“If you’re broke I’ll give you your keep as long as you stay wit Pete an’ don’t get cold feet, an’ I’ll fix up a mill for you now an’ then so’s you kin pull down a little coin fer yourself. Are you game?”
“You know it,” said Billy.
“All to the good then,” said the professor gaily; “now you put on the mitts an’ spell Hurricane for a couple o’ rounds.”
Billy slipped his huge hands into the tight-fitting gloves.
“It’s been more’n a year since I had these on,” he said, “an’ I may be a little slow an’ stale at first; but after I get warmed up I’ll do better.”
Cassidy grinned and winked at Hurricane. “He won’t never get warmed up,” Hurricane confided; “Pete’ll knock his block off in about two minutes,” and the men settled back to watch the fun with ill-concealed amusement written upon their faces.
What happened within the next few minutes in the stuffy little room of Professor Cassidy’s third-floor “gymnasium” marks an epoch in the professor’s life—he still talks of it, and doubtless shall until the Great Referee counts him out in the Last Round.
The two men sparred for a moment, gaging one another. Then Battling Dago Pete swung a vicious left that landed square on Billy’s face. It was a blow that might have felled an ox; but Billy only shook his head—it scarce seemed to jar him. Pete had half lowered his hands as he recovered from the blow, so sure he was that it would finish his new sparring partner, and now before he could regain his guard the mucker tore into him like a whirlwind. That single blow to the face seemed to have brought back to Billy Byrne all that he ever had known of the manly art of self-defense.
Battling Dago Pete landed a few more before the fight was over, but as any old fighter will tell you there is nothing more discouraging than to discover that your most effective blows do not feeze your opponent, and only the knowledge of what a defeat at the hands of a new sparring partner would mean to his future, kept him plugging away at the hopeless task of attempting to knock out this mountain of bone and muscle.
For a few minutes Billy Byrne played with his man, hitting him when and where he would. He fought, crouching, much as Jeffries used to fight, and in his size and strength was much that reminded Cassidy of the fallen idol that in his heart of hearts he still worshiped.
And then, like a panther, the mucker sprang in with a vicious left hook to the jaw, followed, with lightning rapidity, by a right upper cut to the chin that lifted Battling Dago Pete a foot from the floor to drop him, unconscious, against the foot of the further wall.
It was a clean knockout, and when Cassidy and Hurricane got through ministering to the fallen man, and indications of returning consciousness were apparent, the professor turned to Billy.
“Got any more ‘hopes’ lyin’ around loose?” asked the mucker with a grin. “I guess the big dinge’s safe for a while yet.”
“Not if you’ll keep on stayin’ away from the booze, kid,” said Professor Cassidy, “an’ let me handle you.”
“I gotcha Steve,” said Billy; “go to it; but first, stake me to a feed. The front side of my stomach’s wrapped around my back bone.”
XVIII
The Gulf Between
For three months Billy met has-beens, and third- and fourth-rate fighters from New York and its environs. He thrashed them all—usually by the knockout route and finally local sports commenced talking about him a bit, and he was matched up with second-raters from other cities.
These men he cleaned up as handily as he had the others, so that it was apparent to fight fandom that the big, quiet “unknown” was a comer; and pretty soon Professor Cassidy received an offer from another trainer-manager to match Billy against a real “hope” who stood in the forefront of hopedom.
This other manager stated that he thought the mill would prove excellent practice for his man who was having difficulty in finding opponents. Professor Cassidy thought so too, and grinned for two hours straight after reading the challenge.
The details of the fight were quickly arranged. In accordance with the state regulations it was to be a ten round, no decision bout—the weight of the gloves was prescribed by law.
The name of the “white hope” against whom Billy was to go was sufficient to draw a fair house, and there were some there who had seen Billy in other fights and looked for a good mill. When the “coming champion,” as Billy’s opponent was introduced, stepped into the ring he received a hearty round of applause, whereas there was but a scattered ripple of handclapping to greet the mucker. It was the first time he ever had stepped into a ring with a first-rate fighter, and as he saw the huge muscles of his antagonist and recalled the stories he had heard of his prowess and science, Billy, for the first time in his life, felt a tremor of nervousness.
His eyes wandered across the ropes to the sea of faces turned up toward him, and all of a sudden Billy Byrne went into a blue funk. Professor Cassidy, shrewd and experienced, saw it even as soon as Billy realized it—he saw the fading of his high hopes—he saw his castles in Spain tumbling in ruins about his ears—he saw his huge giant lying prone within that squared circle as the hand of the
