Short Fiction

in his other bouts. He wrote his name and address all over Igoe’s pan, and convinced the Battler that any time he wanted to he could knock him for a row of stumps. That went on for three rounds, with Nate, as usual, begging the kid to put over a haymaker, and Burke paying no attention. So when the bell rung for the fourth, Nate hollered, “Good night, Bat!” and Igoe thought sure he meant business. And he wasn’t named after Nelson. So the first time Burke hit him in this round he folded up like a bass singer’s chin and flopped on the floor, yelling foul. Well, we all seen the blow; it landed just under the green spot where he parks his collar button. And besides that, they wasn’t no force to it. But Igoe was through for the evening, and the kid had win another soft one. Personally I’d of rather took fifty socks on the jaw than the razzing the crowd give Bat.

Well, Nate was going to New York and stay a w’ile and he wanted to send Burke back to Chi to wait till they’d chose a date for the fight with Kemp. But Burkey said no; he could lay round New York as easy as Chicago and if Nate wouldn’t take him there he was through. He says:

“Here I am a coming champion, and what does it get me? I ain’t having no fun. I want to meet some gals and dance with them and kid them.”

“All right, come along,” says Nate. “But I wished you’d remember one thing: When you do meet them swell East Side janes, don’t treat them like toys. They’ve got feelings as well as riches and wealth, and I would rather see Kemp or Britton knock you lopsided than see you win fame and leave a trail of broken hearts.”

“I’m no flirt!” says Burkey. “I can’t help what they feel towards me, but I won’t lead them on, not unlest I’m serious myself.”

“Now you’re talking like a man!” says Nate.

So they come to New York and stopped at the Spencer. Nate had a lot of business to tend to, and guys to see, and he didn’t want this rube chasing round with him all the w’ile, so he turned him over to Jack Grace, the old lightweight. You know Jack, or at least you’ve heard of him. He’d kid Thomas A. Edison.

Nate had tipped off Jack about Burkey, and the second day they was in the Big Town, Jack took the boy for a walk. Every time they passed a car with a good-looking gal in it, Burke would ask, “Who’s that?” And Jack pretended like he knew them all.

“That’s Gwendolyn Weasel,” he’d say. “Her old man owns part of the Grand Central Station⁠—the Lower Level. And that one’s Mildred Whiffletree, a niece of Bud Fisher, the ukulele king. And there’s Honey Hives; she’s a granddaughter of Old Man Bumble, the bee man. They got a big country place on Ellis Island.”

“Where could a man meet these gals?” ast Burkey.

“Nowheres only at their home,” said Jack. “And they’s no chance of you getting invited round yet a w’ile. Nobody knows who you are. But wait till you’ve hung one on this Kemp guy’s chin and I bet you’ll have more invitations than a roach catcher.”

Well, Nate landed the Kemp match sooner than he expected. Rickard said he’d put Burke on with Willie for the windup, three weeks from then. And he’d guarantee the winner a match with Britton.

Nate had got what he was after, but he was worried sick.

“I know he can beat Kemp if he fights,” he says, “but I never yet been able to make him fight. And if he just babies along like he done in these other bouts, one of these New York referees is liable to say he ain’t trying, and stop the bout. Or if it does go the limit, Kemp’ll get the decision because he’ll punch harder. And Kemp’ll hit Burke too. He’s far and away the best boy my kid’s ever been against, too good to get showed up even by as fast and clever a boxer as Burkey. Our only chance is to make this little farmer slug⁠—tear in there and sock him like he did Porter. But how we’re going to do it is more than I know.”

V

Jack Grace is the one that deserves the credit. He went to work the night of Miss Morgan’s big show, when the receipts was turned over to devastated France. Nate had to buy four tickets and I and Jack and Burkey went with him.

Well, as you know, our best people was there that night.

The old Garden was full of the folks that generally goes there to the horse show, not to boxing bouts. The soup and fish was everywheres, and gals that would knock your eye out, dressed pretty near as warm as the fighters themselfs.

We couldn’t keep Burke in his seat. He was scared that he wouldn’t see all the janes, and just as scared that they wouldn’t all see him. The guys behind him was yelling murder and the ushers bawled him out a dozen times.

Then all of a sudden, his eyes jumped right out of his head and he gave a gasp and flopped down in his chair. The three of us looked where he was looking. And no wonder he’d wilted! What a gal!

She was with a middle-aged man, probably her dad, and she set in the row just ahead of us and acrost the aisle. I guess it was the first time she’d ever been to this kind of a party and she was all flushed up with excitement. But she’d of been pretty enough without that.

“There she is!” says Burke. “There’s the gal I want!”

“Who don’t!” says Nate.

“Who is she?” Burke ast, and Nate was going to tell him he didn’t know. But Jack Grace cut in.

“It’s Esther Fester,” he said.