do the prancing around; don’t you waste any energy.”
“Time!” whispered the Welsh Rabbit.
Again he was in the ring, experiencing once more that same incomprehensible feeling of sympathy for the Gutter Pup. The more he danced about, shaking his head and feinting with quick, nervous jabs, the more Lovely’s heart warmed up to him. Wasn’t he a jolly, genial chap, though? Desperately Lovely strove to remember some fault, a word or a look that had once offended him. In vain; nothing came. He liked the chap better than he had ever liked any one before. He struck out as one strikes at his dearest friend, and a low groan of disgust rose from the Sporting Club.
“Ah, put some steam in it!”
“Do you think you’re pickin’ cherries?”
“That’s it—be polite!”
“Sister, don’t hurt little brother!”
The Welsh Rabbit spoke:
“Time!”
Not a real blow had yet been struck. Lovely went to his corner perplexed.
“That’s the boy,” said De Soto, with a satisfied shake of his head. “That’s the game! Don’t mind what you hear. Play the long game. The Crouching Kangaroo style is all very pretty, but it doesn’t save the wind.”
“Never mind the ballet steps, Sport,” added Turkey, vigorously applying the towel. “Hold in, but when you do start, rip the in’ards out of things.”
“They think I’m doing it on purpose,” said Lovely to himself.
“Time!” called the Welsh Rabbit.
The Gutter Pup, changing his tactics, as though he had sufficiently reconnoitred, began to attack with rapid, pestiferous blows that annoyed Lovely as a swarm of gnats annoys a dog. He shook his head angrily and sought an opportunity to strike, but the fusillade continued, light but disconcerting. When he struck, the Gutter Pup slipped away or ducked and returned smiling and professional to attack. Lovely began to be irritated by the Gutter Pup’s complacency. He wasn’t serious enough,—his levity was insulting. Also, he was furious because the Gutter Pup would not strike him a blow that hurt. His jaw set and he started to rush.
“Time!” said the Welsh Rabbit.
Lovely went to his corner unconvinced.
“Are the rounds three minutes?” he asked.
“Sure,” said Turkey. “Don’t worry; they’ll get longer.”
Lovely looked across at the opposite camp. The adherents of the Gutter Pup were patting him on the back, exulting over his work.
“What’s he done?” said Lovely, angrily, to himself; “that sort of work wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Time!” said the Welsh Rabbit.
Lovely walked slowly to meet the Gutter Pup, bursting with irritation. He waited, and as the Gutter Pup attacked he plunged forward, taking a blow in the face, and drove his fist joyfully into the chest before him. The Gutter Pup went back like a tenpin, staggered, and kept his footing. When he came up there was no longer a smile in his eyes.
They threw boxing to the winds. It was give and take, fast and furious, back and forth against the ropes, and rolling over and over on the ground.
“Time!” announced the Welsh Rabbit, and Hickey had to pry them apart.
Lovely thought the intermission would never end. He sat stolidly, paying no heed to his seconds’ prayers to go slow, to rest up this next round, to make the Gutter Pup work. He would fight his fight his own way, without assistance.
“Time!” said the Welsh Rabbit.
Lovely started from his corner for the thing that came to meet him without yielding, exchanging blows without attempt at blocking, rushing into clinches, locking against the heaving chest, looking into the strange, wild eyes, pausing for neither breath nor rest.
Once he was rushed across the ring, fighting back like a tiger, and jammed over the ropes into the ranks of the spectators. Then he caught the Gutter Pup off his balance, and drove him the same way, his arms working like pistons. The rounds continued and ended with nothing to choose between them.
Lovely felt neither the blows received nor the rough rubbing-down of his seconds. He heard nothing but the sharp cries of “Time!” and sometimes he didn’t hear that; but a rough hand would seize him (was it Hickey’s?) and tear him away from the body against him.
He went down several times, wondering what had caused it, quits for standing moments triumphantly, while the fallen Gutter Pup raised himself from the ground.
Then he lost track of the rounds; and the rows of sweaters and funny white faces about the ring seemed to swell and multiply into crowds that stretched far back and up. The lights seemed to be going out—getting terribly dim and unsteady.
Once in his corner he thought he heard some one say: “Fifteenth round”—fifteen, and he could remember only six. In fact, he had forgotten whom he was fighting or what it was about, only that some one on whose knee he was resting was shrieking in his ear:
“He’s all out, Lovely. You’ve got him. Just one good soak—just one lovely one!”
That was a joke, he supposed—a poor joke—but he would see to that “one soak” the next round.
“Time!” cried the Welsh Rabbit.
For the sixteenth time the seconds raised their champions, steadied them, and sent them forth. One good blow would send either toppling over to the final count. So they craned forward in wild excitement, exhorting them in hoarse whispers.
The two contestants gyrated up and stood blankly regarding each other. About them rose a murmur of voices:
“Sail in!”
“Soak him, Lovely!”
“Clean him up, Gutter Pup!”
“One to the jaw!”
“Now’s your time!”
With a simultaneous movement each raised his right and shot it lumberingly forward, past the hazy, confronting head, fruitlessly into the air. Renewed whispers, dangerously loud, arose:
“Now’s your chance, Gutter Pup!”
“Draw off and smash him!”
“He’s all yours, Lovely!”
“Oh, Lovely, hit him! hit him!”
“Just once!”
They neither heard nor cared. Their arms locked lovingly about their shoulders, and they began to settle. New cries:
“Break away!”
“Don’t let him pull you down!”
“Keep your feet, Lovely!”
“They’re both going!”
With a gradual, deliberate motion, Lovely and the Gutter Pup sat down, still affectionately embraced; then, wavering a moment, careened over and lay blissfully unconscious. Amazement and perplexity burst forth.
“Why, they’re done for!”
“They’re out—they’re both out!”
“Sure enough.”
“What happens?”
“Who wins?”
“Well, did you ever——”
Suddenly Hickey, standing forward, began to count:
“One, two, three——”
“What’s he doing that for?”
“Aren’t they both down?”
“Four, five, six, seven——”
“But Lovely went first!”
“No, the Gutter Pup.”
“Eight, nine, TEN!” cried Hickey. “I declare both men down and out. The Sporting Club will register one knockout to the credit of the Gutter Pup and one to Lovely Mead. All bets off. The Welsh Rabbit will proceed to return that watch!!”
At seven o’clock the next morning Lovely, from his delicious bed, gazed across at the swollen head of the Gutter Pup. At the same instant the Gutter Pup, opening his eyes, perceived the altered map of Lovely’s features.
“Lovely,” he said brokenly, “you’re the finest ever. You’re a man after my own heart!”
“Razzle-dazzle,” replied Lovely, choking, “you’re the finest sport and gentleman in the land. I love you better than a brother.”
“Lovely, that was the greatest fight that has ever been fought,” said the Gutter Pup. “You are the daisy scrapper!”
“Razzle-dazzle——”
“Call me Gutter Pup.”
“Gutter Pup, you’ve got the nerve market cornered.”
“Lovely, I haven’t felt so happy since the day I stood up five rounds——”
Suddenly the Gutter Pup stopped and added apologetically: “Say, Lovely, honest, does my au-to-biography annoy you?”
And Lovely replied happily:
“No, Gutter Pup, honest—not now.”