“You’ll need to. The man behind is a big bug.”
“Who is he?”
The stranger shrugged his shoulders.
“Search me. You wouldn’t expect him to give that away.”
“Then on what system have you estimated the size of the gentleman’s bug-hood? What makes you think that he’s a big bug?”
“By the number of dollars he was ready to put up to have you put through.”
Smith’s eyes gleamed for an instant, but he spoke as coolly as ever.
“Oh!” he said. “And which gang has he hired?”
“I couldn’t say. He—his agent, that is—came to Bat Jarvis. Bat for some reason turned the job down.”
“He did? Why?”
“Search me. Nobody knows. But just as soon as he heard who it was he was being asked to lay for, he turned it down cold. Said none of his fellows was going to put a finger on anyone who had anything to do with your paper. I don’t know what you’ve been doing to Bat, but he sure is the long-lost brother to you.”
“A powerful argument in favor of kindness to animals!” said Smith. “One of his celebrated stud of cats came into the possession of our stenographer. What did she do? Instead of having the animal made into a nourishing soup, she restored it to its bereaved owner. Observe the sequel. We are very much obliged to Comrade Jarvis.”
“He sent me along,” went on the stranger, “to tell you to watch out, because one of the other gangs was dead sure to take on the job. And he said you were to know that he wasn’t mixed up in it. Well, that’s all. I’ll be pushing along. I’ve a date. Glad to have met you, Mr. Maude. Goodnight.”
For a few moments after he had gone, Smith and John sat smoking in silence.
“What’s the time?” asked Smith suddenly. “If it’s not too late—Hello, here comes our friend once more.”
The stranger came up to the table, a light overcoat over his dress clothes. From the pocket of this he produced a watch.
“Force of habit,” he said apologetically, handing it to John. “You’ll pardon me. Goodnight again.”
CHAPTER XVIII
THE HIGHFIELD
John looked after him, open-mouthed. The events of the evening had been a revelation to him. He had not realized the ramifications of New York’s underworld. That members of the gangs should appear in gorgeous raiment in the Astor roof-garden was a surprise. “And now,” said Smith, “that our friend has so sportingly returned your watch, take a look at it and see the time. Nine? Excellent. We shall do it comfortably.”
“What’s that?” asked John.
“Our visit to the Highfield. A young friend of mine who is fighting there to-night sent me tickets a few days ago. In your perusal of
It was certainly true that, from the moment the paper had taken up his cause, Kid Brady’s star had been in the ascendant. The sporting pages of the big dailies had begun to notice him, until finally the management of the Highfield Club had signed him on for a ten-round bout with a certain Cyclone Dick Fisher.
“He should,” continued Smith, “if equipped in any degree with the finer feelings, be bubbling over with gratitude toward us. At any rate, it is worth investigating.”
Far away from the comfortable glare of Broadway, in a place of disheveled houses and insufficient street-lamps, there stands the old warehouse which modern enterprise has converted into the Highfield Athletic and Gymnastic Club. The imagination, stimulated by the title, conjures up picture-covered walls, padded chairs, and seas of white shirt front. The Highfield differs in some respects from this fancy picture. Indeed, it would be hard to find a respect in which it does not differ. But these names are so misleading! The title under which the Highfield used to be known till a few years back was “Swifty Bob’s.” It was a good, honest title. You knew what to export, and if you attended seances at Swifty Bob’s you left your gold watch and your little savings at home. But a wave of anti-pugilistic feeling swept over the New York authorities. Promoters of boxing contests found themselves, to their acute disgust, raided by the police. The industry began to languish. Persons avoided places where at any moment the festivities might be marred by an inrush of large men in blue uniforms, armed with locust sticks.
And then some big-brained person suggested the club idea, which stands alone as an example of American dry humor. At once there were no boxing contests in New York; Swifty Bob and his fellows would have been shocked at the idea of such a thing. All that happened now was exhibition sparring bouts between members of the club. It is true that next day the papers very tactlessly reported the friendly exhibition spar as if it had been quite a serious affair, but that was not the fault of Swifty Bob.
Kid Brady, the chosen of
A long journey on the subway took them to the neighborhood, and after considerable wandering they arrived at their destination.
Smith’s tickets were for a ringside box, a species of sheep pen of unpolished wood, with four hard chairs in it. The interior of the Highfield Athletic and Gymnastic Club was severely free from anything in the shape of luxury and ornament. Along the four walls were raised benches in tiers. On these were seated as tough-looking a collection of citizens as one might wish to see. On chairs at the ringside were the reporters with tickers at their sides. In the center of the room, brilliantly lighted by half-a-dozen electric chandeliers, was the ring.
There were preliminary bouts before the main event. A burly gentleman in shirt-sleeves entered the ring,
