“I’m leavin’ town for a w’ile,” said Midge.
“What for?”
“Well, we had a little run-in up to the house. The kid stole a half buck off’n me, and when I went after it he cracked me with his crutch. So I nailed him. And the old lady came at me with a chair and I took it off’n her and she fell down.”
“How is Connie hurt?”
“Not bad.”
“What are you runnin’ away for?”
“Who the hell said I was runnin’ away? I’m sick and tired o’ gettin’ picked on; that’s all. So I’m leavin’ for a w’ile and I want a piece o’ money.”
“I ain’t only got six bits,” said Happy.
“You’re in bad shape, ain’t you? Well, come through with it.”
Happy came through.
“You oughtn’t to hit the kid,” he said.
“I ain’t astin’ you who can I hit,” snarled Midge. “You try to put somethin’ over on me and you’ll get the same dose. I’m goin’ now.”
“Go as far as you like,” said Happy, but not until he was sure that Kelly was out of hearing.
Early the following morning, Midge boarded a train for Milwaukee. He had no ticket, but no one knew the difference. The conductor remained in the caboose.
On a night six months later, Midge hurried out of the “stage door” of the Star Boxing Club and made for Duane’s saloon, two blocks away. In his pocket were twelve dollars, his reward for having battered up one Demon Dempsey through the six rounds of the first preliminary.
It was Midge’s first professional engagement in the manly art. Also it was the first time in weeks that he had earned twelve dollars.
On the way to Duane’s he had to pass Niemann’s. He pulled his cap over his eyes and increased his pace until he had gone by. Inside Niemann’s stood a trusting bartender, who for ten days had staked Midge to drinks and allowed him to ravage the lunch on a promise to come in and settle the moment he was paid for the prelim.
Midge strode into Duane’s and aroused the napping bartender by slapping a silver dollar on the festive board.
“Gimme a shot,” said Midge.
The shooting continued until the windup at the Star was over and part of the fight crowd joined Midge in front of Duane’s bar. A youth in the early twenties, standing next to young Kelly, finally summoned sufficient courage to address him.
“Wasn’t you in the first bout?” he ventured.
“Yeh,” Midge replied.
“My name’s Hersch,” said the other.
Midge received the startling information in silence.
“I don’t want to butt in,” continued Mr. Hersch, “but I’d like to buy you a drink.”
“All right,” said Midge, “but don’t overstrain yourself.”
Mr. Hersch laughed uproariously and beckoned to the bartender.
“You certainly gave that wop a trimmin’ tonight,” said the buyer of the drink, when they had been served. “I thought you’d kill him.”
“I would if I hadn’t let up,” Midge replied. “I’ll kill ’em all.”
“You got the wallop all right,” the other said admiringly.
“Have I got the wallop?” said Midge. “Say, I can kick like a mule. Did you notice them muscles in my shoulders?”
“Notice ’em? I couldn’t help from noticin’ ’em,” said Hersch. “I says to the fella settin’ alongside o’ me, I says: ‘Look at them shoulders! No wonder he can hit,’ I says to him.”
“Just let me land and it’s goodbye, baby,” said Midge. “I’ll kill ’em all.”
The oral manslaughter continued until Duane’s closed for the night. At parting, Midge and his new friend shook hands and arranged for a meeting the following evening.
For nearly a week the two were together almost constantly. It was Hersch’s pleasant role to listen to Midge’s modest revelations concerning himself, and to buy every time Midge’s glass was empty. But there came an evening when Hersch regretfully announced that he must go home to supper.
“I got a date for eight bells,” he confided. “I could stick till then, only I must clean up and put on the Sunday clo’es, ’cause she’s the prettiest little thing in Milwaukee.”
“Can’t you fix it for two?” asked Midge.
“I don’t know who to get,” Hersch replied. “Wait, though. I got a sister and if she ain’t busy, it’ll be OK. She’s no bum for looks herself.”
So it came about that Midge and Emma Hersch and Emma’s brother and the prettiest little thing in Milwaukee foregathered at Wall’s and danced half the night away. And Midge and Emma danced every dance together, for though every little onestep seemed to induce a new thirst of its own, Lou Hersch stayed too sober to dance with his own sister.
The next day, penniless at last in spite of his phenomenal ability to make someone else settle, Midge Kelly sought out Doc Hammond, matchmaker for the Star, and asked to be booked for the next show.
“I could put you on with Tracy for the next bout,” said Doc.
“What’s they in it?” asked Midge.
“Twenty if you cop,” Doc told him.
“Have a heart,” protested Midge. “Didn’t I look good the other night?”
“You looked all right. But you aren’t Freddie Welsh yet by a consid’able margin.”
“I ain’t scared of Freddie Welsh or none of ’em,” said Midge.
“Well, we don’t pay our boxers by the size of their chests,” Doc said. “I’m offerin’ you this Tracy bout. Take it or leave it.”
“All right; I’m on,” said Midge, and he passed a pleasant afternoon at Duane’s on the strength of his booking.
Young Tracy’s manager came to Midge the night before the show.
“How do you feel about this go?” he asked.
“Me?” said Midge, “I feel all right. What do you mean, how do I feel?”
“I mean,” said Tracy’s manager, “that we’re mighty anxious to win, ’cause the boy’s got a chanct in Philly if he cops this one.”
“What’s your proposition?” asked Midge.
“Fifty bucks,” said Tracy’s manager.
“What do you think I am, a crook? Me lay down for fifty bucks. Not me!”
“Seventy-five, then,” said Tracy’s manager.
The market closed on eighty and the details were agreed on in short order. And the next night Midge was stopped in the second round by a terrific slap
