“You bet it’s my business; mine and Harris’s. You cut it short or you’ll find out.”
“Listen,” said Midge, “have you got a mortgage on me or somethin’? You talk like we was married.”
“We’re goin’ to be, too. And tomorrow’s as good a time as any.”
“Just about,” Midge said. “You got as much chanct o’ marryin’ me tomorrow as the next day or next year and that ain’t no chanct at all.”
“We’ll find out,” said Grace.
“You’re the one that’s got somethin’ to find out.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m married already.”
“You lie!”
“You think so, do you? Well, s’pose you go to this here address and get acquainted with my missus.”
Midge scrawled a number on a piece of paper and handed it to her. She stared at it unseeingly.
“Well,” said Midge, “I ain’t kiddin’ you. You go there and ask for Mrs. Michael Kelly, and if you don’t find her, I’ll marry you tomorrow before breakfast.”
Still Grace stared at the scrap of paper. To Midge it seemed an age before she spoke again.
“You lied to me all this w’ile.”
“You never ast me was I married. What’s more, what the hell diff’rence did it make to you? You got a split, didn’t you? Better’n fifty-fifty.”
He started away.
“Where you goin’?”
“I’m goin’ to meet Harris and his wife.”
“I’m goin’ with you. You’re not goin’ to shake me now.”
“Yes, I am, too,” said Midge quietly. “When I leave town tomorrow night, you’re going to stay here. And if I see where you’re goin’ to make a fuss, I’ll put you in a hospital where they’ll keep you quiet. You can get your stuff tomorrow mornin’ and I’ll slip you a hundred bucks. And then I don’t want to see no more o’ you. And don’t try and tag along now or I’ll have to add another K.O. to the old record.”
When Grace returned to the hotel that night, she discovered that Midge and the Harrises had moved to another. And when Midge left town the following night, he was again without a manager, and Mr. Harris was without a wife.
Three days prior to Midge Kelly’s ten-round bout with Young Milton in New York City, the sporting editor of The News assigned Joe Morgan to write two or three thousand words about the champion to run with a picture layout for Sunday.
Joe Morgan dropped in at Midge’s training quarters Friday afternoon. Midge, he learned, was doing road work, but Midge’s manager, Wallie Adams, stood ready and willing to supply reams of dope about the greatest fighter of the age.
“Let’s hear what you’ve got,” said Joe, “and then I’ll try to fix up something.”
So Wallie stepped on the accelerator of his imagination and shot away.
“Just a kid; that’s all he is; a regular boy. Get what I mean? Don’t know the meanin’ o’ bad habits. Never tasted liquor in his life and would prob’bly get sick if he smelled it. Clean livin’ put him up where he’s at. Get what I mean? And modest and unassumin’ as a school girl. He’s so quiet you wouldn’t never know he was round. And he’d go to jail before he’d talk about himself.
“No job at all to get him in shape, ’cause he’s always that way. The only trouble we have with him is gettin’ him to light into these poor bums they match him up with. He’s scared he’ll hurt somebody. Get what I mean? He’s tickled to death over this match with Milton, ’cause everybody says Milton can stand the gaff. Midge’ll maybe be able to cut loose a little this time. But the last two bouts he had, the guys hadn’t no business in the ring with him, and he was holdin’ back all the w’ile for the fear he’d kill somebody. Get what I mean?”
“Is he married?” inquired Joe.
“Say, you’d think he was married to hear him rave about them kiddies he’s got. His fam’ly’s up in Canada to their summer home and Midge is wild to get up there with ’em. He thinks more o’ that wife and them kiddies than all the money in the world. Get what I mean?”
“How many children has he?”
“I don’t know, four or five, I guess. All boys and every one of ’em a dead ringer for their dad.”
“Is his father living?”
“No, the old man died when he was a kid. But he’s got a grand old mother and a kid brother out in Chi. They’re the first ones he thinks about after a match, them and his wife and kiddies. And he don’t forget to send the old woman a thousand bucks after every bout. He’s goin’ to buy her a new home as soon as they pay him off for this match.”
“How about his brother? Is he going to tackle the game?”
“Sure, and Midge says he’ll be a champion before he’s twenty years old. They’re a fightin’ fam’ly and all of ’em honest and straight as a die. Get what I mean? A fella that I can’t tell you his name come to Midge in Milwaukee onct and wanted him to throw a fight and Midge give him such a trimmin’ in the street that he couldn’t go on that night. That’s the kind he is. Get what I mean?”
Joe Morgan hung around the camp until Midge and his trainers returned.
“One o’ the boys from The News,” said Wallie by way of introduction. “I been givin’ him your fam’ly hist’ry.”
“Did he give you good dope?” he inquired.
“He’s some historian,” said Joe.
“Don’t call me no names,” said Wallie smiling. “Call us up if they’s anything more you want. And keep your eyes on us Monday night. Get what I mean?”
The story in Sunday’s News was read by thousands of lovers of the manly art. It was well written and full of human interest. Its slight inaccuracies went unchallenged, though three readers, besides Wallie Adams and Midge Kelly, saw and recognized them. The three were Grace, Tommy Haley and Jerome Harris and
