The leather pushers

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•m

1

I THE

I LEATHER
| PUSHERS

| H.C.WITWER.

9

THE
LEATHER PUSHERS

BY

H. C. WITWER

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS

NEW YORK AND LONDON

TTbe Umicfeerbocfeer press

1921

Copyright, 1920

by
P. F. Collier & Son Co.

Copyright, IQ2I

by
H. C. Witwer

Printed in the United States of America

Be&tcatefc to

HARFORD POWEL, JR.

"Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend."

— H. C.

2054746

PRELUDE BY THE AUTHOR

As a result of the wide publicity given the half-
million-dollar purse paid Messrs. Dempsey and Car-
pentier for a twelve-minute exhibition of assault and
battery, prize fighting has driven the cleaner and
healthier sports momentarily out of the limelight.
It is, perhaps, not to be wondered that many a strap
ping young collegian, poring over his studies, sighs
reflectively and allows a tentative hand to stray to his
biceps. As opposed to the inevitable grind at meager
pay before success comes at law, medicine, business,
any of the arts or sciences, the prospect of getting half
a million dollars within a couple of years for a few
minutes' exhibition of the "manly art" is extremely
alluring. That the vast majority of professional
bruisers batter or get battered into disfiguring insensi
bility week after week for a few dollars, that the
average paid boxer is "through" long before thirty-
five, and that most of them, even ex-champions, die
destitute and forgotten, is seldom, if ever, stressed by
the prize-fight enthusiast.

According to its admirers, prize fighting develops
physical and moral courage to the highest degree, even
implants self-respect, good sportsmanship, and a sense
of fair play where those elements have been lacking,
and, in a word, is at all times a most edifying and
character-building spectacle.

vi PRELUDE BY THE AUTHOR

A notable example of the latter was furnished last
July at Toledo, when Dempsey pounded the blood-
covered and half -conscious wreck of Willard from one
side of the ring to the other, to the accompaniment
of a chorus of such typically sportsmanlike expressions
as "Kill the big bum !" As to the physical and moral
courage inculcated by the prize ring, I have seen pun
ishment assimilated in an intercollegiate football game
that would make the average prize fighter jump out of
the ring. For the moral courage, glance at the war
record of the pugilists as a class. The majority of our
own "fighters" went on the "See America First!"
principle, and many from other countries, particularly
England, slipped over here and stayed bomb-proof
during the recent unpleasantness. Naturally, there
were individual exceptions. A few American boxers
saw service in France, and Carpentier himself won
honors as an aviator, but I am sure that was in spite
of the fact that those men were professional maulers
and not because of it. Again, a perusal of the pro
fessions of those who were commended for extraor
dinary bravery in action will show clerks, bookkeepers,
salesmen, farmers, etc. — few, if any, prize fighters.
Our most decorated doughboy, Sergeant Yorke, was
a minister.

The American Legion was very much exercised over
the recent Dempsey-Carpentier bout, on the ground
that Dempsey, the war-time shipbuilder, should not
have been permitted to represent America as its "great
est fighter." Without going into the merits of this
viewpoint, when one thinks that Dempsey, who never
got nearer France than the Newark (N. J.) Bay Ship
yards, got three hundred thousand dollars for fighting

PRELUDE BY THE AUTHOR vii

one man a few minutes with a pair of eight-ounce
gloves and that the average doughboy got thirty-
three dollars a month for fighting a couple of million
men for a year with a bayonet, it is not hard to sympa
thize with those indignant ex-members of the A. E. F.
— thousands of whom are jobless and recovering from
grievous wounds.

The impression of one who by some years of actual
experience has accumulated a little first-hand knowl
edge of the sordid atmosphere surrounding modern
professional pugilism (not amateur boxing) — an ad
mirable exercise and a vastly different sport — is that
it is a great thing to keep away from. It is no more
conducted with the idea of improving the breed of
the genus homo than present-day horse racing is de
voted to the improvement of the breed of the horse.
To the young, clean, husky youth who is regarding a
career in the prize ring with a contemplative eye, I
would suggest a ringside seat, not at a championship
battle, but at some of the bouts between second- and
third-raters, where he would naturally begin his own
apprenticeship. Let him observe the contestants and
their "handlers," listen to the supervile admonitions or
expletives hurled at a battered loser by the crowd,
absorb some of the general atmosphere — and then
make his choice.

H. C. W.

CONTENTS

PAGE

ROUND ONE
" THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS "... 3

ROUND TWO
" WITH THIS RING I THEE FED! " . . .30

ROUND THREE
PAYMENT THROUGH THE NOSE .... 59

ROUND FOUR
A FOOL AND His HONEY 86

ROUND FIVE
THE TAMING OF THE SHREWD .... 107

ROUND SIX
WHIPSAWED! ... ... 137

ROUND SEVEN
YOUNG KING COLE 162

ROUND EIGHT
HE RAISED KANE 186

CONTENTS

PAGE

ROUND NINE
THE CHICKASHA BONE CRUSHER 212

ROUND TEN
WHEN KANE MET ABEL 246

ROUND ELEVEN
STRIKE FATHER, STRIKE SON ! . 279

ROUND TWELVE
JOAN OF NEWARK 312

THE LEATHER PUSHERS

THE LEATHER PUSHERS

ROUND ONE
"THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS"

ME and Cockeyed Egan was tourin' "God's Own
Country" (Russian for the West), where the natives
would rather be Harold Bell Wright than be president,
each with a stable of battlers, pickin' up beaucoup
sugar by havin' 'em fight each other over the short
routes, when Kane Halliday skidded across my path.
Besides Beansy Mullen and Bearcat Reed, a coupla
heavies, I had a good welter in Battlin' Lewis, and
Egan had K. O. Krouse, another tough boy, which
made up a set. Them last two babies mixed with each
other more times a month than a chorus girl uses a
telephone, "without either gaining a decided advan
tage," as the newspapers innocently remarks. They
was steppin' out with each other about four times a
week, playin' a different burg each night, and every
thing was jake till K. O. Krouse shook a mean dice
and win $28 from Battlin' Lewis on the ways to
Toledo, where we had 'em scheduled to go twelve fast
rounds to a draw. Lewis broods and mutters over
that for the balance of the railroad ride and knocks

4 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

Krouse dead in the first frame that night. On ac
count of this cuckoo forgettin' he was a box fighter,
and therefore not supposed to get mad, we lose five
other bouts we are signed up for with Krouse, which
outa petty revenge refused to fight my boy any more.
Cockeyed Egan is all for goin' back to New York, be
cause, as he says, if they have took wrestlin' bouts off
of the list of felonies there again they certainly oughta
stand for the Krouse-Lewis act, where the boys is
positively guaranteed to try in the last second of the
final round, anyways!

I'm just puttin' a handful of the hotel towels in my
suit case on account of you never can tell when they
will come in handy, when a bell hop appears at the
door and makes me a present of the followin' cable :

Guarantee you thousand Cleveland Bearcat Reed vs.
One-Punch Loughlin. Wire if right. DUMMY CARNEY.

Now, this One- Punch Loughlin looked like the next
heavyweight champ to the disrobed eye right then.
He had clouted his way through the rest of the large
boys like Dewey went through Manila Bay, and his
knockout record sounded like the first two pages of the
phone book. Dummy Carney was his manager, and
him wirin' me, instead of the club doin' it, was the
office that friend Dummy had somethin' cooked up.
Sendin' Bearcat Reed into a ring with this rough
Loughlin person was like enterin' a armless wonder in
a bowlin' tourney. If Loughlin was try in', my battler
wouldn't have a chance if they let him climb through
the ropes with a ax in each hand ; but for a guarantee
of a thousand fish I would let Bearcat Reed box five
starvin' lions and a coupla irritated wildcats in the

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 5

middle of the jungle ! I wired Dummy Carney "Sold !"
grabbed the Bearcat, and lammed for Cleveland. On
the en route the sacrifice wants to know how much
they is in this fracas for him. Up to that time the
Bearcat had the idea that the only guys in the world
which eat regular was Al Vanderbilt and Jack Rocke
feller.

"Well," I says, "you oughta grab about three hun
dred men for your end. That's if you can keep from
kissin' the rosin for a coupla rounds. But, of course,
they is no use speakin' of the impossible !"

"Three hundred for me?" he hollers, leapin' up in
the seat. "Say — who am I gonna fight, the Marines ?"

"Look here, stupid," I says. "Never mind worryin'
about who you're gonna battle — you don't see it both-
erin' me, do you ? You're the most selfish guy I ever
heard tell of ! I gotta be sittin' up night and day
gettin' tramps for you to trim, wearin' my fingers to
the bone signin' contracts, gettin' a occasional line of
hooch about you in the papers, and the etc., and all
you gotta do is put on a pair of nice white trunks, step
through the ropes, take a pastin', and get paid off.
Pretty soft for you! Suppose I had signed you to
fight the Marines — as long as you get the sugar, what
do you care?"

"All right," he grins, pattin' me on the shoulder,
"don't get sore. Tell them babies they gotta leave
their bay 'nets in the dressin* room and I'll take a
chance !"

Dummy Carney met me at the train in Cleveland
and gimme the works. One-Punch Loughlin was

6 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

gonna let the Bearcat stay the limit if he hadda hold
him up, and then we was all goin' to Philly for a re
turn bout a month later, which Dummy would properly
work up and at which Loughlin would flatten the
Bearcat without no more further formalities. The
second melee would be level, as Dummy figured the
Bearcat was too much of a ham to be worth while
savin' for any more. For this last fray I was guar
anteed $1,500 for the Bearcat's end, and I never seen
a thin dime of it, because the second fight never come
off. Bearcat Reed steps through the ropes at Cleve
land, squints across the ring, and sees his comin' vis-
a-vis just climbin' up and bowin' to the wild applause.
Up jumps the Bearcat.

"One-Punch Loughlin, hey?" he yelps. "Nothin'
stirrin' ! Why, this guy would tear my head off !
What d'ye mean by throwin' me in here with that
baby ? You claimed this would be a spread for me !"

"Shut up, you dumbbell!" I hisses. "We'll fight
this guy. He ain't gonna try and — "

"Where d'ye get that we stuff ?" sneers the Bearcat.
"You mingle with him — I'll watch it!" and he'd of
ducked through the ropes if I hadn't grabbed him.

"Listen!" I whispers in his ear. "If you crab this,
I'll stick a knife in you the first time you come to
your corner ! We're gonna fight Loughlin a world
series, and this one to-night is only a stall for the real
sugar, get me? Loughlin's gonna be under wraps all
the way, and all you gotta do is make a showin'. Tear
outa your corner like you're gonna bite his nose off, git
mad and make faces — know what I mean? If
you make this look good to-night, you drag down

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 7

five hundred bucks for your next start. How 'bout
that?"

"This guy will about croak me!" gasps the Bearcat,
as white as the referee's shirt should of been. "But,
speakin' of makin' a showin' — I'm gonna do that thing
for a coupla seconds, anyways !"

Clang! goes the bell.

A wise-lookin' bird, sittin' back of me, jumps up
and yells at the Bearcat : "Rush him, kid, he ain't got
nothin' !"

One-Punch Loughlin comes slowly out, grinnin' at
close friends and noddin' politely to acquaintances.

The next minute two thousand innocent bystanders
has gone crazy and Dummy Carney has fell into the
water bucket in a dead faint !

The second the bell rung Bearcat Reed, lookin' like
a guy on his way to the chair and actin' on the prin
ciple of kill or get killed, has charged half-way across
the ring yellin': "Old men and cripples, get back of
the ropes !" A foot from the dumfounded Loughlin,
this bird, which ordinarily could out-dive all the seals
in the world once he got in a ring, smashes a right to
the button of Loughlin's jaw, and Dummy Carney's
comin' champ hits the mat so hard I bet he was pickin'
rosin outa his face for a month ! The referee counted
to "six," took another squint at the study in still life
at his feet, and waved the dazed Bearcat to his corner.
I hadda throw twelve guys outa the ring so's I could
get his gloves off. A artist which could of painted the
expression on Bearcat Reed's face as he sat there with
his eyes and mouth as open as Central Park, gazin'
at One- Punch Loughlin asleep at the switch, would

8 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

of become famous on that one picture. The Bearcat
looked like a guy which has struck a match on lower
Broadway and seen the Woolworth Buildin' imme
diately go up in flames !

Of course it was a fluke win. It wouldn't happen
again in a million years, but — it happened then, which
was ample for the Bearcat. That lucky wallop got his
name all over the country, and started me toward
pilotin' a world's champion. Somebody must of
slipped all the four-leaf clovers in the world into the
Bearcat's hair, because the next day he puts his cut
of the Loughlin fight on a 20 to 1 shot, which win
pulled up, and I don't see him again for six months.
One-Punch Loughlin fin'ly come back to life, and the
first thing he done was to bust Dummy Carney in
the nose, claimin' he had been framed, and then he
grabs another manager, which took him over to Eng
land, where the set-ups runs wild. And there we will
leave them, gentle reader, for the time bein', because
this is the story of Kane Halliday, alias "Kid Rob
erts," and that's as far as the poor old Bearcat and
One-Punch Loughlin figures in it right now. Them
guys was just the preliminary birds I trotted out to
entertain the crowd, and now, boys and girls, the "next
ex-e-bition bout of the evenin' is Kid Roberts, Yale
'17, vs. Battlin' Fate, twelve rounds to a decision.
Weights: Roberts, 195; Fate — all the rest. Gents,
kindly stop smokin'. I thank you !"

The day after Bearcat Reed flattened One-Punch
Loughlin and followed that idiotic act by leavin' me
flat, I met Dummy Carney, the other victim, in the

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 9

lobby of the hotel. One of his eyes is garbed in the
conventional black and his nose is a trifle outa true.
He let forth a beller of the opposite to joy when he
seen me, and I was the best part of a hour convincin'
him that I hadn't deliberately double-crossed him, and
that me and the Bearcat was more stunned than he was
when his battler wilted.

"Well, they is one thing about Loughlin — he proved
to the wide, wide world that they is somethin' in a
name, anyways!"

"What d'ye mean ?" growls Dummy.

"Well," I says, grinnin' demurely, "you called him
One-Punch Loughlin, and that's exactly what he was !
If you remember the late holocaust, the Bearcat only
landed one wallop on your ex-man-killer's chin, and
he immediately turned in his resignation, didn't
he?"

"The big yellah dog !" groans Dummy. "I had him
signed for seven fights in the next coupla months that
would of win me around twenty thousand berries.
From the telegrams I got this mornin' you'd think I
had just been elected governor of half a dozen States,
and every one of them wires is cancelin' Loughlin. Kin
you imagine him runnin' out on me too? If that guy
fights for anybody else, I'll have him put in the hoose-
gow till St. Looey wins a pennant ! I can start off by
suin' him and — "

"You'll get fat suin' Loughlin!" I shuts him off.
"John the Barber sued Dempsey for breach of promise,
and all John got was a introduction to all the lawyers
in America. Forget about Loughlin — you're well rid
of him, anyways. After a exercise boy like Bearcat

10 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

Reed knockin' him dead with a punch, they wouldn't
let Loughlin in a fight club now if he had a ticket!
I'm gonna shove off for New York, and you better
come along with me. The way they been breakin' for
me, I gotta good mind to get outa the fight game alto
gether and turn square!"

Dummy begins to clear his throat and rub his hands
together for a minute, and then suddenly he turns to
me and lowers his voice:

"We kin grab a rattler outa here to-night," he says.
"Stick around for a couple minutes, and you'll git a
flash at the next heavyweight champion of the world
and points west! That's if he shows up," he adds.

"You certainly have become a pig for punishment,
Dummy!" I grins. "Who's this guy?"

"Kane Halliday!" he whispers like he was sayin'
"The Sheriff of Shantung !" or the like. "How 'bout
that ?"

"It don't mean nothin' in my young life," I says.
"How d'ye play it ?"

"You never heard tell of Kane Halliday ?" he gasps
like his ears is both liars. "The big, now, football star,
the weights thrower, the — the — runner, the — ah — what
they call a roundabout athalete? You know, one of
them bimbos which flings a wicked spear and hurls a
mean hammer and that there stuff, get me ? Why, they
claim this baby beat Harvard and the other college all
by himself !"

"That ain't my fault," I yawns. "And I can't iden
tify the body yet."

"Was bein' stupid cold, you'd be zero!" snarls
Dummy. "Why, the papers was full of this guy !"

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 11

"The papers is got nothin' on me," I says, gettin' up.
"I'm full of him too ! So long !"

But he calls me back, and in about twenty minutes
I have got the low down on Monsieur Kane Halliday.

This guy had been committed to college with the
idea that when he come out he'd be at the very least a
civil engineer, though most of the engineers / know
learned their trade in a round-house and yard and was
civil enough as far as that part of it goes. Halliday's
people was supposed to have a dollar for every egg in
a shad roe, and the boy treated the civil engineer thing
as a practical joke and college as somethin' he had been
gave for Christmas to play with. The principal studies
he devoted his time and attention to was football,
wrestlin', runnin', dancin', boxin', playin' saxophone in
the Glee Club and poker in the others. He won more
gold and silver cups than the Crown Prince lifted from
Belgium, was the most popular guy that ever wore a
"Y" on his sweater, and as a reward he fin'ly got
throwed outa dear old Yale on his ear without even a
reference, let alone a diploma, because he had a preju
dice against enterin' a classroom. He hit the cruel
world about the same time Germany did, and he played
with the Allies as a dizzy aviator.

When he come back he was greeted with the delight
ful information that his old man had gone broke on
the war, and it was up to him to make the acquaintance
of Manual Labor, provided he wished to continue his
daily consumption of proteins and calories, as they
wittily refer to food in Battle Creek. Instead of goin'
down to the drug store and quaffin' off a beaker of

12 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

arsenic when he heard of this tough break, Young Hal-
liday borreys enough sugar to send his thoughtless
parent down to South America for a rest, brushes back
his hair, and starts out to dum found the universe with
stunts that would make a Douglas Fairbanks thriller
look reasonable. With the reputation he had grabbed
off at college he figured he was in soft, and it was only
a question which bank he'd start off bein' president of.

It took the kid about a month to find out that the
young men which writes all the movies, novels, and
plays in which they is a hero amongst the other char
acters is slightly addicted to exaggeration. The fact
that his father had been granted a absolute divorce
from his bank roll had leaked out, and his one-time
buddies become the busiest guys in North America
when he went to call on 'em.

Now, if Halliday had only known a scenario writer,
he would of been tipped off to sneak out immediately
for the "great open stretches of the untamed North
west," where, as a six-day-old infant knows, "a man
has his chance to live clean, fight hard and square, and
win his way to the top with his pure-hearted, fearless,
flashing-eyed, and becomingly, though sensibly, garbed
mate at his side." Or he could of gone to punchin*
cows, reformin' all the rough yet golden-hearted cow
boys by his inability to cuss and his ability to fan a six!
gun, windin' up by weddin' the rancher's sensationally
beautiful daughter, which had been to New York and
is through with the cold, merciless, and gilded sham
of the city, and craves for the sweet smell of the pines,
rodeos, cactus, sagebrush, and steers.

Instead of this, Halliday got as far as Ohio, where,

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 13

whilst waitin' for somethin' to break, he joined a troupe
of professional football players made up of ex-college
stars. He played full back and had been gettin' from
fifty to a hundred a game, which was enough to keep
him both full and back. Full of food and back in the
spotlight. The All-Star Team, however, was bustin'
up in Cleveland, and it was at this point that Dummy
Carney, which could dive into a haystack and emerge
with ten dollars' worth of needles, come across him.
Dummy had heard some of the kid's history from Tin-
Ear Fagan, a ex-pug, which was with the team as a
rubber and some from Halliday himself.

". . .And so," winds up Dummy, pullin' out one of
his favorite brand of cigars, which is called "Last One
I Got" — "and so I have worked over this baby for a
week. He looks like platinum to me! You know
what the demand is for heavies right now, and if this
guy has got anything at all I can take him around the
sticks, and then bring him into New York and clean up
with him. In about a year or two, if he's still steppin'
out, we'll go after the Big Guy. Say — can you imagine
•me pilotin' a world's heavyweight champ?"

"I prob'ly could if you would make me a present of
a bite of that opium you musta been chewin' !" I sneers.
"A college guy, hey? Well, 111 stake you to him!
I'm off them amateur champs."

"Wait till you get a flash at this bird!" interrupts
Dummy. "Why, he's got a left hand that — ssh! —
here he comes. Play dead, now !"

Halliday was class, they's no gettin' away from it.
The boy stood well over six foot and was dressed like

14 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

he had placed all of his football plunder on his back.
From my first quick size-up I judged he scaled around
195 ringside when right. He had the light, sure tread
of a prowlin' cat, which meant speed, and the clean-
cut, smooth-muscled bulk, taper in' gradually from the
walkin'-beam shoulders to the unusually slim waist,
advertised punchin' power. I knew right away that
baby packed a nasty wallop somewheres. Dummy said
he was twenty-three. He looked older.

Apart from them shop items, he inventoried about
as much like a prize fighter as I'm Mary Pick ford's
double. I though what a shock it was gonna be to him
the first time somebody flattened his nose. It was!
But the thing that struck me odd was his eyes. They
didn't seem to fit in with the rest of the layout at all.
They should of been baby blue and starin' innocently
at the world to go with that golden blond hair. But
they wasn't. They was a kinda chilled steel gray, and
for all the flickin' they did they could of been glass.
It was like lookin' into the barrels of a coupla "gats."

He stopped in front of us, nodded kinda nervously
to Dummy, and flashed them eyes on me kinda cold.

"S'all right, kid!" says Dummy, catchin' the look.
"This guy's my — eh — private secretary. Anything you
say in front of him will be used — I mean — well, what
d'ye say?"

Halliday grinned as we all sat down and pulled his
chair closer to Dummy.

"I've decided to accept your proposition, Carney,"
says Halliday slowly, settlin' back like he was gettin'
ready for a long speech. "Now, in the first place, let
us—"

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 15

But Dummy was on his feet, slappin' him on the
shoulder.

"Fine business!" he cackles. "Inside a year your
income will sound like the population of China multey-
plied by two, and like as not I'll have a couple of
pennies myself ! Now, they's no use of you gettin' all
tired out talkin' ; lemme take charge of that part of it.
We start in to-morrow night rakin' in the golden
stream. Wait here till I send a wire !"

Oh, Dummy was a fast worker, they's no doubt of
that.

Halliday looked after him kinda dazed, and then he
wiggles them pliable iron shoulders of his and laughs.
We traded a few remarks about this and that, holdin'
each other even till Dummy come bustlin' back.

"Now we're all set !" he says to Halliday. "I kinda
thought you'd see the light, so I booked you in San-
dusky a few days ago at the Crescent A. C. We're
gonna box young Du Fresne, heavyweight champion
of Canada, twelve rounds to a decision. You'll prob'ly
kill that bimbo with a punch, and then we jump to
Columbus, and — "

Halliday turns a slow smile on Dummy and holds up
his hand.

"Your opinion of my ability is certainly flattering,
old man!" he interrupts, "and your system at least
seems to have the merit of originality. My first bout
is to be with the Canadian champion, eh? What do
you propose that I do — start at the top and work my
way down?" He chuckled like the kid he was.

"Heh?" snorts Dummy. "Oh — this Du Fresne
guy? Say — if he's champion of Canada, then I'm next

16 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

in line for the English throne ; get that ? He used to
fight in the preliminaries around New York under the
name of Set-Up Jim Byrnes, and he's wore out more
tights reclinin' on the floor of a ring than any fighter
which ever pulled on a glove! Lefty Murray's re-
christened him and is takin' him around the flat-car
circuit till somethin' breaks. D'ye think I'd let you
go in there if this guy was any good? All / hope is
that you don't fracture his skull !"

"But—" begins Halliday.

"This playin' football was a bright idea," goes on
Dummy. "It's kept you in steady trainin' all the time,
which saves me a lotta trouble." He turns to me.
"Boy, he says, "that football thing is one tough pas
time. Kin you imagine them cuckoos doin' that stuff
for nothin'f" He swings around on Halliday again,
which was watchin' him like he was a curiosity. "You
ain't mixed up with no dame, are you?" he demands,
suspiciously.

The most astonishm' change come over the charmin'
features of Monsieur Halliday. His eyebrows be
comes one straight line, and them cold eyes gets down
to about the size of match heads. I found myself
givin' a little shiver, and he wasn't even lookin' at me.
He took a half step forward, and I says to myself :
"Fare thee well, Dummy Carney!" and friend
Dummy's complexion got a shade lighter, whilst a
silly grin appeared on his nervous lips. But they was
no bloodshed.

Halliday coughed a coupla times, and then his color
came back.

"Eh — we will leave the personal element entirely out

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 17

of our discussions for the present, Carney," he says,
his voice a chill breeze. "As I understand my arrange
ment with you, it is a purely business affair. We will
keep it that way !"

"Sure !" nods Dummy quickly and with the greatest
of relief. "And there's that ! Now, speakin' of busi
ness, from now on your name will be Kid Roberts,
unless you get trimmed under that name, in which case
we will get you a nice fresh new one and start you
over again. That Kane Halliday is a swell name for a
collar or a hotel, but it don't mean nothin' in the ring —
O. K.?"

They was no argument about that end of it — in fact,
it seemed to please Halliday, which from now on,
gentle reader, we will call Kid Roberts, as they never
was no necessity to change it.

"A lulu, hey?" whispers Dummy in my ear when
Kid Roberts has gone upstairs to pack up. "He's been
workin' out here for a week up at the Arena Club.
I've had him under a pull to save his hands, but he's
flattened a dozen handlers with a left hook that don't
travel over six inches ! That's poor, eh ?"

"He looks worth a bet," I says, carelessly. "I only
hope he don't blow up on you to-morrow night, that's
all."

"What d'ye mean blow up?" snarls Dummy. "He
oughta be able to take a roomful of guys like Du
Fresne — you know that !"

"Oughta be able and can do is different," I grins.
"A lotta wise birds figured Willard should of let
Dempsey come in with a gun to make it a little more
even, but look what happened ! You wanna figure that

18 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

this boy will be doin' somethin' to-morrow night he
never done before, and that conditions is gonna be a
whole lot changed for him. The first shock of that
crowd is gonna have some effect on your battler,
Dummy, and whether it'll be good or bad, I can't guess.
I've seen some it made quit cold and some it made
fightin' fools; it's accordin' to how a guy's nerves is
hooked up. Now — "

"The crowd won't bother this guy," interrupts
Dummy. "He's fought before witnesses in college and
the like."

"I bet he never heard no ringside prattle like he'll
hear to-morrow !" I says. "And they's another thing.
Your child wonder may pack a mean wallop, but the
thing is — can he take it? You know this Du Fresne,
bein' led to the slaughter, will be all hopped up to
make a terrible flash in the openin' canto. If he shakes
Kid Roberts up with a coupla chance swings, and the
crowd begins to roar for the Kid's blood, will he stand
up under fire or will he wilt? Think of Bearcat Reed
knockin' One-Punch Loughlin dead ! Can this Rob
erts baby fight with a closed eye, or a busted nose,
or—"

"Aw, shut up!" hollers Dummy. "You should of
been a undertaker ! Kid Roberts won't have to take it
— he'll flatten this guy with one clout. I'll lay you
a hundred even it don't go two rounds — what d'ye
say?"

"Sold !" I says. "Dummy, I ain't figurin' your boy
yellah. I'm figurin' on a thing called temperament
which I have run up against before. I wouldn't be
surprised if the muss went the limit, because I'm afraid

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 19

if Roberts gets hurt early, bein' green, he'll play safe
and be satisfied to stall the rest of it and dog it."

Dummy snorted, but he looked worried. "If he
can't take it, I don't wish no part of him," he says.
"I'll leave him flat in this Sandusky joint if he don't
come through on the bit !"

Well, I went to Sandusky with 'em as Dummy's
guest, and also at the sudden request of Kid Roberts
to go behind him in his corner for his first fight for
money. He seemed to have taken a likin' to me for
some reason, .and they is no doubt I was for him strong.
You couldn't help fall for him; he was just a big,
swell-lookin', over-grown boy. For instance, goin'
down in the train he made friends with about a dozen
kids, and when we pulled into Sandusky he was drawin'
pictures for 'em of elephants on the back of his con
tract with Dummy. Kid Roberts belonged in the ring
the same way I belong in the White House !

Dummy was afraid of sendin' him in too cold after
the train ride, and, findin' that the club had a gym in
connection with it, he sneaks the Kid down there and
has him step around a little with a big dinge which
was workin' out. They had been at it about a minute
when the Kid rocks the tar baby with a right to the
body and brings up his left for his man's jaw. But
this dark guy knew too much for Roberts, and with a
grunt he shifted his bullethead just enough to let the
wallop swish by. The force of the punch carried Rob
erts forward on his toes, and his fist crashed into a
steam pipe with everything he had behind it. Dummy
let out a wild shriek and waved the dinge away, but

20 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

the Kid only grinned kinda sheepish, like he was
ashamed he had been so clumsy. The hand was red and
swollen a bit when we come to tape it before the fight,
but it didn't look like nothin' serious, so Dummy soused
it with arnica and let it go at that.

The Kid was cool enough, though a trifle pale whilst
we was sittin' in the dressin' room waitin' for the semi
final to wind up, and his eyes happened to fall on a
newspaper I had brung in. On the front page is a
picture of some well-to-do heiress which had just
come back to New York from Shantung or some place
where she had been wilin' away the winter. Roberts
snatches it up and gazes at it with a hungry look. I
don't blame him. She looked as pretty as $5,000 a
week would look to a motor man.

"What a rotten photo !" he mutters, half to himself.
"She looks fit, though."

"Friend of yours?" I says, drapin' the bathrobe over
his shoulders.

He's still in a trance over the picture.

"Oh — eh — yes — eh — quite so!" he mumbles. "How
the devil can I get to New York to-morrow?" he in
quires of himself, not even noticin' me.

I filed that one away for future reference. I heard
a whole lot about the lady afterward — in fact, I met
her under exceedin'ly odd conditions. But —

It was about ten o'clock when we swum through the
cigarette smoke, pushed down the aisle, and climbed
through the ropes, amid the dull rumble of excited
voices, as the papers says. The mob, which had never
heard tell of Kid Roberts before and, for all they knew,

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 21

never would again, presented him with a wild cheer.
All they knew was that two big guys was gonna mingle,
and the chances was excellent that at least one of them
would be knocked cold. The Kid bowed very solemnly
to the cheer, which act drawed a laugh that didn't help
his high-strung nerves a bit.

They was no sign of Young Du Fresne as yet.
Roberts shuffled his feet and stared down at 'em, bitin'
his lips. A bad sign ! The glarin' lights beatin' down
on his head, the blood spattered around in his corner
from the last brawl, and the noisy crowd was raisin'
merry Hades with him.

Some roughneck hollered : "You won't be so pretty,
pretty soon, Cutey !"

Another one bawled : "Who brung that chorus man
in?"

"Ain't he got lovely skin?" come from somewheres
else.

By this time the Kid's feet was doin' a shimmy on
the floor. Them sensitive ears of his caught every
word, and this rough, sarcastical stuff was like stabbin'
him with hot needles, only more so. He was exactly
like a two-year-old at the post for the first time. The
case-hardened bruiser would of grinned back at the
crowd and waved at 'em, and prob'ly got a big hand in
return. The sympathies of a fight crowd is as change
able as a woman's mind, but still and all very easy to
figure. They're always with the winner, no matter
if the guy on the floor is their brother.

I gotta hand it to Lefty Murray, Young Du Fresne's
pilot. He kept his man outa the ring till the crowd
was ready to tear the roof off with impatience, knowin'

22 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

what the wear and tear would be on the waitin' Rob
erts. He kicked and argued about every point like the
fight was for the world's championship. He found
fault with the referee, the paddin' of the ring, the
lights, and was startin' a long argument about the way
the Kid's hands was taped, when Roberts jumped up
and stopped it. His nerves was shot to pieces. Not
nerve — nerves. Sweet Mamma, but there's a differ
ence!

"Come on!" busts out the Kid. "Let's get it over
with!"

Lefty Murray looked him over coolly and grinned.
The Kid's drawn face and quiverin' muscles told him
aplenty. I knew what he was tellin' his man after they
shook hands, just as if I was in Du Fresne's corner:
"Get in close and play for his body. Keep on top of
him — don't let him set. If you shake him up right off
the bat, he's through!"

This Du Fresne looked more like a gorilla than a
human bein', and prob'ly was. He was a good twenty
pounds heavier than the Kid, and what would of been
a face on the average guy was simply a puffed, scarred,
and pulpy mass. He growled and glared ferociously at
the Kid from his corner, and the crowd yelled like a
pack of wolves. The Kid grinned back at him faintly
and begin wettin' his lips with his tongue.

Dummy had left the handlin' of the Kid entirely up
to me, with a coupla boys which had just massacred
each other in a preliminary for a purse of $10, as
towel wavers. Whilst I was massagin' the Kid's
stomach, which felt as tough and ridged as a wash
board under my hands, I let fall the remark that Du

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 23

Fresne couldn't take it and would quit like a dog the
minute he got hurt. Then the bell rung.

Du Fresne was off his stool and halfway across the
ring before the Kid had hardly straightened up. He
smashed a left to the body that shook Roberts from
stem to stern, but whilst the mob was still jumpin' up
on their chairs and shriekin', the Kid feinted Du
Fresne with his own left and then shot a right hook to
the head that hurled Du Fresne back a half dozen feet
before he crashed down on his face. That wallop
landed a bit high, or the quarrel would of been over
right then and there. Du Fresne stumbled to his feet
at "nine" for the simple reason that he had been told
he wouldn't get a nickel if he didn't last at least a
coupla rounds. Dummy screamed for the Kid to wade
in and finish his man, but the yellin' and excitement
upset the boy's judgment, and he allowed Du Fresne
to dive into a clinch, where that thankful baby hung
on glassy-eyed till the referee pried 'em apart. The
Kid dropped him twice more for short counts before
the bell, and Du Fresne reeled to his corner, bleedin'
from the nose and mouth and practically out on his
feet. Roberts didn't even have his hair mussed. The
joyful mob was with him to a man. He looked a win
ner all over, and I figured he'd knock Du Fresne
kickin' with the first wallop in the next round. Dummy
jumped in and sponged the Kid's face, as happy as a
girl with her first engagement ring.

The rest seemed to have done Du Fresne a lotta
good, and he come out for the second innin' as fresh
as a daisy, but not as good-lookin'. The way some of
them tramps can recover from a beatin' that would kill

24 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

a horse is somethin' I never been able to understand!
He missed a wild swing to the jaw, and Roberts jolted
him with a wicked right that lifted him a inch from
the floor, but he kept his feet and, backin' into a corner
like he was ready to call it a day, he covered his head
with his arms and waited patiently to get it. Once
again the customers jumps up on their chairs; once
again they was treated to a disappointment. Instead
of steppin' in and polishin' off this guy with a coupla
well-placed punches, the Kid stands off and waits for
him to recover. I though Dummy Carney would go
crazy. "Bring up that left, you boob !" he kept
screamin'. The referee walks over to the Kid and
slaps him on the shoulders: "Go on, fight!" he snarls.
"What are you gonna do — kiss him?"

Now, the Kid's ace was his left hook, which after
one try he put back in the safe. I noticed a queer look
on his face, as if he couldn't understand how come he
had delivered that man killer and yet Du Fresne was
still alive. I caught him glancin' down at the left glove
a coupla times like he wanted to be sure the hand was
still in it, and then all of a sudden he shakes his head
and stops usin' it altogether. He simply give up. As
far as his famous left hook was concerned, he could
of checked it outside the clubhouse ! Du Fresne man
aged to last out the second round by clinchin' at every
chance and holdin' on like rheumatism. Right be
fore the bell he suddenly straightened up and split the
Kid's lips with a jab that brought a stream of red when
it come away. The mob howled, but Roberts grinned
and come back with a smash to the short ribs that
dropped Du Fresne gaspin' to his knees.

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 25

When the Kid ran to his corner at the end of the
second round, the sportsmen which had paid large
quantities of lucre to see a knock-out was loudly and
bitterly complainin'. They was off Kid Roberts for
life and tellin' the world about it. They'd seen
him hit Du Fresne with everything but the club's
license, yet Du Fresne was still alive, which was all
wrong. Evidently this Roberts couldn't hit, and a
heavy that can't hit is as popular as foot warmers in
Hades.

Dummy begged, cried, and threatened for the Kid
to go in and kill Du Fresne, but Kid Roberts had ap
parently lost all interest in the combat. Du Fresne
waddled out to the middle of the ring like he couldn't
believe his own eyes that he was still on his feet, but,
actin' upon advice from his corner, he got to work
again. He put a coupla light lefts to the face without
a return from Dummy's hope, and then the Kid started
to swing with this guy. The rough-house stuff was
Du Fresne's dish, and in no time at all he had closed
the Kid's right eye and had his sore lip puffed up like
a balloon. The Kid made a few weak returns with
his right, usin' that dynamite left for blockin' and
feintin' purposes only, and the dumfounded Du Fresne
got more courage every second. Comin' out of a
clinch, he swung a vicious right to the Kid's stomach
and folleyed that with a clip on the jaw that staggered
Roberts and drove whatever judgment he had left outa
his head. He missed a dozen right swings, and then
fell into one from Du Fresne that opened a gash under
his bum eye a inch deep. The crowd was roarin' for a
knockout, and Du Fresne's manager was on the verge

26 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

of the hystericals. At a yell from his corner, Du
Fresne shifted his attack to the Kid's mid section and
suddenly hooked a left and right to the body that
doubled Roberts into a pantin' knot. He was too ex
cited to folley up his advantage, or it would of been
curtains for the Kid. He fell wildly into a clinch, but
Du Fresne shook him off and stabbed the sore eye with
a nasty straight-arm right that sent Roberts staggerin'
to his corner, punch drunk and gory.

The fourth and fifth rounds was the same as the
third. Du Fresne pasted the Kid from pillar to post,
cuttin* him to ribbons with nasty left and right chops,
but Roberts still refused to use his left, swingin' wildly
with his right and divin' into a clinch whenever he got
hurt, which was early and often. He didn't land a half
dozen solid punches from the second round on. In Du
Fresne's corner they was havin' a party.

In the middle of the sixth round, with Du Fresne
chasin' the battered Kid all over the ring and makin'
a choppin' block of him, Dummy, havin' cussed, cried,
and yelled himself hoarse, jumps up and whispers in
my ear : "I'm through with this big stiff for life ! He's
as yellah as a barrel of grapefruit. You was right,
they's always somethin' wrong with them gymnasium
world beaters. This guy can't take it. Look at him
wilt every time he stops one. I'm gonna duck ; I don't
wanna see no more of it !"

"D'ye wanna get rid of him?" I says innocently.

"Make me a offer !" he snaps.

"Well," I says, watchin' the ring outa the corner
of my eye, "you owe me a hundred berries on account

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 27

of the kid not winnin' in a round. Gimme his contract
and it's even all around !"

That's how I got Kid Roberts. A year and a half
later Dummy Carney stood in the lobby of Madison
Square Garden and, with tears in his eyes, offered me
$30,000 for that contract back !

As Dummy snaked his way out through the crowd,
I looked up in time to see Du Fresne hang the Kid
over the ropes with a volley of lefts and rights, and
the referee was lookin' over at me for the sponge. A
left chop connected solidly and the Kid slid to the floor,
restin' on his hands and knees. The bell clanged at
"eight," and we dragged Roberts to his corner and
worked over him with everything but a pulmotor.

It's tough to see your man licked, but they is nothin'
tougher in the world than to see him licked when you
know he can kill the other guy with one well-placed
smash! I begged this boy to try that left once more.
I tried everything I could think of except Dummy's
stuff of callin' him yellah. That's all wrong with these
kinda guys. It don't stir 'em up and make 'em go
after the other guy hammer and tongs like the novels
claims. They get sore at you and remember it for
ever after! Fin'ly I got a wild idea. I remembered
that dame's picture in the newspaper and what the Kid
had said about goin' to New York. I took a chance.

"You're one swell-lookin' baby for Miss Gresham
to see !" I says in his ear, sarcastical as possible.

He looked at me in a dazed way, not seemin' to
notice me callin' Her by name.

"Why?" he mumbles.

I held the dressin' room mirror in front of him.

28 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

You never seen such a change come over nobody in
your life. The Kid sees his eye in deep mournin', his
lips all purple and puffed outa shape, the bleedin' gash
under the glim, and all the rest of his ruined beauty.
The one good eye narrows to a pin point and his teeth
comes together with a click. He straightens up in his
chair and glares across at the leerin' and happy Du
Fresne with the benevolent expression of a wounded
panther about to charge. The bell rings for the lucky
seventh.

The mob took up the bellowin' chant for a knock
out, and Du Fresne come slidin' out with a confident
grin, which faded with almost comical speed as he got
that glare in the Kid's workin' eye. He faltered in his
stride and was short with a right to the face. He com
menced to back away and look to his corner for advice,
and the Kid stepped in and buried his right to the wrist
in his stomach. Du Fresne's grunt could be heard in
Paris, and he dropped his guard to protect that trem-
blin' paunch. The Kid coolly measured him, and, quick
as a flash of startled light, brought up his left for the
second time in the entire debate. It landed flush on Du
Fresne's jaw and crashed him through the ropes into
the laps of the newspaper guys, as cold as the middle
of Iceland !

"Why didn't you pull that left before ?" I demanded,
tugging at the Kid's gloves as the perfectly satisfied
mob milled out through the doors.

He gimme a odd grin.

I pulled and hauled, but that glove wouldn't move.
Fin'ly I took out my penknife and cut it off his wrist.
Then I nearly fell over the ropes myself. His left

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 29

hand was a ugly-lookin' purple and swelled to twice
its size.

"I broke a bone or two when I idiotically hit that
steam pipe before the fight to-night," he explains cheer
fully. "That's why I — eh — rather favored it after
ward!"

Imagine goin' into a fight with a broken hand!
Imagine knockin' a two-hundred-and-fif teen-pound guy
out with it!

"But — but," I splutters, "why did you go through
with the scrap if you knew that, you darn fool ! Why
didn't you say somethin'? We could of called it off
and—"

"That's exactly what I thought you would do," he
smiles, "and I couldn't afford to have that happen. To
be frank with you, I'm broke!"

He looks around curiously. "Where's Carney?" he
asks. "He said some things to me I'd like to take up
with him" His voice was hard again.

"Oh, don't mind Dummy," I says. "He got a tough
break to-night — lost the best scrapper in his stable !"

"Oh, I'm sorry!" he says. "Influenza?"

"Nope — inexperience!" I tells him. "Well, let's get
outa here, hey?"

ROUND TWO
"WITH THIS RING I THEE FED!"

THE ability to take a unmerciful beatin' has made
many a box fighter famous which had absolutely
nothin' else to recommend him. Ring records all the
ways down from the time Battlin' David knocked One
Round Goliath for a goal is studded with the names of
these gluttons for punishment whose motto is a steal
from the Salvation Army's "A man may be down, but
he's never out!" Their favorite punch is delivered
with some part of their battered face to the point of
the other guy's glove, and they seldom if ever miss.
They may never become champs ; in fact, the plurality
of these babies is usually about tenth-raters, but they'll
always be in demand at fancy prices because the differ
ence between the modern prize-fight fan and the cuckoos
which used to sit around Nero and holler for the gladi
ators to quit stallin' and knife each other has stopped
at the matter of dress. The average follower of the
manly art insists that his favorites be guys of red
blood — in fact, he carries his enthusiasm to the point
where he wants to see 'em covered with it!

Few of these here "iron men" — even the handful
which has slugged their way to the top of the heap —
knows any more about scientific boxiri than a hen

30

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 31

does about tooth powder. They can tell the referee
from a right cross, and they know that every time a
bell rings whilst they are in the ring they are allowed
to sit down for a minute and wonder why the other guy
was allowed to come in with a hatchet; but the real
fine points of their trade means zero to them. They
are in there to take it, and take it they do with a set,
silly grin on their puffed lips which has taken the heart
outa many a better fighter who's slashed 'em to ribbons
and punched his arms off tryin' to drop 'em for the
long count.

Some of them human shock absorbers has held titles
for a brief spell in the different divisions and has been
very popular with the mob. Any fighter which will
keep on gettin' up every time he kisses the canvas, in
spite of the fact that both his eyes has observed the
one o'clock closin' law, his nose is away outa line, and
a ear is floppin' nonchalantly in the breeze, is bound to
make a hit with the customers. He's prolongin' the
thrill of the thing and givin' the crowd a gallop for its
shekels. Their unanimous opinion, screamed at the
top of their lungs, is that he's a terrible boob — but the
sight of his gore has appealed to their "sportin' " in
stincts, and on the way home, in the cool of the evenin',
they shake their heads admirin'ly and tell each other
what a great scrapper he is at that ! Jess Willard, for
instance, made more friends by staggerin' blindly to
his feet from the crimson-flecked mat, after each of
his seven knockdowns in the first round by the jovial
Jack Dempsey, than he did when he flattened Johnson
for the championship of the world.

I'm always as nervous as a steam drill when I send

32 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

one of my star battlers in against them choppin' blocks.
On the level, they're less worry when they're fightin' a
clean, hard puncher which is fast and clever. In the
first place, these bums makes your boy look bad to the
crowd. They usually got a awkward, clumsy defense
that makes 'em difficult to slam in a spot which will
send 'em down for the night, and after you have
punched one of these bimbos from pillar to post round
after round, changin' the outlines of his face, but not
his determination to stay the limit, the mob gets the idea
that you can't hit, and they're off you !

Many a promisin' youngster has had his hopes
wrecked right at the start by one of them human dere
licts of the ring — them guys whose only claim to fame
is that they can take it ! The ambitious kid tears into
'em with everything he's got, and in a coupla rounds
he's pounded 'em to a pulp, but still they keep comin'
in for more. Every time he flattens 'em they bounce
up like a rubber ball, till fin'ly the kid begins to get
discouraged. The disappointed crowd is givin' him
the raspberry, demandin' the knock-out they paid to
see. His confidence fades, and he soon starts won-
derin' if he's lost his wallop. He's hit this tramp so
hard and often that it's like liftin' a coupla tons of lead
to raise his arms, and now his hooks and jabs appar
ently ain't even shakin' the other guy up. In despera
tion the kid throws science to the winds and comes in
wide open, both hands workin' for that grinnin' bat
tered jaw — that red leer that dances before his face.
This is what the tramp has waited all night for ! Not
havin' landed a dozen clean wallops himself, he's com-

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 33

paratively fresh. He feels the sting leavin' the kid's
frantic punches ; he sees he's losin' heart by his shif tin',
worried eyes, and the next minute the crowd is on its
feet, goin' crazy, as this bloody wreck tears in, smashes
the f alterin' kid with a wild haymaker, and it's all over !

Them guys is prouder of their capacity for takin' a
maulin' than Dempsey is of his record as a knocker-
out. Their cauliflower ears, busted noses, and dented
faces is to them the Croix de Guerre of their trade.
A example of this was Bat Nelson, which held the
lightweight title against some of the greatest boxers
that ever fought in that class, for no other reason on
earth than the fact that them guys broke their hearts,
and frequently their hands, tryin' to put him away.
Bat used to brag that he wasn't human, and for a long
time it looked like that was the answer. If he could
box, I can make a automobile. He rarely come out
of a scrap without lookin' like he had been run through
a meat chopper — the worst tramps which ever stuck
their hand in a glove used to paste him with everything
but the box office, and then when they was so tired
they couldn't even feint him, the grinnin', gore-covered
Bat would step in and knock 'em for a goal.

This class of fighter is duck soup for the babies
which claims the prize ring brings out gameness that
would make a paralyzed arctic explorer or a legless
deep-sea diver seem faint-hearted. They point to these
guys gettin' up after each knock-down, ripped and
slashed to pieces, blinded by their own blood, but still
borin' in bravely for more punishment. Well, I don't
doubt that a lotta these boys has showed more courage
than a sightless bullfighter, but my own experience has

34 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

been that this here same courage is in most cases more
a matter of temperament than anything else. The
roughneck, boneheaded slugger gets slammed all over
the ring and fin'ly floored. He's half in a trance, and
he's only got a faint idea of what it's all about; but
his legs mechanically raises him upright again without
no effort of his dazed brain at all, because they been
doin' that same thing for years. The intelligent boxer,
knocked kickin' by a wallop, has been in the habit of
usin' his head to think with, and said head is now
ringin* like a set of chimes. The crazy yells of the
crowd comes to him like the boom of a roarin' surf,
his glassy eyes rolls around inquirin'ly, and in the ten
seconds it takes him to clear his dome and try to figure
what he'll do when he gets up he's counted out and
often called yellah. Nine times outa ten this baby's
just as game as the other guy, or gamer — he's built
temperamentally different, that's all!

My idea of the real gamester is the bird which can't
take it and knows he can't, but takes his chance with
the toughest the game can produce in his efforts to get
to the top ! The guy with the glass jaw or the weak-
muscled stomach that's gotta win quick or not at all.
The nervous, imaginative baby which takes more men
tal punishment in his corner waitin' for the first bell
than he ever does from any guy's gloves and that's
gotta lick himself before he even faces the cuckoo in
the other corner. The kind that, if he fought eighty-
six times a day every day in the week, would never get
over the soul-tearin' torture of the sneerin', howlin'
mob around the ring, the sight of blood, the glarin'
calcium over his head, the jarrin' impact of fist on

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 35

bone, the possibilities in the other guy's left — but still
sets himself, steadies his tremblin' knees, and goes in
to kill or get killed with a grin on his chalk-white face !

You might say a guy like that don't belong in the
ring. Then neither did them kinda babies belong in the
trenches; neither do they belong anywheres in life!
Didn't we all kinda lick our dry and tremblin' lips a
little shaky like in the zero hour over there ? Ain't they
a mob of us which ain't beyond bitin' our nails a bit
whilst waitin' for any of life's Big Crashes to come?
But, Sweet Mamma, when them temperamental boys
does get under way ! A flash at the dope-book on any
sport, profession, trade, gift, art, science, or bad habit
will show you what happens then !

I made one of them guys heavyweight champion of
the world — how 'bout that?

After Kid Roberts had won his first professional
fight by knockin' out Young Du Fresne in Sandusky,
we have to lay aside the gloves for a spell on account
of the Kid havin' busted them small bones in his left
hand. Some weeks after that quarrel the Kid comes
up one mornin' to our mutual room in the worst hotel
in Sandusky, which is the equivalent to sayin' the worst
hotel in the world. He holds up his invalid hand.

"All healed," he says, wavin' it at me. "I'm ready
to box again. Pack up your stuff, we're going to New
York !"

I walked over and examined his paw with the great
est of care. It still looked swollen and ugly to me.

"Better give it another week to set, Kid," I says.
"If you bust it again, it's liable to tie us up for a

36 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

coupla months, and the bank roll's punch drunk already.
Why, I'd gamble you couldn't hit hard enough with
that left right now to crack a vacant eggshell !"

The Kid presents me with a pleasant grin and com
mences lookin' around the room. Over in the corner
is a long board which with a iron I have borreyed from
our genial landlord for the sensational purpose of
pressin' my suit. Still grinnin', the Kid picks it up,
leans it at a angle against the wall, grabs a towel from
the washstand, and makes a coupla turns of it around
his left hand. Before I can jump across the room
and grab him he has stood off and split that board in
two with a punch!

"Now," he remarks, tossin' the towel on the bed
and reachin' underneath for his suit case, "we have
that all settled! You hustle down to the depot and
find out what's the next train for New York. You
might as well get the tickets and sleepers while you're
there too."

"With what?" I asks, makin' him a gift of a sar-
castical smile.

He swings around and looks at me kinda puzzled.
"Why — ah — we have something like a hundred dol
lars, haven't we?" he says.

"Somethin' like it, sure!" I agrees, reachin' in a
pocket and pullin' out a bill. "Here's us !" I says,
showin' it to him. "This is somethin' like a hundred
berries, only it's unfortunately got a ten on it in the
corners instead of a hundred. Still, as you say, it's
somethin' like a hundred — same color, same size,
same — "

"Where's all the money you had last night when

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 37

you went down to pay our hotel bill?" he demands,
shuttin' me off with a glare.

"Well," I says, "it's like this : I run into a bevy of
traveling salesmen in the lobby, and one word led to
the other. If I'd only had brains enough to quit at
two this a. m., I'd of been three hundred men to the
good, but that last baby shook a nasty pair of dice!"

Kid Roberts drops his suit case and sinks down on
the bed, first havin' the foresight to hurl both pillows
and the busted ironin' board at me.

"And the funny part of it is," I goes on, duckin'
the above utensils and cheerfully lightin* a cigarette,
"I forgot to pay the hotel bill !"

"Oh, that's the funny part, eh?" he snarls, gettin'
up and approachin' me with a three-alarm fire in each
eye. "Well, I'm going to pound you into a jelly —
see if you can get a laugh out of that !"

"Behave!" I says, slidin' gracefully back of the
bureau. "Don't let's get silly and partake of vulgar
fistycuffs. If I didn't know you could take me, I
wouldn't be managing you; but maulin' me will get
neither of us nowheres. I got in that African golf
tourney because I thought I could grab off enough
doubloons to take us into New York right. The
breaks went against me and them guys gypped me and
made me lose it — that's all ! Ain't you ever did nothin'
foolish?"

He stops short and scowls at me for a minute, and
then all of a sudden his exceedin'ly handsome face
clears and that good-natured kid grin of his makes me
acquainted with all his lovely white teeth.

"You're right, old man!" he laughs, slappin' me on

38 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

the back. "I — I beg your pardon for losing my temper.
I'm so infernally anxious to get back to New York
that I — Oh, hang it, man — I've simply got to be
there by the end of the week !"

He walks over to the window and stares out at San-
dusky, tappin' a nervous foot on the floor and bitin'
his lip. I stretched out comfortably on the so-called
bed and give forth the impression that I was readin*
the mornin' paper. In the reality I was watchin' him.
I liked that kid — you couldn't help it ! He got closer
to me in the time we punched, argued, stalled, and
lucked our way into a world's championship than any
fighter I ever had in my stable. Big, clean, and as
pleasin' to the eye as a sunset anywheres west of Chi
cago, his whole appearance fairly shrieked class! He
looked as much like a prize fighter — then — as I re
semble Mary Pickford, and I knew he was doin' a
piece of deep thinkin' as he stood there at that window
lookin' through the greasy panes out into the dirty little
alley which run back of this alleged hotel. Think of
the stuff that must of been gallopin' through that high-
strung kid's mind. He'd been the most popular guy in
his college, a kind of a tin god to the other birds which
had carried him off on their shoulders from dozens
of tracks and football fields. He'd run through as
many pieces of eight as Captain Kidd ever seen; he'd
belonged to clubs where even the waiters hadda be
descended from deck hands on the Mayflower; he'd
been used to evenin' clothes, soft lights, music,
and the maddenin' smiles of pretty women, after 6
p. m., instead of a pair of trunks and boxin' gloves and

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 39

the reekin' din of a cheap fight club. He'd exchanged
a suite at the Ritz with one of them trick valets to
button his collar and fix his "bawth" for a scraggy
hole in a twelfth-class hotel — as up against it as Ru
mania, and with a roughneck like me, which hardly
spoke his language, for a companion. A drop, hey ?

As I lamped him over the top of my paper I won
dered what else he'd gave up. Was they by any
chance a —

"What's the mad rush to New York for, Kid?"
I yawns suddenly. "A Jane?"

He give a start like a frightened deer. He was
always like that, even in the ring — a blur of flashin',
quick, nervous moves. He couldn't sit down five min
utes in a room. In the course of a ordinary conversa
tion I bet he'd walk ten miles back and forth across
the floor, remindin' you of a tiger in a cage at the zoo.
It used to make me uneasy and restless watchin' him,
on the level !

Now he lets forth a sigh and comes away from the
window. Instead of answerin' my question, he stops
opposite me and says : "Are you — eh — married ?"

"Me?" I grins. "No — I got that bump over my
right eye fallin' downstairs whilst a child." Then a
sudden thought hit me like a wallop on the jaw.
"Say!" I yells, jumpin' up. "You ain't thinkin' of —
you ain't gonna get wed on me?"

The Kid smiles and pats my arm.

"Calm yourself," he says. "The most colossal ass
in the world would hesitate at doing that without a
penny to his name."

"Yeh?" I sneers. "Evidently you never seen the

40 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

East Side in New York ! But answer me this, whilst
we are on the fascinatin' subject of wedlocks. I have
gave you the low down on myself from the time I seen
my first rattle up to as late as last night. I ain't tryin'
to jimmy into your most intimate affairs, but is
they — is they a girl ?"

I've seen chorus girls bitin' their tongues for hours
at a time to perfect a natural blush like this big Kid
pulled then. He let go my arm and pulled over a chair,
sat down — a rare trick for him — and gimme the works.

The dame's name was no less than Irene Gresham,
and her beloved parents had a bank roll which wouldst
make Jack Rockefeller look like a public charge.
Apart from that annoyin' detail, they was headliners
in this continuous vaudeville of society, indigo blooded
and with a pedigree that not even a race horse could
be ashamed of. Kid Roberts, or Kane Halliday, as the
butlers was wonted to announce him previous to the
time he hit the skids, was merely engaged to this gold
mine, that's all! Now the Kid had a few blue cor
puscles chasin' each other through his veins himself,
and when it come to ancestors, he was no Adam, but
— broke and a prise fighter — Sweet Mamma, where
did he fit now !

When things was breakin' right for him, and his
old man had as many chips as the rest of 'em, he had
contracted to escort this charmer to the conventional
altar. It was a kinda cut-and-dried arrangement, with
the articles drawed up by the parents of both victims,
and the Kid hadn't seen his intended lifelong sparrin'
partner since he left college, on the account of her

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 41

bein' a habitue of Europe. She had come back the
week before, and that's why the Kid was keen to flee
to New York. He wanted to get the thing straight —
put all the cards on the table, face up. Whether they
still thought so highly of each other that nothin'
short of matrimony wouldst cure 'em, he didn't know.
That's exactly what he wanted to find out. All the
boys and girls he used to play with when he was
steppin' out thought he was a civil engineer right
now somewheres out in the West, or the like, and the
Kid was very naturally wonderin' what wouldst be
the effect on love's young dream when the fair Irene
heard he was a leather pusher.

"Well," I says, when he got it all off his chest
and looked half relieved and half sorry for tellin' me,
"they's only one way we can absorb enough pennies
to get en route for the bustlin' little hamlet of New
York, and that's for you to bounce some boloney
at this fight club here. Since you knocked that Du
Fresne turkey dead, you oughta be a card at the local
abattoir, so if you'll amuse yourself countin' how
many Smiths they is in the city directory, or the like,
I'll prowl over there and see what can be done."

"Fine!" says the Kid. "Just remember that we've
got to have at least one hundred dollars. I'll box
anyone they can get for that!"

Two years later the Kid was gettin' about a hun
dred bucks a punch. What changes time does bring,
as the ex-kaiser is wonted to remark!

I found the match maker for the local club heavily
engaged in a conference with some of the directors.

42 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

The conference was on the subject of dollar-limit
stud poker, and was bein' held in the back room of a
liquor bazaar, this bein' in the days when it was not
a felony to pass the time of day with a bartender. I
waited till he win a pot with three aces, two of which
he had the presence of mind to slip himself from the
bottom of the deck, and then I called him out to the
bar, purchased, and made known my modest wants.

"I might be able to let this tramp of yours work
Friday night at the regular show," he says fin'ly.
"How much sugar are you tryin' to git for him?"

"Well," I says, "solely on the account of you bein'
so unusually polite and obligin', we'll take a five-
hundred-buck guarantee and battle anybody you
throw into the ring!"

"Ha, ha, ha!" he cackles with the greatest of sar
casm. "Try and git it ! I wouldn't give five hundred
bucks to stage Cain and Abel with a set of strange
wildcats for a preliminary! I'll tell you what I'll do,
and whether you take it or not may make some differ
ence to the board of aldermen of Bolivia, but it'll make
no difference to me. I'll slip you two hundred berries
for ten frames with Special Delivery Kelly, provided
that big boloney of yours stays the limit. If Kelly
stops him before the fifth round, which is no doubt
what'll happen, you don't git a nickel ! Gimme a
argument and the whole thing's off — how 'bout that?"

"We'll gamble!" I says after a minute of decidin'
that for me to slam this cuckoo wouldst get me nothin'.
"But just as a matter of simple curiosity, without tryin'
to delve into your private affairs, what's this Special
Delivery Kelly gettin' outa this homicide?"

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 43

The match maker grunts and waggles the cigar in
his mouth.

"I'll give him a pocketful of tickets for the show,"
he says. "And he gits a reward of four bits on every
one he sells, besides his guarantee of twenty berries,
win, lose, or police — which is enough for the big
tramp! You can work out in the club gym if you
wanna, and lemme give you a tip — this Kelly ain't
never been knocked out, and he swings a nasty right.
It wouldn't surprise me the slightest particle if he
stopped that baby of yours in a round !"

"Well," I says, "I'm a bettin' fool myself, and them
two hundred men we're gonna get won't pay our laun
dry bill here. I'll lay you my end of the gate at even
money that Kid Roberts knocks Special Delivery
Kelly dead ! Do you fade me ?"

"You're faded!" he grins. "If your guy flattens
Kelly — not outpoints him, remember; he's gotta
knock him — you git four hundred; if he do not, you git
the raspberry ! Why — "

"And that's all settled," I shuts him off. "Now
where can I get a flash at this Kelly person?"

He presents me with a full-toothed smile and turns
back to the poker tourney.

"Go over to the Acme Boiler Works any time be
tween eight in the mornin' and four-thirty in the
afternoon," he says. "Ask anybody and they'll point
out Kelly. He's knowed as Paddy over there; but
the minute he gits in the ring with that meal ticket
of yours, you'll both find out why they call him 'Special
Delivery' !"

Whilst I was palely ruminatin' over the interestin'

44 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

fact that I was gonna send my kid in against a tough
boiler maker named Paddy Kelly, which had likewise
earned the ring title of "Special Delivery," I happened
to glance around and I seen the match maker and
his boy friends lookin' after me and laughin' as if
their hearts wouldst break. I give vent to a shiver
and leaned over to the bartender.

"Have somethin' yourself," I says. "Ah — eh —
what kind of a mauler is this guy Kelly?"

"Tough!" he says, shakin' his head from the one
side to the other. "Terrible tough! He don't know
nothin', but brother, he can hit like one of them
pneumatical sledges, and he's a pig for chastisement.
He's mingled with all the good ones, and none of 'em
could do a thing with him in the regards to a knock
out. They all half killed Kelly, but he was still in
there swingin' with 'em at the final bell. It looks
to me like that green kid of yours is scheduled for a
pastin' !"

"It looks to me too !" I says, and proceeded on my
way.

I drilled back to the hotel as cheerful as a yegg on his
way to get sentenced, but I managed to bring forth
a smile for the Kid. I told him I had grabbed a set
up for him named Kelly which called himself "Special
Delivery" because he went out so quick, cleverly
leavin' the slight detail that I had bet our end of the
purse on a knock-out out of the conversation.

That Friday night, at the bewitchin' hour of ten,
Kid Roberts climbed through the ropes at the Cres
cent A. C. of Sandusky, accompanied by me and

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 45

a dinge middleweight I had hired for two bucks to
help handle him. The mob give the Kid a mild greetin',
and then down the aisle, through the haze of smoke,
comes what I thought at first was Washington's Mon
ument with a bath robe on. It turned out to be nothin'
less than Special Delivery Kelly, which Kid Roberts
is soon gonna be versus. The second the customers
piped him I thought the roof of the clubhouse was
comin' off, and for all I know it did! Everybody in
the joint, includin' a leather-lunged delegation of hon
est hearts and willin' hands from the boiler works,
climbs up on their chairs and lets forth three hun
dred rousin' cheers for Monsieur Kelly, which said
gent acknowledges by several noncommittal short bobs
of his bullet head and a coupla ferocious scowls at our
corner. If this cuckoo wasn't a yard over six foot,
then I'm the next king of France, and his weight was
announced at a triflin' 240. I heaved a sigh of relief
when I heard that. I had him figured at about 940!
His hair was shaved down close to the temple of
knowledge on top of his neck like he had not five
minutes ago completed a course in Sing Sing, and
what I take it for granted was his face give him the
startlin' appearance of a guy which had devoted the
best part of his life to fightin' buzz saws with it.
The top of one ear was elsewhere. Oh, Special
Delivery Kelly was one tough-lookin' young man, I'll
inform the hemispheres!

"Good Lord — what a beast!" gasps the Kid after
one flash. "He looks like a gorilla !"

I says nothin', but my personal idea was that, along
side of Kelly, a gorilla would look like a chorus girl.

46 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

Whilst I am bandagin' the Kid's hands and my
dinge helper is whisperin' sweet nothin's in his ears to
take his mind off the crowd, the air is filled with
shriekin' demands for Kelly to murder him. My boy
is pale and nervous like as of yore, head down and
both feet shufflin' restlessly back and forth in the rosin.
He kept wettin' his dry lips with a shakin' tongue and
tappin' the ropes with his hands, every now and
then glancin' out at that ocean of sneerin' faces around
him and then quickly turnin' his head away again.
He was takin' a terrible lickin', and no one knew it
better than me, right whilst he sat there in his corner
and waited for the festivities to commence. He had
nothin' on his mind but that girl Irene, his future,
whether this bird wouldst mark him up or not, what
wouldst happen when they all found out back home
that he was a prize fighter, and, likewise, what wouldst
happen when one of Special Delivery Kelly's hamlike
fists bounced off his face. Yellah? You never seen
him work. Once the bell rung it was all different,
and that nervous energy slipped right out through
his pumpin' gloves. Temperament — that's all ! This
big ourang outang Kelly sit sprawled out in his corner,
kiddin' with friends around the ringside about the pink-
cheeked dude on the other side without another care in
the wide, wide world !

Fin'ly I step over to Kelly's corner to have a flash
at his bandages. One look was enough ! I whistled
to the referee. "Why don't you give this guy a ax
and be done with it?" I says, pointin' to Kelly's hands.
His seconds is try in' frantically to get the gloves on
before I can crab it.

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 47

"What's the matter?" sneers the referee. "They
let 'em use tape in Ohio. This here's supposed to be
a fight, not a one-step!"

I reached down and yanked up one of Kelly's hands
before he had a idea of what it was all about. "See
that white dust on top of the tape?" I yells. "Well,
I know plaster of Paris when I see it, fellah, and
we come from New York, not Crabapple Crossin'.
This baby is figurin' on buryin' his hands in the water
bucket, and that plaster will harden up in a minute till
it'll be the same as if Kelly had a rock in each hand.
Take 'em off or we don't fight !"

"Strip them bandages !" growls the referee to Kelly's
handlers. "We got a dumb-bell from the State Boxin'
Commission out in front." He wheels and glares at me.
"That ain't gonna git you nothin', wise guy," he grunts.
"Kelly '11 make that ham of yours jump over the ropes !"

A fine, fair-minded referee, hey?

The announcer steps to the center of the ring and
holds up his hand, immediately causin' the well-known
deathly silence to fall upon the house except for such
hot-blooded admirers of the manly art which can't con
trol themselves now that the red slaughter is actually
about to commence.

"Final star bout of the evenin' !" bawls this guy.
"Ten-round exhibition — " he turns and points to our
corner — "over here, Kid — "

"Kelly first ! Kelly first !" roars the mob, dancin' up
and down.

The Kid was halfway up from his stool. He give
a short, jerky laugh and sit down again.

48 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

"Over here" — goes on the announcer, waggin' a
finger at the other corner — "over here, Sandusky's
favorite Irish- American heavyweight, which always
gives the best they is in him — Special Delivery Kelly !"

Sweet Mamma!

They bang the chairs on the floor, hurl their hats in
the air, shriek, whistle, pound their feet up and down,
and seven guys gets hysterical and embraces each other.

The announcer favors us with a sympathetic grin.

"Over here," he says, noddin' to the Kid, "New
York's promisin' young contender for the heavyweight
champeenship — Kid Roberts !"

A few scattered handclaps for us.

I whisk the bath robe off the Kid, knead his stomach,
and rub his eyes, whilst the dinge wiped him dry and
kept whisperin' : "Don't let him stall you, white boy —
'at Special Delivery thing don't mean nuffin' !" Then
he starts snappin' his fingers over to Kelly's corner.
"We spots you fifty pounds and we takes you!" he
shouts. "Was punches dollars you'll be Vanderbilt in
side of one second ! Ah shoots ten dollars we knocks
you daid ! Ah — "

The bell cuts him off, and we jump down under the
ropes.

"Get this guy, Kid, and get him quick !" was my final
instructions to the Kid as with a slap on the shoulder
I turned him loose.

The thing hadn't gone a minute when I seen that
Special Delivery Kelly's only idea was to stay the limit.
The Kid, all the nervousness gone now that he was in
there workin', felt his man out a bit and then proceeded
to beat him from pillar to post — it wasn't no fight, it

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 49

was murder in the first degree ! Roberts tried hard to
connect with a solid smash that would end it, but Kelly
was the wildest thing I ever seen this side of Borneo,
and when he wasn't reclinin' on the mat he was divin'
head first into a clinch and roughin' my boy with that
extry forty-odd pounds of bone and muscle. The ref
eree give him all the chance in the world to hang on,
scrape the Kid's back against the ropes, and wrestle
him. That and the generous counts he got durin' the
four times he kissed the canvas was the only things
which saved Kelly from goin' to bed in round one.

The Kid ran grinnin' to his corner at the bell with
his golden blond hair scarcely mussed. The house was
in a uproar. "That fellow's sheer strength is remark
able, but he's not a boxer!" says Roberts to me. "I'll
end it in the next round — I'm not going to punish him
any more."

But he had to do it — much !

Kelly came slowly out for the second round, a piti
ful sight. The Kid had chopped him to pieces in the
first three minutes, and his hairy body was stained a
deep crimson down to his trunks. Suddenly he rushed
viciously, landin' a right and left to the body that sent
Roberts crashin' into the ropes gaspin' and drove the
mob insane. As Kelly lumbered in close to finish him,
the Kid caught him with a left uppercut to the heart
that could be plainly heard in Siam, the lightin' right
cross to the jaw that followed sprawlin' Kelly on the
lower rope. He was up at "six," pawin' blindly in the
air, but carryin' on smartly, and the Kid coolly circled
around him, his flashin' left forever in Kelly's battered
face. Three times more Special Delivery Kelly dived

50 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

to the mat, and each time he staggered to his feet
spatterin' gore on the reporters, with the crowd a pack
of maniacs. Right before the bell the Kid turns to the
referee and asks him to stop it, but that guy shakes his
head and motions him to go on. With a dyin' flurry
Kelly rushed again, drivin' a jarrin' right swing to the
head, but the Kid drove him back on his heels with a
beautifully timed left hook, and as Kelly bounced off
the ropes Roberts put both hands to the face, dumpin'
him on his back in his corner as cold as a Eskimo's
front yard. The kind-hearted referee took plenty of
time with the count so's to give Kelly a chance to get
up and take some more, but the bell at "nine" saved
him. His handlers hadda lift him up, drag him to his
stool, and hold him straight on it, still peacefully
slumberin'.

When the Kid come to his corner I started to slap
him on the back and shake his glove, but he waved me
off.

"I'm through!" he pants. "I'm not going in there
and hit that poor devil any longer. This isn't a con
test ; it's wanton brutality ! That fellow hasn't a chance
with me, and he's been punished enough. Get me some
one else and I'll box him the rest of the ten rounds so
we'll get our money, or have the referee stop this thing.
I'm not a murderer !"

"He'll never be able to answer the next bell," I says
soothin'ly. "He's as dead as Napoleon right now. You
just step to the middle of the ring at the gong and we
cop!"

I slipped down under the ropes and shoved my way
through the howlin' mob on the en route to the box

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 51

office to collect our four hundred fish. Two hundred
wages and two hundred I win from the jovial match
maker on a knockout. As I get to Kelly's corner they
is about a dozen guys workin' over him, one of which
is no less than my old pal, the match maker himself.
He's givin' Kelly's manager a terrible bawlin' out and
jabbin' a bottle of ammonia up under what's left of
Kelly's nose. Kelly is layin' back against the ropes,
both eyes closed — one of which the Kid attended to —
dead to the world.

"Pay me !" I hollers at the match maker.

"Not yet, you fathead!" he snarls with a odd look,
and then I see they have got one of Kelly's gloves off.
In a flash the genial match maker pulls a penknife from
his pocket, rips open a blade, and shoves the point up
under the quick of Kelly's thumbnail. Kelly jumps
halfways off the chair with a yell of pain, and the crowd
goes batty again. The lion-hearted iron man is comin'
back ! A nice, clean sport, hey ?

When the gong clanged for the third session I had
to fairly throw Kid Roberts into the center of the ring.
He was sick of slaughter in' this baby, but the watchin'
mob figured he was gettin' faint-hearted, and they yell
for Kelly to let him fall. Roberts shakes his head
disgustedly and ties into this totterin', half-blind wreck
with the idea of gettin' it over as quick as possible. He
forces Kelly to lead and takes a light left to the face;
then he sets himself and floors the boiler maker with
a long right swing. Up bounces this unhuman cave
man only to crash down again from a volley of lefts
and rights to the body. This time he took "nine" before

52 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

arisin' and collapsin' over the ropes, both hands hangin'
useless at his side. They is some yells to "Stop it!"
but the referee slaps the Kid on the back and hollers :
"Go on, fight, or I'll disqualify you — you big dough-
hearted tramp!" The Kid shoulders him away, hesi
tates a minute, and a sponge comes hurtlin' into the
ring at Kelly's feet. The fightin' boiler maker's one
good eye observes it with a trace of annoyance, and
with his last remainin' strength he kicks the sponge
outa the ring and paws feebly in the general direction
of the Kid. Roberts stepped back and made no attempt
to hit him, and then Kelly's handlers swarm in and
drag their man to his corner, where he flops like a sack
of wheat, mumblin' that he never felt better and still
weakly strugglin' to stand up and scrap.

The roarin' crowd mills into the ring, and the Kid
walks over to Kelly's corner, shakes his hand, and
tells him he's the gamest man he ever saw with a pair
of boxin' gloves on. Kelly shoves a coupla handlers
away and sticks up his pulpy face. "Yer a dom good
man," he grunts, the one workin' eye glarin' at each
and all, "but I'd have licked ye in another round. Ye
niver would have stopped Paddy Kelly! I've taken
mannys the worse batin' thin I got to-night," he adds
proudly. "Why Young Horgan bruk three of me ribs
and divvil a count I tuk !" He suddenly peers over
the ropes. "Where's that blackguard which manages
me and brung down on me head the disgrace of
havin' a foight stopped that a Kelly was in?" he
roars.

Special Delivery Kelly's pilot pushes forward, kinda
nervous. "Tough luck, Paddy," he mutters. "But we

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 53

can't finish in front all the time ! Brace up now, you'll
be all right in a coupla days, and — "

"All right, is ut?" bawls Kelly, pullin' himself to his
feet by the ropes. "And did ye iver see a Kelly that
wasn't all roight?"

"You tell 'em !" grins the manager, still a trifle un
easy. "Now — "

"Shut up, ye divilish banshee !" howls Kelly. "'Twas
you that stopped the foight, they tell me."

"Yes," mumbles the manager, backin' away. "I
stopped it so —

"Stop this, thin!" yells Special Delivery Kelly, and
lets go with all he had left on that baby's jaw !

That Kelly was tough, hey?

Well, after payin' off hithers and yon in Sandusky,
and gettin' fitted for a set of tickets to N. Y., I have a
even hundred and twenty-five berries left of the four
hundred we accumulated from the extermination of
Monsieur Kelly. I divided this with the Kid, givin'
him the twenty-five, and the minute we have hired
parkin' space for ourselves at a Manhattan hotel he
disappears. I hunted for him all afternoon, but he
might as well of been vice president, because nobody
had laid a eye on him or heard anything about him.

In the midst of my search I run into a billiard palace
which is a hangout of mine when I am in this burg
which electric lights made famous. It is called a billiard
palace for the reason that billiards is about the only
thing which ain't played there. I play a race at Havana
and do myself $250 worth of good, and then I sidle on
to the rear, where a exhibition of the gallopin' domi
noes, or, to get technical, a crap game, is bein' had. In

54 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

two hours I have ran the $250 up to $900, and in five
hours I ain't got a nickel, and, in the addition to this,
I have lost my watch. I tried to borrey $20 on my
contract with Kid Roberts and was laughed outa the
joint. I have raised $10,000 on that same scrap of
paper, since.

How the so ever, when I fin'ly get back to our inn,
the Kid is sittin' on the bed waitin' for me. When he
ain't been walkin' the floor he's been playin' solitaire
— a combination that drives some guys crazy and
makes others sane. I asked him did he see his girl
friend, and he says on the contrary, but he had the boon
of a long interview with her male parent on that iden
tical subject, and it looked like the bottom had fell outa
his stock as a comin' son-in-law. The old man thought
the Kid was a trcs bien guy, and he was sorry his father
had been careless enough to go broke, but, as the French
says, what would you? Perhaps, if they waited 100
years, it wouldst be all different. Maybe by then the
Kid would have some standin' as a civil engineer and
his father wouldst likewise have dug up another roll
somewheres, but right now — well, you got the rest of
it, hey ?

The Kid had carefully neglected to mention that he
had turned into a leather pusher. He wanted to see
how the sight of this Jane affected him before the
show-down.

The show-down come quicker than either of us ex
pected it !

The next mornin' I get the information that no less
than Dummy Carney is in New York yellin' murder

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 55

about me havin' the Kid now that Roberts looked like
a comer. Well, as I remarked before, we are paupers
again, so I figured on diggin' up Dummy and sellin'
him a piece of the Kid's contract for enough to room
and board us till we got a fight. That night Kid Rob
erts was gonna rent a set of evenin' clothes and find
out from Miss Irene Gresham how the course of true
love was runnin', if at all, and I was gonna do the same
with Dummy Carney, without the evenin' clothes.

Then things happened very fast !

I insisted on the Kid doin' a little road work that
mornin', both to ease his nerves a bit and also to keep
him conditioned in case we got a chance to fill in over
in Jersey that week. We are runnin' through Central
Park — the Kid with that long, easy stride which brung
home the lovin' cups and the etc. at college, and me
puffin' along in the rear with the pantin' gait which
come from the years I have dallied with the other cups.
Along around Eighty-sixth Street they is a auto worth
a steamfitter's ransom stuck at one side of the road,
and a gayly bedecked chauffeur is changin' a tire. As
we slow down to get around it, Kid Roberts stops sud
denly and goes white.

"Irene !" he kinda gasps.

As my name has at no time been Irene I look around
inquiringly and gaze upon a strange and interestin'
sight.

They is a Jane sittin' in the back of that car, and she
is regardin' Kid Roberts with a mixture of about
thirty-eight different expressions, of which contempt
is away in the lead. She's a bcaucoup looker all right,
but beautiful the same way them marble statues is —

56 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

perfect and cold. The Kid is standin' there goin' red
and white by turns under this silent inspection which
seems to have tied his tongue up too. He had on a
ragged cap, a torn and form'ly white sweater, a old,
dirty pair of courduroy pants, and a pair of runnin'
shoes. The lady fair's icy, glitterin' eyes takes in every
detail of that outfit, and she gets further below zero
with each second. One of the Kid's eyes has a little
mouse under it and his left cheek bone is hid by a strip
of court plaster, the result of Special Delivery Kelly's
dyin' efforts. A split lip ain't had a fair chance to heal
yet, and by the time this girl's gaze reached the Kid's
face it was so cold I shivered where I was standin'.
The Kid fin'ly pulls himself together and seems to
be gulpin' out somethin', and I step away so's I won't
get my ears in where they don't belong. As I do some
body slaps me on the back and snarls : "I been lookin'
all over for you, you rat ! You're a fine guy, you are —
what d'ye mean by stealin' my fighter from me, hey ?"

Dummy Carney's purplin' face is shoved over my
shoulder at the auto.

"Oh, there's the big bum, hey?" he growls, and,
throwin' my hands off, he walks up to the Kid and the
girl. The chauffeur has changed the shoe and he looks
up kinda puzzled. Kid Roberts gets a coupla shades
whiter when he sees Dummy and tries to motion him
away. But it's too late.

"You big stiff !" roars Carney. "You fight another
guy for anybody but me and I'll run you outa New
York ! Foolin' around with a skirt, hey, instead of
lookin' me up and — "

The sudden rush of blood was still dyein' the Kid's

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 57

face as he clipped Dummy, and that baby kissed the
turf without a groan.

"Beast !" says the girl — the only word I ever heard
her say. She motions to the chauffeur. Exit Miss
Irene Gresham from the life and adventures of Kid
Roberts !

With his cap in his hand and his head throwed back,
the Kid stands starin' after the car. Then he snaps
his fingers with a short, queer laugh and turns to me
a white, strained face, which seems to have picked up
five years somewheres since I seen it last.

"And there's that!" he says. "Let's get away from
here!"

Carney begins showin' some signs of life, and the
Kid stops a passin' taxi, tells the brigand the hotel,
jumps in, and pulls me after him.

"Hey," I whispers to him, "I ain't got a nickel, and
it'll cost at least two bucks to get to the hotel."

"There's every penny I have!" snarls the Kid, pullin'
out a two-dollar bill and tossin' it to me. "Pay it. Now
shut up and let me alone !"

From then on that baby was different. I don't know
just what the change was — he was just another guy,
that's all ! No more did he shed a tear over bein' forced
to clout the stiffs ; he showed about as much mercy as
the gentle Germans showed Belgium.

They is a little package and a note for the Kid when
we get to the hotel, and up in the room he opens it,
reads the note, and tears it up.

"There goes the last link that held me to what used
to be !" he remarks, tossin' the pieces out the window.

58 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

"I only wish we had some kinda links to hock !" I
says. "Do you realize we ain't got the price of a re
built toothpick ?"

Instead of answerin', he hands the little box over to
me.

"Look at that," he says. "It represents the end of
another illusion !"

I opened it and was nearly struck blind by the dia-
mondst diamond I ever seen in my life.

"Sweet Mamma!" I breathes. "Who give you this,
Kid?"

"The young lady we met in the park," he says. "I
am now free to pursue my heinous career without any
qualms. That — er — was an engagement ring. When
I bought that my father was worth a fortune, and I
paid eleven hundred dollars for it. I'm glad — in a way
— this happened. It was the easiest way out of a thing
that would have been a horrible mistake !"

"Well," I says, gazin' at the ring in a trance, "she
might of at least — "

"Not a word!" he warns me, holdin' up his hand.
"She is a splendid woman — a sweet girl !"

I grabbed for my hat and held up the ring.

"And this here's the sweetest thing she ever done !"
I says. "Wait here and we'll eat. I'll try and get five
hundred on it !"

I was goin' down in the elevator before he reached
the door.

ROUND THREE
PAYMENT THROUGH THE NOSE

WHEN it comes to takin' punishment I am forced to
award the brown derby to the modern prize-fight fan.
Next to the wrestlin' addict, the gent which digs into
the rent money for a ringside seat at the average one
of these "return engagements" between the present crop
of professional sluggers stands alone as the Crown
Prince of dumb-bells. For the example, one of our
present champs has "fought" the nearest contender for
his crown a even thirteen times, with first one and then
the other winnin' the newspaper decision, mixin' in a
occasional "draw" to keep up the interest. Another
title holder has met the ex-champ in his class eight
times in them brief, chummy, "no decision" things, and
as for the second- and third-rate heavies — Sweet
Mamma ! Them guys has a regular route mapped out
for their act, with a season which would make a stand
ard vaudeville team sob with envy. Why, girls, it's
nothin' at all for a pair of 'em to box each other a
coupla times a week on a trip around a circuit that ex
tends from Maine to California, takin' turns in winnin'
by a "shade."

A sparrin' partner which has got anything at all con
nected with his head outside of a tin ear, soon learns to

59

60 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

avoid disfigurin' punishment and yet give his master a
stiff workout. In the same way any two professional
scrappers which knows the first thing about their trade
can carry each other along for a dozen rounds at a pace
which makes three- fourths of the customers think they
are tryin' to assassinate each other, whereas violence is
the farthest thing from their minds. The oftener they
meet, the more sensational they can make the "bouts"
look, because after half a dozen such entertainments
they know each other's every wallop by heart and could
prob'ly stand up and block each other with their eyes
closed.

Now, if amongst the billions in my audience there
is a blown-in-the-flask box-fight fan which is hysteri
cally rearin' up on his hind legs shriekin' that I'm all
wrong, and what I know about the ring could be wrote
on a gnat's ear, I would like to gently ask him why is
it that there is usually more genuine action, promiscu
ous gore, and intent to kill in one round of the prelim
inaries than there is in the average star bout of the
evenin' ? Well, the main and principal reason is be
cause the $l-a-round birds have to make a fight of it
or they don't get no more work! Let them babies ease
up for a minute and the indignant referee is at their
pantin' sides informin' 'em that if they don't show some
speed he will take the greatest of pleasure in throwin'
the both of 'em outa the ring. Then again, gentlemen
of the jury, it takes a finished workman with the mitts
to stall so successfully that when him and his fellow
artist apparently ignores the bell and keeps on sluggin'
each other at the end of a round, the mob thinks it's

61

on the level and goes delirious. A third-rater cannot
stall, even if you rehearse him for a year. He don't
know enough to slip inside what looks like man-killin'
wallops, and when stung he forgets what he was told
and fights! He's like the boneheaded but crack ball
player which couldn't throw a game for a million dol
lars in dimes because he's got no imagination — he's a
machine. He can't make the error which would frame
the thing for the other side, because once he's in there
he remembers nothin' but to play ball to the best of
whatever ability he has. It ain't particularly because
he's honest; he's shy the intelligence to be a first-class
crook ! The third-rate scrapper is the same way. Tell
him for a month to rate the other guy along, pull his
wallops, and take a occasional count to make it look
good for the "return bouts," and when he climbs into
the ring he forgets all about his instructions and goes
ahead on his own hook as per usual. Given a fair
chance, he'll innocently knock the other tramp for a
goal, and spoil him for future and profitable use.

The fighter himself is in no way responsible for the
conditions which surround box fightin' to-day. Like
the exceedin'ly late czar of the playful Russians, he's
more or less the victim of circumstances. Modern pro
fessional boxin' is a business as well organized as the
circus. As perpetrated in some of the big burgs, prize
fightin' is very close to bein' a trust. The boxers on
the inside are carefully nursed along, advertised, and
exploited the same as a breakfast food, patent
medicine, or movie star, and the tough ambitious
outsider has the same chance of bustin' into the large
money as I got of bein' elected Queen of Montenegro.

62 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

Every now and then some newspaper guy, with more
nerve than prospects, trains his typewriter on these
dollar snatchers and pans the "return engagements"
between the leadin' scrappers to a fare-thee-well. The
promoters' alibi is that they have to rematch the head-
liners, because there is so few young men hither and
yon about the country which is talented enough with
their hands to give the stars a battle. This, of course,
is 36-carat bunk! In every class, from bantam to
heavyweight, there is a half dozen earnest, clever, and
bone-crushin' young sluggers which are automatically
barred off the Big Time because they are just that!
The champs don't wish no part of these babies — they're
too tough and ambitious. Merciful Heavens, no — why,
them poor boobs wanna fight!

These and other present-day conditions which I will
take up at our next meetin' is what has stripped the
prize ring of the sentimental glamour, sportsmanship,
and fair play throwed around it by many of our other
wise unhysterical authors and playwrights. In days of
old, when men was bold and the like, perhaps prize
fightin' was a he-man's sport and may have developed
courage and biceps in the youth of the land. At any
rate, the guys which traded wallops when John L. Sulli
van was the name of a fighter at least made a honest
attempt to earn their dough. They stood toe to toe for
hours at a time and battled more for glory than any
thing else, and the winner usually knew he had been
in a brawl by the time his handlers carried him outa
the ring. There was no percentages, bonuses, or guar
antees in them days. The purse was often in the
neighborhood of a coupla hundred berries, and fre-

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 63

quently the guy which remained upright at the finish
took it all !

Sweet Mamma — what a difference now !

The modern boss scrapper picks his opponents as
carefully as Ziegfeld picks a chorus. He gets a guaran
teed sum somewheres in the thousands for a six-, eight-,
or ten-round muss with some set-up which must take
what he's handed for his end, no matter if by some
miracle he knocks the star kickin'. Then again, if the
star happens to be a big local drawin' card, his victim
is at times warned that if he trims his man he don't
get no more work at that club. The result is that the
poor boob goes in against one of them $5,000 beauties,
finds the mob all with the native son, and yellin' for his
own immediate assassination; knows that if he wins,
draws, or loses his pay will be the same ; remembers
that if he gets too rough he will lose a lotta future
bouts at the club, an therefore takes a lickin', boostin'
the star's reputation and, likewise, the star's price.

But occasionally along comes a handsome city chap
which upsets all the plans of the gentlemanly promot
ers and the athletic young business men which calls
themselves boxers. A tough, ambitious baby will crop
up which, besides havin' a kick in each hand, has also
got a few ounces of brains in his head and a manager
which is not simply a addin' machine. A combination
like that is carbolic acid to the boxin' trust. Sooner or
later they gotta be taken in and gave a crack at the big
money. Then they either peg along, satisfied with the
soft sugar and takin' their turns at boxin' the other
members of the lodge, or they go in business for them
selves when they get to the top. That's what me and

64 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

Kid Roberts done, and that's how I made him heavy
weight champion.

Folio win' the wind-up of love's young dream, and my
return from the Merchant of Venice with a handful of
the root of all evil, Kid Roberts shuts the door of our
bower in the hotel and indicates by signs that he
wouldst like me to be seated.

"I have fought twice," he says, "and I've made some-
thin' less than a thousand dollars."

"That's better than diggin' streets, ain't it ?" I says.

"It won't do!" he tells me. "I'm not in this beastly
game for the love of it — I'm in it because it appears to
be the only thing at which I'm skilled enough to
make big money. I'm going to fight my way to the
top of the pile so that I can demand enough for my
bouts to rehabilitate my father and myself, and then
I'm going to get out of it. I'm not satined with my
progress to date. I don't want any more matches with
those tenth-raters — those battered, loathsome brutes
whose very appearance make the Darwinian theory
a base libel on the monkeys ! I'm sick of pounding
them to a pulp for a few dollars. There's no semblance
of a contest about those things; it's sheer, wanton
brutality. Go ahead and match me with some of these
so-called logical contenders for the heavyweight cham
pionship, or I'll be my own manager. I'm not trying to
desert you, but I want you to thoroughly understand
that I hate this game and everything connected with
it, and the quicker I get out of it the cleaner I'll feel !
I can't get out until I've made good. Is that clear?"

"Oh, easily that," I says, "and I don't blame you as
much as a particle for wantin' to make money. There's

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 65

a certain time in our lives when all of us gets that
feelin', usually durin' the first seventy-five years. But,
Kid, you gotta learn your trade and work your way
up in the fight game the same as in anything else. You
can't make a guy a plumber by simply handin' him a
piece of lead pipe and a monkey wrench. You're a
pretty good prospect right now, but that's all — just a
prospect. Them two fights you had don't mean nothin'.
You got a hefty kick in each paw, and you seem to be
able to take it, but you're as green as 350 Irish flags.
You get rattled under fire, you squander wallops on
the air, your defense wouldn't puzzle a one-armed blind
man, and you telegraph every clout you got in stock be
fore you pull it. When you get bounced you jump right
up instead of takin' a count till your head clears, and
you got a bad habit of lettin' a punch-drunk bum dive
into a clinch with you instead of shakin' him off and
finishin' him. Ring generalship, that's what you're
minus, and the only way you can get it is by experience.
You gotta be rated along, not rushed. That's what a
manager's for. Many a promisin' kid has been ruined
at the start by bein' overmatched. As for these guys
lookin' like gorillas — well, none of 'em claims to be
chorus girls, and you don't have to take 'em out to
dinner — you get paid to beat 'em up !"

The Kid ain't said nothin' whilst I'm pourin' this
into him, but his face is a movie.

"If I'm as rotten as that," he sneers fin'ly, "how do
you account for the fact that I won my first two pro
fessional fights by knockouts?"

"You licked a pair of tramps," I says, "who's com-

66 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

bined knowledge of the art of boxin' could be wrote
on a ant's nose. You gotta long ways to go yet be
fore I throw you into a ring with a fighter! You'd
be a set-up right now for the first good man you met,
and I ain't gonna have you knocked kickin' yet. You
been shook and hurt, but you ain't never experienced
the delightful sensation of bein' socked to dreamland,
and if I can help it you never will! A knockout right
now and you'd prob'ly be through with the ring — I
know you temperamental babies ; I had a stable full of
'em once."

He takes a coupla turns around the room to think
this over, and then he stops and looks at me.

"What you say may be true," he says, kinda cold,
"but it doesn't change my decision! If I'm as bad as
that, then I'll never be a success as a fighter, and I
may as well give it up and try something else. How
ever, I want a fair test first, and I haven't had one yet.
Match me with a good man or I'll do it myself. That's
my last word !"

I seen the boy had worked himself up into a fit of
nerves, and it would be terrible silly to argue with him
then.

"C'mon," I says, "we'll take a walk around to Billy
Morgan's gym and see some of the boys workin' out.
Maybe you can pick up a coupla tricks for yourself
watchin' — "

"We have no time to waste," he cut me off. "I'll
never be a champion by hanging around anybody's
training quarters."

"C'mon, C'mon," I says, "lay off to-day and you'll
be champion a day later then — what's the difference?"

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 67

Up at Billy Morgan's I let the Kid roam around at
will while I tried to make arrangements to have him
took on as a sparrin' partner for some good guy. Billy
gazed around the gym, where there were half a dozen
of all weights workin' the pulleys, punchin' the bag,
sparrin' or shadow boxin'.

"Well," he says, "I dunno. There's not many boys
here now — most of the big fellers is goin' around the
circuit outa town and the like. Al Kennedy is readyin'
himself for his quarrel with Young Williams, but I
guess Al's a little too tough for your kid, hey?"

"You tell 'em !" I says with f eelin'. "My boy's only
started twict and I ain't gonna have him cut up and
discouraged by that big stiff for nothin', that's a cinch !
By the way, who's got Kennedy now ?"

"Heh?" says Bill. "Oh, Dummy Carney— he's
around here somewheres now with Rocky Martin and
Sailor McGann, them two boloneys of his. Say —
Dummy oughta fix you up at that. His guys is workin'
out here, and no doubt Dummy will ease your boy in
with 'em. He's a pretty good friend of yours, ain't
he?'

The answer come from Carney.

I can see the thing now as well as if I was standin'
there in Billy's gym lookin' at it again. Dummy Car
ney slouchin' in with his two bruisers, me gettin' and
feelin' pale in the neighborhood of the gills when I seen
him, because the last time we bosom friends had met,
Kid Roberts had knocked Dummy flat — and the Kid
watchin' big Al Kennedy punchin' the bag.

Dummy is a big man and far from yellah. The

68 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

second his eyes lit on the Kid he has him by the
shoulder and swung him around.

"Well, see what's here !" he sneers. "Little Kewpie,
the sassiety boxer, hey?" He raised his voice, and some
of the gang stopped workin' to look. "Are you ready
to live up to your contract with me yet, you big bum ?"

The Kid puts his hands in his pockets and his com
plexion turns a shade or so lighter.

"You deserted me in Sandusky in my first fight when
you thought I was going to be knocked out," he says
pretty even. "I have no contract with you, as I con
sider that your yellow action automatically broke it.
If you make one more insulting remark to me or annoy
me in any way, I will take great pleasure in knocking
you through that wall !"

Dummy' face turned a unbecoming shade of purple,
and he begin to gasp like a newly captured trout. When
he fin'ly succeeded in gettin' a fresh grip on the Eng
lish language he shoo!: his fist in the Kid's face and
bellered :

"You — you — why — don't you dare to double-cross
me, you boob, or you'll never get a fight around New
York ! Your contract called for at least three starts
under my management, and you'll go through with it
or you don't pull on another glove !"

The Kid deliberately turns his back to him and gazes
at Al Kennedy, which, whilst still whippin' the bag
around, has got a attentive though battered ear open to
the conversation.

Dummy let fall a expression which is rarely heard
in a church and wheeled around to his two maulers,
Rocky Martin and Sailor McGann.

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 69

"Let him have it !" he snarls, half under his breath.

Me and Billy Morgan started over at once, but we
was too slow. The Kid suddenly pivoted around and
seen them two pork-and-beaners comin' in. He didn't
wait to ask no questions. Rocky Martin met a straight
left to the face that dumped him in a comical position
at Dummy's feet, through for the day. Sailor Mc-
Gann was short with a right to the jaw and got a chop
on the side of what passed for his head which immedi
ately removed all thoughts of violence from the same.
Then the Kid faced the frenzied Dummy.

"If my contract called for three fights, you can con
sider it filled now," he pants. "I had one in Sandusky
and" — he points to the two reclinin' gladiators —
"there's the other two !"

Wow!

"Clout him too, kid!" yells a interested lightweight.
"I'm with you !"

Big Al Kennedy has stopped punchin' the bag and is
starin' over at us with a grin on his face. The lace on
one of his gloves has come undone and he tries to tie
it with his teeth. Dummy's face suddenly brightens,
and he yells at him, pointin' to the Kid: "Take this
guy for me, Al !"

I let out a roar and jumped forward, but Dummy
swept me against the wall with one walkin'-beam arm.
It made quite a picture. There's the Kid, white and
drawn with a nervous grin on his lips, facin' Kennedy
and waitin'. Dummy is snarlin' and motionin' to his
hired man to let one go, whilst the two hams on the floor
rolls outa harm's way and the rest of the gang quits

70 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

everything to watch. I said a silent prayer and then
yelled to Billy Morgan to stop it, but the big stiff
shrugged his shoulders and waved me away. Some
body dropped a pin and I heard it hit the floor.

Then Al Kennedy walks over to the Kid, which don't
give way a inch. Al looks up and down coolly and
turns to Dummy, his manager : "Where d'ye get that
stuff?" he growls. "What's the idea of askin' me to
slough this guy for yuh, hey? If you want him beat
up, get some of them bums which is hangin' round here
lookin' for exercise — what d'ye think / am, a rough
neck? I'll box him for pennies — sure, but them gang-
fight days is over, get that?" He holds up the glove
with the loose string under the Kid's nose. "Here,
kid," he says in a offhand way, "tie that up for me,
will yuh?"

Kid Roberts dropped his half-raised hands and give
a short laugh.

"Certainly !" he says politely, and damned if he didn't,
whilst Dummy let forth a howl and collapsed in a chair.

A week after that me and Kid Roberts traveled over
to the Never- Say-Dry country of New Jersey and seen
Al Kennedy put Young Williams out in six rounds.
The fight was a dude whilst it lasted, both men bein'
seasoned campaigners and both in line for a crack at
the title. Kennedy had everything, includin' a nasty
straight left which Williams was unable to keep his face
off of, and Kennedy used that to wear his man down
till fin'ly a well-timed right cross to the button gave
Williams a one-way ticket to dreamland.

The Kid watched the brawl like it was the first one

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 71

he ever seen, and never for a minute did his eyes leave
the shifty, bone-crushin' Kennedy. When that guy
stepped from the ring after the melee, without even his
hair mussed, and the mob yellin' itself hoarse, I turned
to Kid Roberts.

"Well," I says, "are you satisfied? There's one of
the good men you wanna meet, and you seen him work
to-night! You know this Williams is anything but a
bum, yet he was duck soup for Kennedy. What chance
would you have against a guy like that now?"

His answer was nothin'.

When we got back to the hotel the Kid broke a long
silence. "Have you made a match for me yet?" he says.

"I expect to close to-morrow with Dave Kane, which
has the Newark club," I says. "We'll get a eight-round
preliminary with some pushover in a week, I guess."

"Guess again !" snaps the Kid. "My next bout will
be with Al Kennedy."

"A good stiff headache powder will fix you right
up," I says soothin'ly.

"Either you get me Kennedy or I get him myself,"
he says, "and that's final ! If I beat him, I'll be in line
for a match with the champion; if he beats me, I'm
through. I watched every move he made to-night, and
I'm confident I can take his measure. I'm big enough
to whip any man I can hit, and one thing is certain —
Kennedy will never stick that left in my face as he did
with Williams. I haven't got a permanent mark to
show that I'm a prize fighter, and I never will have, you
can rest assured of that !"

"I could rest even more assured if you'd forget about
fightin' Kennedy !" I says. "Now listen to me, son —

72 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

apart from the fact that you ain't got a Chinaman's
chance with this guy, I don't know of any club which
would put the match on. The only way we could get
the fight is because Dummy Carney would be tickled
silly to have you flattened on account of him losin' you.
But they'd be no dough in it — you don't mean nothin'
around here, understand? And —

"That's what I have a manager for," he interrupts.
Your job is to make my name mean something here
until I get a fight. Now get busy and use your imag
ination, or I'll go it alone!"

Well, we argued back and forth till the inmates of
the adjoinin' rooms got sick of the thing and threatened
reprisals, and the night clerk called up with the infor
mation that they was runnin' a hotel and not a dance
hall. At three in the a. m. we called it a night after the
Kid had agreed to fight one tramp before Kennedy, and
I had promised to make his name as well known as
Georgie Cohan's in and around Manhattan.

The Kid bein' young, healthy, and care free was un
conscious a minute after he hit the hay, but I laid
awake gazin' at the ceilin' for quite some space tryin'
to dope out a scheme that would get us tres bicn pub
licity and beaucoup pennies. Along around the time
they shoot you in the army — sunrise — I got it, and a
little while later, when I heard Kid Roberts splashin'
around in the bathroom, I bust in on him and revealed
all.

At first he registered the greatest of disgust, but as
I continued on with the layout his face cleared, and
when I wound up outa breath he slaps me on the back
and grins.

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 73

"Great !" he hollers. "Old man, you should have
been a press agent. When I become champion and
leave the ring to enter business, I'll engage you as pub
licity man !"

"Yeh?" I sniffs. "Well, that's horrible nice of you
— only if you ever win the title / expect to own at
least half of that business you're gonna enter!"

I spent the rest of the day chasin' all over the isle
of Gotham from the one end to the other try in' to dig
up the necessary dough to put my stunt over. Late
that night, as they say in the movies, I had begged,
borreyed, and gypped myself a $500 bank roll, and Kid
Roberts had met "the most wonderful girl in the
world !" or, in the other words, Estelle Van Horn, one
of the merry villagers in "The Girl and the Cream
Puff." This was the Kid's second attempt to put over a
romance with himself as the leadin' man. He made a
dozen wild stabs at the thing which drives the poets wild
before along come — but we'll get around to that later.

The campaign to make Kid Roberts as popular as
matrimony begin with me takin' him down to a swell
photographer's and havin' him snapped in half a dozen
poses, wearin' ring togs and — a mask. This was nothin'
more than a piece of black silk with eyeholes, which
fitted over the top of his face, makin' it practically
impossible to identify him. Likewise, it was part of
my scheme to make him stand out from the mob and
get him talked about. Then I started the rounds of
the newspaper offices with him.

My story was this: Kid Roberts was a millionaire
college guy which refused to give out his real name
and wore a mask in the ring so's his high society pals

74 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

couldn't discover the double life he was leadin*. In
the afternoons he attended receptions and the like,
flauntin' a mean teacup, and at night he give himself
over to fisticuffs, swingin' a nasty left hook. He
never accepted as much as a thin dime for his serv
ices, because he was in the game for the love of it
alone, not to mention his ambition to become cham
pion. I had him throw out chance remarks about his
"cars" and his "country place" with a occasional
mention of "the yacht," and whilst some of the wise-
guy sport writers grinned and invited us to take the
air, most of 'em eat the stuff up and hollered for
more. Havin' once been a habitue of Yale, the Kid
was easily able to make the college-boy thing sound
good, and as for the millionaire end of it, well — Kid
Roberts looked and acted more like a million dollars
than two $500,000 bills. He throwed handfuls of
poetry at 'em, slipped in a slice of O. Shaw, Rudyard
Longfellow, John G. Shakespeare, Washington Irving
Berlin, and all them old masters of the English lan
guage.

They was one sportin' editor which tried out the
Kid on a coupla dozen tough questions in order to
prove was he really a highbrow, and Kid Roberts was
never even extended, comin' back with a flow of words
which would make a Boston high-school teacher take
carbolic. Fin'ly they get on the subject of boxin',
and with regard to a knockout the Kid explains it
like thus :

"The jawbone strikes hard upon the thin plate of
bone supporting the delicate labyrinth of the inner ear,
and the bony portion thereof is driven upward into the

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 75

glenoid cavity of the skull. This shocks the semicircu
lar canals, and this shock is in turn transmitted to the
bulbs producing dizziness, nausea, and momentary
paralysis !"

The sport writer fell over a copy boy in a trance
and the next day we got a column in his sheet, with
pictures.

But I didn't stop at that. With some of the
dough I had excavated, I hired the Kid a swell-lookin'
bus, a chauffeur, and a guy with a uneyform like a
Turkish admiral to open the doors. A sparrin' part
ner passed as a valet. Then I commenced takin' Kid
Roberts and this layout around to all the fight clubs,
where he regularly challenged the champion and got
introduced from the ring. He never failed to be a riot
for the reason that he climbed through the ropes in
a dizzy dress suit and the mask, escorted by the alleged
valet which took his coat, hat, and gloves whilst he
bowed to the crowd and thanked 'em for their appre
ciation. You can always get attention with some-
thin' new whether you're in Succotash Corners or
Times Square, and as this had never been done before
we was rarely off the sportin' page. By the time he
was ready to fight Owney Griggs, who I had hand-
picked for him as a workout before he committed
suicide by facin' Al Kennedy, I had established Kid
Roberts as a card and we went on in a main bout for
a $700 guarantee. I had no trouble arrangin' with
the club managers to give out that we was fightin' for
nothin. As long as I filled the house, they should
grieve what I got across in the papers.

76 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

The night of the fight with Griggs we rolled up to
the clubhouse bright and early in our Snappy Six,
with the chauffeur, door tender, valet, and nickle-
plated hood. Over the radiator is a large sign marked,
"Kid Roberts, Next Heavyweight Champion of the
World." We stop outside the main entrance for a
few minutes, and as the Kid is masked and wearin'
evenin' clothes we attract no more attention than a
snowfall would in Hades. We occupy a ringside box
durin' the preliminaries, and before each scrap the
Kid climbed into the ring, shook hands with each
fighter and wished 'em many happy returns — also
somethin' new. I kept hittin' the mob in the face with
the Kid all the time we was there till fin'ly we was
arousin' as much interest as the boys in the ring. We
left for the dressin' room durin' the semifinal bout,
followed by cheers that would of tickled Dempsey.
Did that crowd want to see Kid Roberts fight? You
tell 'em!

But I wasn't through yet!

The Kid comes into the ring wearin', besides the
mask, a blue silk bath robe, ornamented with pale pink
peacocks and purple flowers. On top of his regular
handlers and me they is the valet with a tray of hot
chocolate, a silver water bottle, smellin' salts, and
the etc., and a pile of clean white towels. He is
helped through the ropes like he was a 1542 Chinese
vase, the stool is carefully dusted off, and he sits
down, takes a cup of chocolate from the valet, a novel
from the pocket of his bath robe, and without a glance
at the other corner, begins to read!

Sweet Cookie!

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 77

For a second the customers is dazed, and then with
a roar they begin to give him the razz. Some of the
witty remarks from the gallery would be barred here,
but I had spent a week preparin' the Kid for that and
he simply turned over a page, cast a amused smile
at one and all, and went on readin'. Over across the
ring Owney Griggs and his handlers is on the verge
of the hystericals. Kid Roberts, the "Millionaire
Society Boxer," certainly did look soft, till the Kid
stood up to be introduced to the house and the "valet"
whipped off the trick bath robe.

The mob quit kiddin' on the instant, the noisy
chatter hangin' fire on a long gasp — then they rocked
the buildin' with the hand his clean, magnificent body
deserved. The grin slid from the face of Owney
Griggs and he sat down, lookin' very serious.

If ever there was a flashy looker, stripped, his name
was Kid Roberts — the ripplin' muscles rollin' and
twistin' under his white skin like corded steel under
satin. A sport writer, sittin' under his corner, threw
away a cigarette and immediately christened him
"the Adonis of the Ring," and as such he was known
to the finish. Alongside of this seven-ton bruiser he
was gonna meet, he looked kinda light for a punishin'
heavyweight, but the minute the bell rang he looked
big enough to take the Rock of Gibraltar — and he
was!

With the crowd yellin' and strainin' in their seats,
the Kid was halfway across the ring before Griggs
left his corner. Workin' fast, Roberts feinted this
big ham into a knot, brought his guard down with a
jab at the body and then, like a flash of startled light,

78 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

crashed over a right to the jaw that dumped Monsieur
Owney Griggs on his face as cold as a pawnbroker's
eye, just forty seconds after the openin' gong.

So that was all settled!

Leavin' the ring, the Kid got a sendoff which he'll
remember to his dyin' day. With the help of the
good old bunk, represented by the mask and the "Mil
lionaire Society Boxer" thing — and the lucky one-
punch knockout of the tramp — Kid Roberts had
arrived in his first start on the Big Time and, barrin'
accidents, we was headed for the large dough.

The guy which first said "Accidents will happen!"
was no Ananias, I'll rise to inform the globe!

The next day, all arguments, threats, prayers, and
the like havin' failed with the Kid, I signed him to
fight Al Kennedy eight rounds in Jersey City two
weeks later. We was guaranteed $1,000 for our end,
with a option of 30 per cent of the gross. I had no
trouble gettin' the match, because Dummy Carney was
so wild to see his man batter Roberts insensible that
he was almost willin' to let Kennedy go in for nothin',
which, as usual, was what the papers said Roberts
was gonna get. I figured the Kid had one chance in
five against Al Kennedy right then.

Then my troubles begin for real !

In the first place, the Kid starts duckin' his trainin'
to act as a bodyguard for Estelle Van Horn. He com
menced to tell me that Estelle "understood him" and
that she really was a sweet, wholesome, and innocent
girl which come only recently from a fine family out
in Parsnip, Ohio. Upon receipt of that sensational
information, I managed to get the boon of a interview

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 79

with the fair Estelle. As I expected, if Estelle was
a country maiden, then I'm Caruso, and a five-minute
conversation convinced me that the Kid's swell front
had led her innocent little mind astray. She was
lookin' for a limousine any day and not no flivver,
either, whereas and to wit the Kid actually couldn't
buy her a inner tube.

As I had the boy's future in my hands, I told her
that and also that no matter what he had led her to
believe on the way home in the taxi, he was simply
a second-rate prize fighter and I was his manager and
if she didn't believe it, nothin' would please me better
than to have her come up to Billy Morgan's some after
noon and see her gentleman friend work out with the
other hams. She coldly shooed me away, but called me
back at the door to ask the address of Billy Morgan's.

The other thing which kept me from dyin' of the
sleepin' sickness was the Kid's sudden and determined
ambition to protect his face at all costs from the end
of a glove. No matter what come to pass, he swore
he'd never leave a prize ring marked up. No cauli
flower ears, busted beaks, split lips, or eyes in mournin'
was gonna come to him. Outa the ring, nobody would
ever know he was a fighter, because once he made his
pile he expected to take up his place in society at about
where he left off. Now this here stuff is O. K. in its
way, but when a guy leaves himself wide open in the
neighborhood of the belt in order to keep his beauti
ful features untouched, it's exceedin'ly dangerous. A
well-placed clout to the body has won as many fights
as a smash to the jaw ever did. Ask Corbett, he
knows !

80 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

As the time for the fight with Kennedy got nearer,
the Kid got worse if anything. Sparrin' partners had
no trouble at all reachin' his short ribs and heart, and
I warned him that if Kennedy ever threw a solid
punch into his mid-section he would break him in two,
but the Kid only grinned and called my attention to
the fact that they wasn't a pug in the gym which
could lay a glove on his face and that he was in good
enough condition to take anything in the body. He
also remarked that the Kennedy fight would be the
same as the fracas with Owney Griggs — one round.

He had it posolutely right!

A coupla days before the mill a middleweight, which
had been trainin' in Billy Morgan's and sparrin' with
the Kid, failed to show up. I didn't give that a thought
at the time, bein' busy with a million other things. I
seen that guy again the night Kid Roberts climbed
through the ropes. He was grinnin' at me and holdin'
the bucket for Al Kennedy !

The evenin' that Kid Roberts and Al Kennedy fought
in Jersey City the coppers closed the doors of the
clubhouse at nine o'clock, whilst a coupla thousand
bugs fought 'em in the streets to get in. I had the
Kid pull his regular stuff — mask, dress suit, valet,
and all — and it went big this time with the howlin'
mob, which had seen him polish off Owney Griggs with
a punch two weeks before. Roberts got a president's
ovation when he was introduced and so did Kennedy
for that matter. Sweet Mamma — but that crowd was
on edge, and when the bell clanged there wasn't a
guy sittin' down in the house.

Whilst readyin' up the Kid I had told him this :

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 81

"Tie into this baby from the gong, Kid, and he's
yours! Don't let him set, keep right on top of him.
Forget about your own face and pay some atten
tion to his, and, above all things, don't keep your
guard too high, because this Kennedy is a nasty body
punisher !"

"I'll be all right," smiles the Kid. "But I'm not
going to let this fellow cut me up! I'm not going to
chance a broken nose or a torn ear for a few dollars —
those things never heal perfectly and they always leave
a man marked. Well, I won't be marked and — "

The bell cut him off.

The instant they met in the middle of the ring, Ken
nedy begin to play for the Kid's face with that mean
left jab of his and Roberts backed away whilst the
crowd booed him. This seemed to rouse the Kid, and
he rushed Kennedy to the ropes, landin' two hard
rights to the head before they fell into a clinch.
Kennedy again tried hard for the Kid's jaw on the
break, but Roberts, now the picture of confidence,
made him look foolish and brought a roar from the
crowd by sendin' him back on his heels with a vicious
right to the heart. Instead of followin' this one up and
maybe finishin' his man, the Kid stood off whilst the
mob shrieked: "Go on, you big stiff, take a chance —
knock him out!" A left chop brought blood from
Kennedy's nose and a second later Roberts crashed
him into the ropes with a volley of rights and lefts to
the head. The crowd was now ten thousand lunatics
yellin' for a knockout. Kennedy dove into a clinch
and looked over the Kid's shoulder to his own corner
for advice, his face a crimson smear. The advice come

82 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

from that little rat middleweight which had blowed our
camp before the fight.

"The face, Al!" screams this guy. "Bring it up!"

As the referee tore them apart, Kennedy, badly
outpointed and almost all in, let fly a desperate right
to the jaw. It barely grazed the Kid, but it made
him nervous for that infernal face of his and up came
his guard. "Now!" comes bellerin' from Kennedy's
corner, and Zam ! — he buries his left to the wrist in
the Kid's body with a sock that could be plainly heard
in South Dakota. The Kid flashed white and his head
rolled. I knew what was comin', but I yelled to the
Kid to clinch, at the same time gettin' the sponge ready.
Kennedy, now wild with eagerness to finish the Kid,
missed a coupla swings and then fin'ly connected with
a right hook to the jaw that dropped the Kid on one
knee. He looked over to me like he didn't know what
it was all about (which he didn't, by the way), took
a count of "eight," and then, grabbin' Kennedy's leg
for a brace, he pulled himself up — out on his feet. A
feint for the jaw, the Kid's hands goes up mechanically
and a solid left under the heart sprawled him dead
to the world, knocked out for the first time, almost at
my feet ! I had started into the ring with the punch.

To the mob of maniacs around me it was only the
sensational end of a sensational fight, but to me it
was the probable wind-up of a chance to make a mil
lion ! All I could think as I helped carry the Kid to
his corner was would he ever forget he had been
knocked cold, or was this his finish and mine ?

The first thing the Kid called for in the dressin'

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 83

room was — a mirror. When he seen there wasn't a
scratch on his face, he grinned.

"Sorry !" he says. "Are you through ?"

"What d'ye mean through?" I snarls. "We're
just beginnin' — or maybe you got enough, hey?"

The grin gets broader.

"I had to get it some time, I suppose," he says,
kinda thoughtful. Then: "I think this fight will do
me a lot of good — I learned a pile of things while it
lasted. You know, frankly, in spite of this reversal
to-night, I feel in my heart that I can whip that fel
low!"

"There's no question about it !" I says. "You'd of
flattened him sure to-night if you hadn't been so damn
careful of gettin' your face mussed up. Why, you
had him—"

"Get him for me again!" he butts in. "I'll start
conditioning myself again to-morrow!"

Not bad for a guy which has just been knocked,
hey?

I turned on the old thinker again that night and
several days later I signed Roberts to fight Kennedy
six rounds in Philly, the middle of the followin' month.
I had to take $600. By a strange coincidence, I also
brung a new sparrin' partner around to Billy Mor
gan's to work out with the Kid. This baby and
Roberts had been sparrin' lightly for a few minutes,
when who appears in the doorway but Estelle Van
Horn, which had selected that day to see for herself
how her boy friend evaded the poorhouse. I called
to the Kid, and he turned his head. The other guy
prob'ly didn't hear me, because on the instant he

84 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

swung a roundhouse left, square on the Kid's unpro
tected face! Roberts staggered back, recovered, and
put both gloves to his nose. We all rushed over, the
sparrin' partner chokin' apologies and scared stiff and
some of the other handlers tryin' to stop the flow of
gore. Whilst waitin' for the medico, I felt the
Kid's nose with a experienced and eager hand — they
was no doubt about it, it was broke bad and would
carry a dent as long as he lived. In the excitement
the fair Estelle beat it.

We was sittin' in the room at the hotel some hours
later when the phone rung. A cold female voice asks
for "Mister Roberts." The conversation wasn't long
and consisted on the Kid's part of the followin' :

"Hello . . . yes . . ." (a long silence). "But, my
dear girl . . ." (another and longer silence). "Very
well, Miss Van Horn . . . good-by!"

With reference to nobody in particular, the Kid
bursts out as he slams up the receiver :

"She saw me in the gym — she called me a pork-and-
beaner, whatever that may be. She — Good Heavens,
her language! — and I thought — Say, can you tell
me why I ever thought that girl was — Why, she
fooled me completely."

"They run that way sometimes," I says carelessly.
"Now, that beak of yours will be O. K. in — "

He's lookin' in the mirror.

"If I hadn't been so careful of my nose, I would
have stepped into Kennedy and beaten him sure!" he
murmurs, with a half smile. "But I got knocked out
saving it and then a sparring partner breaks it in
training. A jest of the gods ! Well, it's done and in-

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 85

directly it will be a great thing for me — I've got the
badge of my profession now, and at least there's one
worry off my mind! Beginning to-day, I'm in this
thing heart and soul. I'll take no more foolish precau
tions — as you say, one can't make catsup without
breakin' some tomatoes. Watch me step into them
and treat 'em rough now !"

"Sixty-eight cheers!" I grins. "That's just what
I figured — I mean, you got the right idea, son!"

"Isn't fate the playful jade ?" he says. "Still I almost
feel like rewarding that fellow for that punch on the
nose — it will probably make me a fortune! What's
his name anyhow ?"

"Search me!" I says, reachin' for my hat. "Them
tramps is usually all 'One-Round' somethin' or other.
Let's get some chow."

I didn't think it necessary to tell Kid Roberts that,
speakin' of rewards, I had already rewarded the guy
which busted his nose before I brung him in to do
it, and his name was — well, Heroic Treatment is as
good as any, I guess!

ROUND FOUR
A FOOL AND HIS HONEY

THE average admirer of the manly art of aggra
vated assault has the idea that a prize fighter's mana
ger is the gent the leather pusher has got to give half
his wages to, which sits in his meal ticket's corner
bawlin' him out every time the other young man
clouts him earnestly on the features — and that's about
all. Nothin', outside of the Arabian Nights, could
be farther from the facts. A first-class pilot is to a box
fighter what a race track is to a jockey — he's got to
have one or he don't get nowheres. There is no
doubt whole coveys of boxin' impresarios which is
little more than towel wavers and nickel hiders, but
a real, Big Time manager of pugs hustles harder for
his pennies than a bill poster on a windy day. He's
got to have the conscience of a loan shark, the shrewd
ness of Shylock's old man, the nerve of a blind tight
rope walker, the imagination of the guy which in
vented boardin'-house hash, and the optimism of a
salesman startin' through Hades with a line of cellu
loid collars. He's got to be press agent, trainer,
banker, adviser, valet, pal, and keeper for some bull-
necked mauler, which nine and three-fifths times outa
ten presents him with the raspberry the instant
he graduates from the preliminaries.

86

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 87

Many a tenth-rate scrapper has copped fame and
fortune through the efforts of a brainy pilot, and
many a champ has lost both through the coarse work
of a poor one. Again, they ain't a dozen cases on
the books where a fighter tried to manage himself and
was a success of it. One bright and shinin' example
of this is Monsieur Jessica Willard, the martyr of
Toledo, which might of lasted a few more seconds
before the ferocious Dempsey if he'd had shrewd and
experienced handlin' from his corner.

Popularity with the mob is what brings home the
sugar in professional boxin' the same as in profes
sional anything. Jim Coffey shook a mean controller
on the front end of a New York street car before
he seen a picture of Peter Maher and decided he was
a sucker to work for a coupla bucks a day when he
could put on half a bathin' suit, knock a lot of Eng
lishmen cold, and get from one to five thousand berries
for doin' it. Coffey was rechristened "the Fighting
Irish Motorman," and every time he started against
some set-up they had to call out the reserves to keep
the motormen and conductors from tearin' the club
house down to see their ex-colleague perform. In a
few months Coffey cleaned up a fortune. Frank Moran
gets paid in thousands for his work because he can
and usually does take a terrific lacin' with a wide grin
on his face and a runnin' fire of wise cracks for the
ringsiders. Al McCoy, when middleweight champ,
was prob'ly the least popular fighter which ever wore
a crown, yet he got large dough for his services be
cause he jammed the clubhouse with thousands of
fans which wildly hated him and come for the sole

88 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

purpose of seein' him knocked dead! I could name
a hundred other scrappers which got a Big Time
hearin' purely on a managerial-created personality.

Success is a high-powered drink which has flattened
as many guys as booze ever did — you gotta know how
to handle it or it'll throw you, as sure as the Atlantic
is inclined to be damp! What keeps plenty of room
for newcomers at the top of the ladder of fame is the
fact that simple carelessness is continually forcin' guys
that's reached there to slide off. In our case poor
judgment and too much ambition caused us to drop
back in the heap just when it looked like not even the
champ could stop us.

This one-round knockout by Kennedy before a metro
politan jury ruined all my hard work in makin' Kid Rob
erts a drawin' card in the Big Town, and set us back at
least a year — as I thought at the time. Here's a burg
where you can get anything in the world with the slight
exception of sympathy, where every guy which lands at
the Battery with a dialect, a secretary, and four trunks
is gave the freedom of the city and a chance to rent
Carnegie Hall, whilst a possible future Carnegie,
with nothin' but the dialect, is sent to Ellis Island so's
he can appreciate what a democracy means at the go in.

The bank roll was shot to pieces, three or four im
portant and exceedin'ly profitable bouts had been can
celed, and takin' it by and large, our prospects looked as
bright as a guy's which has just finished a course in
bartendin'. There was only one way we could come
back quick, and that was to get a return scrap with
Kennedy and knock him dead, a thing that to my untu
tored mind looked 99 per cent impossible. In the first

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 89

place, the hardest fight in a box-fighter's career is his
first quarrel after he's been knocked out. You gener
ally pick nothin' but tramps for him all over again,
gradually gettin' his confidence back — but to rush a
green kid right in again against the baby that's flattened
him is absolutely idiotic, nine times outa ten. If your
boy's a champ, or you got a agreement with the other
guy, it's different. I had neither a champ or a agree
ment.

So, as I looked across our room at the Kid pacin'
up and down like the inmate of the panther's cage
at the zoo, I decided it was us back to the bushes
again for a space, battlin' bums and sellin' tickets for
the battles on a commission in the lew of a guaranteed
purse.

"Well, Kid," I says fin'ly, "drag out the old suit
case and we'll vamp away for the sticks. We gotta
start all over again, several feet below the bottom,
and jab our way back to where we was when you fell
into that wallop from Kennedy. It's tough, but — ''

He swung around on me like a flash. "What do
you mean?" he says. "I thought you had secured me
a return bout with Al Kennedy ?"

Pretty good for the Kid, hey ? Wantin' to step right
out again with the first guy which had knocked him
for a goal. The boy had heart, what?

"I had matched you with Kennedy again," I says,
"but said bout is all off now !"

"He crawled out of it, eh?" he snarls, bangin' his
fist down on the bureau. "Robbed me of my chance
to win back the — "

"No," I interrupts, "he didn't crawl out of it.

90 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

Nothin' would of gave Monsieur Kennedy greater
delight than havin' you as his guest in the middle of a
twenty- four- foot ring ! I'm the baby that crabbed the
thing, and it hurt me more than it does you, because
we was to drag down six hundred fish for that melee,
and the only way we can make six hundred dollars
right now is to steal a counter feitin' layout some-
wheres !"

"Then why the devil did you cancel that bout?" he
roars, advancin' on me with a four-alarm fire in each
eye. "Is this a crude preliminary to your tellin' me
you're ready to quit me because I've been knocked
out?"

The Kid was towerin' over me, his fine chin shoved
out at a fightin' angle, and that bone-crushin' right
dyin' with impatience to land on my jaw. I stood up,
put my hands in my pockets and looked him over
quietly.

"Listen!" I says. "I never quit anything or any
body in my life; that's why I'm broke — which shows
the copy books is all wrong! I'll tell you why I
called off your return quarrel with Al Kennedy, and
if you laugh at me whilst I'm tellin' it I'll take a clout
at you myself. It was maniacal on my part to listen
to you before and send you in against a guy as tough
as that, instead of waitin' till you had a few more real
battles under your belt, and I been sore at myself for
doin' it ever since. You and me was raised in differ
ent hothouses, Kid — the nearest / ever been to college
was the time I went up to New Haven to go behind
Young Evans when he fought K. O. Hinds. I passed

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 91

Yale on the ways to the clubhouse. So I know your
idea of a box-fighter's manager is a guy which would
frame his brother for a dollar-fifty, set fire to a orphan
asylum just to be nasty, and rob a blind cripple for
want of somethin' to do. Well, here's where the big
laugh comes. Strange as it may seem, I like you, you
big stiff, and I'm not gonna let you go in and get your
head punched off, when I know you ain't got a chance
of winnin', for a few dirty dollars ! I need my bit of
the six hundred men we was guaranteed to fight Ken
nedy the same as you do, but I ain't gonna take it for
you gettin' beat up. We'll go broke together and battle
our way back. Now if you wanna clout me, go to
it!"

The Kid's face was a movie durin' the time I was
talkin' and them big hands which was to make him
a mint full of kopeks slowly fell at his sides. Then
one of 'em shot up and grabbed mine till they must
of heard me yell in Siberia.

"I'm all wrong!" he says with that flashin' kid grin
of his. "It seems to me, old man, that I should pre
pare a lot of apologies and present them to you at once ;
it would save a lot of time. I think I'll rechristen you
Gunga Din, for at times there appears to be no question
but that you're a better man than I am !"

"Say, listen!" I says, tickled silly that the boy was
himself again. "Lay off that Gunga Din stuff. I'm
a manager, not a water-bucket holder !"

The Kid's grin widens. "Now that the airy per
siflage has been disposed of," he says, grabbin' my
hand again, "please believe that I value your friend
ship as much as I do your — er — managerial ability, and,

92 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

whatever my fortunes may be, I'll never forget either.
I am thoroughly convinced now that you had my best
interests at heart when you canceled that Kennedy re
turn bout."

"That's fine!" I says, lettin' forth several sighs of
relief. "And now that we got that all settled, we — "

"But," he goes on, "I'm afraid you'll have to wire
for a new contract, because my next bout will be with
Al Kennedy if I have to pick a quarrel with him in the
street !"

I let out a yell and collapsed on the bed. This baby
was past me !

"Yes," he continues coldly, sittin' on the arm of a
chair and borin' me with them steel-gray eyes of his.
"I'm going to fight Kennedy again before I meet any
one else, and I'm fit enough to step into the ring with
him to-night. I will not go back ! I've set a goal for
myself, and I may be forced out of the game altogether,
but I'll never return to beating up those poor, unfortu
nate brutes for a few dollars a fight. Those things are
not boxing bouts ; they're exhibitions of bestial brutal
ity that would have warmed the cockles of Nero's
heart ! No more of them for me, and that's final !
I'm going ahead, not backward, old man, and a win
over Kennedy means a step forward — a bout with the
next man higher up to the champion. If Kennedy
whips me again, I'll quit the ring and try my hand at
something else ; but he's got to whip me first ! You
wire for a bout on any terms — I'll fight him for noth
ing if there's no other way. Why, the prestige of a
victory over him would be worth it !"

Whilst I'm still in a trance he walks over and picks

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 93

up his hat, gives himself a swift dollin' up before the
mirror, and turns to the door.

"I'm going down and get a magazine," he says. "I'll
be back shortly. You'd better file that wire at once —
or / will!"

"But look here, you boob !" I hollers, jumpin' up.
"We have—"

"Get me Kennedy !" he snaps, and slams the door.

I sit there lookin' at said door for the worst part of
five minutes. Then I reached in my pocket and pulled
out a little billet-doux I had not showed Kid Roberts.
It was a answer to my telegram cancelin' the fight with
Kennedy, and the words and music went like this :

Will raise ante to $750 no higher, six rounds Ken
nedy. Don't try to Jesse James us. Wire if 0. K.

ALBION A. C.

I must of read that novel over about forty times.
Then I got up, swore what is frequently called a round
oath, kicked over a innocent wastebasket, went to the
phone, and wired the Albion A. C. approval to the
assassination in cold blood of the whitest guy which
ever rubbed a shoe in rosin — i. e., Kid Roberts !

Down in the lobby I found everybody in the world,
with the slight exception of Kid Roberts. Over to a
side was one of them classy tea rooms where you really
gotta drink tea now, unless you're a old customer which
has been a steady patron for a few hours at the least.
It's jammed as the subway at 6 p. m., with ladies which
is supposed to be havin' a tough day shoppin'; tired
business men which trusts they ain't recognized, but if
they are what of it ; young girls which should be goin'

94 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

to school and are, but don't know it yet, and young guys
which toils not neither do they spin, on account of bein'
able to shake a nasty hoof. Everybody is dancin'
hither and yon to the soft strains of a jazz band which
would get throwed out of a boiler factory for makin'
too much noise.

In the midst of the above, I discover Kid Roberts.

The boy is steppin' out with a Jane which the only
thing I can tell about her from where I stand is that
she's got black hair and a lot of it, but when the music
had mercy and laid off and by dumb luck they come to
a halt opposite me, I seen that was only one of the
young lady's various charms. She's one of them
medium height, curvin' knockouts which would prob'ly
of made a bigger boob outa Marc Anthony than Cleo
did, inside of five minutes. Also, she had a couple
of eyes which would attract a crowd even if set in a
scarfpin, and she had found out that they was more
things could be done with 'em than merely gazin'
straight ahead. Even though a experienced spectator
could see her complexion come in a can, she had made
a beaucoup job of it. But the expression in them starry
orbs I spoke about reminded me of a boss poker
player's when he's considerin' standin' a raise.

"Lookin' for me?" says the Kid pleasantly, seein'
me.

"Yeh," I nods, givin' the young lady a brief glance.

"Pardon me, Miss Murray," he says, with a drawin'-
room bow, "I won't be a moment, and then we'll finish
our dance. Oh, let me introduce my friend, Mister — "

"Pleased t'meetcha!" butts in the charmin' young
damsel, with what she no doubt thought was a killin'

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 95

smile. "Never mind the rest — I kin never remember
names anyways. Do you dance?"

"I was a assistant at St. Vitus Academy for years,"
I says, with a bewitchin' grin.

"Oh, a kidder, hey ?" she comes back. Then turnin'
to the Kid: "Well go ahead and see what your friend
wants — if you make it snappy, I'll wait."

The Kid bows again, I don't, and we start for the
elevator.

"Do you expect to lick Kennedy by trainin' in a
jazzery with a dame for a sparrin' partner?" I snarls,
kinda sore. "What's the idea?"

He smiles. But it's a nervous grin — there seems to
be somethin' on his mind.

"I was standing in the lobby," he tells me, "and I
heard them playing a waltz in there. It was one of
those soft, dreamy, Mendellsohny things that brought
with it visions of Newport, Tuxedo, Aiken — oh, all
that used to be. I went over merely to listen — to close
my eyes and fancy myself again a — However, I met
Mabel — eh — Miss Murray, quite unconventionally — de
lightfully so. I simply respectfully asked permission
to dance with her, introducing myself, before I thought,
as Kane Halliday. You see, I was carried away by
the spell of my imaginings and forgot that I am tem
porarily Kid Roberts, a pugilist. Unfortunately the
lady had no sooner granted my idiotic request when the
orchestra swung into that infernal din — jazz, I believe
they call it — and I, of course, had to go through with
it."

"It didn't seem to be causin' you no pain when /

96 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

flashed you," I snorts. "Who the — who is this Mabel?"

"Miss Murray is in charge of the cigar counter,"
says the Kid. "She is a charming girl, all the more so
for her nai've inconventionality. I like her immensely,
and if you in any way intimate to her that I am a prize
fighter, I think I shall murder you."

"Well," I remarks, "all I can say is that you are
a pig for punishment with the regard to the ladies, Kid,
and that's that ! Go to it — this mere regular monthly
romance of yours will only last a week or so at the most
and then — "

"This girl is different!" snaps the Kid. "There's
no pretense, no affectation about her. Her frank
ness — "

"Oh, all right, go ahead," I butts in, as we step outa
the elevator. "As long as you don't claim she under
stands you and the etc., I guess it ain't fatal yet!"

As soon as we're in the room I breaks the glad tid-
in's: "I have got Kennedy again for you as per your
instructions. We fight him six rounds or less in Philly,
two weeks from to-morrow, for the modest stipend of
$750, come what may. Now, Kid, you gotta train
hard for this baby and —

"I'm ready to step into the ring right now!" he cuts
me off impatiently. "I'll start light training to-morrow
— at present I need relaxation. Lord, that girl will
think I've been kidnaped. Back in an hour !" and he's
outa the door.

What could you do with a kid like that ?

From then until the night we rolled up to the jammed
and howlin' clubhouse in sweet old Philly, Kid Roberts
and the fair Mabel was constant playfellows. By hang-

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 97

in' onto him like a cold in the head I had him train hard
and faithfully every day, but in the evenin' by the
moonlight and the etc. it was all different and all Mabel.
Sweet Mamma, how he did fall for that Jane! She
had him layin' down and rollin' over every time she
snapped her fingers, and alongside of the flowers,
candy, and dinners he bought her, the Follies chorus
would think they was neglected. Every time a mem
ber of the less deadly sex purchased a cigar from
Mabel's stand whilst the Kid was in the offin', Roberts
glared at him like he was gonna bite him, and it fin'ly
got so that the both of 'em was the talk of the lobby.
Still and all, I did not care for Mademoiselle Mur
ray. To me she wasn't the Kid's kind. Let him be
a pug for the time bein' or not, he was nevertheless
Kane Halliday to me — a nice, big, clean kid. I freely
admit that Mabel was a ires bien looker and all that,
but she was too wise for the boy, and I was afraid he
wouldn't find that out until when he did it would hurt.
I had gave him my word that I wouldn't tell her his
present trade and that let me out, but it didn't prevent
me from wishin' to Heavens that somethin' would bust
up these bills and coos before they was nothin' left but
the bills !

We had to practically clout our ways into the club
house and call on the assistance of the coppers to get
to the dressin' room, where we found some Philly news
paper guys waitin' for us. I had let the fancy auto,
valet, mask, and all the other bunk go by the board
this time, because that was killed when Kennedy
knocked the Kid out in one round the first time they

98 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

met. You gotta be new all the time in the fight game,
the same as in anything else, to get more than a passin'
glance from the mob. Now that it was known that
Kid Roberts was really Kane Halliday, the once famous
Yale football and etc. star, he was a bigger sensation
than ever, and the sport writers was gathered around us
to get a story about him for their papers.

After they have interviewed the Kid silly whilst he's
gettin' into his workin' togs, one of these guys says to
him:

"Kid, we're all with you and we wanna see you knock
this guy for a goal, so I'm gonna slip you a few tips
that may be useful when you're in there tryin'. Ken
nedy is as foul a fighter as ever heeled a man with his
glove, and he likewise swings a nasty tongue in the
clinches. He's got you figured for a set-up because he
flattened you before and he's set to make a show out of
you to-night. Keep your head and pay no attention to
his sarcastic remarks — Just tie in and he'll wilt ! But be
careful, because this baby will try every trick known
to the game."

"Yes?" butts in the Kid, lookin' up from the table
where the handlers is massagin' him. "Well, watch
me! I'll be so rough with Mister Kennedy that after
to-night the sight of a boxing glove will make him
ill for a month. For every trick he tries on me, I'll
go him one better. This is one fellow I want to
knock out and I'll lick him at his own game!"

Wow!

On the square, I could scarcely believe my own
ears. I had never heard the Kid pull any stuff like
this before since I'd had him. Usually he was as

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 99

nervous as a two-year-old at the post — pale, tremblin',
and lickin* his lips till if you didn't know him you'd
think he was yellah. Now he laid there grinnin' and
kiddin' with the handlers, the most cool and collected
guy in the clubhouse. All I was afraid of was that
he was kiddin' himself with this stuff and might col
lapse on me or somethin' when I got him into the
ring — I seen that happen many's the time before with
other guys. But — well, wait!

When we pushed and milled down the aisle to the
ring it seemed to me that, if all the guys which was
packed in there had voted against prohibition, it would
be a felony to-day to call for a glass of -water! They
had a rule against smokin', and as a result the smoke
was so thick we got all the sensations of a fireman on
that brief trip to the battle ground. Kennedy and
his handlers had already started down from the oppo
site direction, and the yell which went up from them
lunatics all around us was just one continuous roar, in
which it was impossible to pick out any words —
nothin' but plain sound, that's all. This here demon
stration was neither for Roberts or Kennedy, par
ticularly. It was caused by the same thing which
makes the lions in the zoo beller when the keepers
start in with the meat.

There was little time wasted in stallin' around, and
five minutes after the men entered the ring they was
standin' together in the center, gettin' their instruc
tions. Then come the first real thrill — for me, any
ways!

When the referee gets through with his monologue
about not hittin' on the breakaways, and the like,

100 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

Kennedy reaches over suddenly and grabs Kid Roberts
by the wrist, jerkin' the arm down hard. A old stunt
of gettin' a fighter's goat, right on the verge of the
openin' bell.

"I'll make you yell for the cops, you bum!" he
snarls. "I knocked you in a round before — well, to
night I'm gonna make you stay and like it. I'll cut
you to pieces, you pink-cheeked quitter !"

Quick as a flash, the Kid shoots up his left hand,
and with the heel of the glove rubs Kennedy's hair
all over his bullet head, mussin' it up.

"Shut up, you big stiff!" he comes back. "When
they cart you away from here in a couple of minutes,
you'll have to go back driving a truck!"

Sweet Papa — I could of kissed him!

Kennedy jumped back with a surprised grunt, and
the amazed referee pushes 'em apart. The crowd,
seenin' this unusual byplay, rocked the buildin', and
the din was so terrible I don't believe six guys heard
the bell.

Kennedy come out with a rush, and the Kid brought
him up short with a beautiful left uppercut that al
most tore his head off. They mixed like a coupla
wildcats in the middle of the ring, neither havin' a
advantage and both fightin' at a pace that meant cur
tains in short order for somebody. The referee split
'em up, and on the break Kennedy swung a vicious
right that missed by inches, for which he was warned
by the referee and hissed by the howlin' mob. The Kid
grinned and put a left and right to the head, but a
instant later Kennedy staggered him with a wicked
chop to the jaw and a overhand right to the face that

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 101

opened up a old cut under the Kid's eye. The gore
blinded him, and Kennedy roughed him to the ropes,
workin' both hands to the body and face like a mad
man. It looked bad for the Kid, and the crowd went
hysterical when Roberts suddenly straightened up and
drove Kennedy back on his heels with two short chops
to the jaw and a right and left uppercut to the same
place. Kennedy looked scared and begin to tin-can
around the ring with the Kid chasin' him and tryin'
desperately to polish him off. He fin'ly pinned him
in a neutral corner and they stood toe to toe and slugged
till they wasn't a guy in the clubhouse with any voice
or sense left. It was a cinch one of 'em must flop,
and Kennedy was the first one to go. He pitched
forward on his face, took a count of "nine," and come
up a sorry-lookin' sight. One eye was closed, and
the rest of his face was a crimson blur. He tried to
dive into a clinch, but the Kid shook him off and
sprawled him in a heap with a terrific right to the jaw.
The referee had reached "eight" without a flicker of a
muscle from Kennedy, when the bell rung.

Kid Roberts skipped to his corner grinnin' like a
schoolboy on Xmas mornin' and wavin' a glove at
the frenzied crowd. Outside of the cut under one
eye, which I paid a lot of attention to durin' the rest,
there wasn't a mark on him.

"I've got him!" he pants, whilst I'm dousin' him
with water. "He'll never last out the next round !"

"Shut up, don't talk!" I growls. "Save your
wind. They ain't never out till they're counted
out!"

Kennedy was slow in gettin* off his stool for the

102 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

second frame and the Kid met him before he was out
of his own corner with a smash under the heart that
hung him over the ropes, where he covered up and
waited for it. But the Kid stepped away, payin' no
attention to the groans of the mob, and Kennedy
suddenly jabbed his left to the face, fallin' in and
clinchin' with the punch. I couldn't figure the move
till I seen his knee come up with a jerk and then I
shrieked — but it was too late. That big stiff's bony
kneecap caught the Kid in the pit of the stomach, and
Roberts slid slowly to the floor, gaspin', his face
twisted in the agony of the lowest foul known to the
prize ring. That, of course, was Kennedy's game —
to cripple the boy. He'd had enough, and he wanted
to lose on a foul rather than be knocked out. He'd
made no attempt to conceal the thing, which was
plain to every one of the wildly yelpin' customers.
The referee waved Kennedy to his corner, and me and
my merry men jumped into the ring and ran to the
Kid, which was now sittin' up and bitin' his lips
till they was a thin red stream tricklin' down his
drawn face, but the look in his eyes, fastened on
Kennedy, was terrible to see. We helped him up
and started to half carry him to his corner, but he
pushed us away and braced himself against the ropes,
seemin'ly gettin' stronger every second. That kid's
vitality was remarkable! The referee held up his
hand and gradually the noise died down.

"Gentlemen!" he says, "I award this bout to Kid
Roberts on a foul and — "

The rest was lost in the uproar, but the Kid grabs
the referee's arm. "Don't award me anything," he

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 103

gasps. "I want to knock that dog out. Let the fight
go on — I'm all right!"

The referee's eyes come near partin' forever with
his head.

"You're crazy, son!" he grunts. Then, turnin' to
me: "Hey, you better look after your man. Is there
a doctor in — "

Kid Roberts breaks away from him and walks to
the center of the ring, holdin' up both hands and like
magic the yells dies away again.

"Gentlemen," says the Kid, slowly and painfully,
"you came here to witness a boxing exhibition, and
unfortunately it has been interrupted. I am perfectly
willing and able to continue, and that's what I want
to do ! The referee says I've been fouled — that's cor
rect. But I'm not badly hurt and if I'm willing to take
a chance, why shouldn't he?"

Sweet Mamma — you should of heard them babies
out in front then!

So many things come off in such sensationally quick
succession after that that it's hard to get 'em in order.
I tried to drag the Kid to his corner and got shoved
halfway through the ropes. The mob surged back
and forth yellin' for the fight to go on, and in Ken
nedy's corner they took up the shout. They was only
too anxious now. Their man had got a rest, and the
Kid was plainly all in. Here was a chance to turn
defeat into a certain knockout for Kennedy. The
referee hesitated, looked out at the crowd, shook his
head, and fin'ly threw up his hands and walked to
the ropes. Somebody rung the bell, and, like a flash,
Kennedy was off his stool, plungin' at the Kid, which

104 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

turned to meet him with a twisted grin. The referee
hollered and started between 'em, caught the growl
of ten thousand animals, shrugged his shoulders, and
stepped away. And then they were at it again like
wild men !

A fight, what?

The first solid wallop the Kid landed showed Ken
nedy what a simp he was to think Roberts was the same
as out. It broke his nose and made him a study in
red from chin to hips. He began back-pedalin' again,
but the Kid gave him no chance. He punched him
from pillar to post, from one side of the ring to the
other. He hit him with every blow known to boxin',
and inside of a minute had him flounderin' blindly
about the ring, drunk with punishment. A hurricane
of left and right hooks almost knocked Kennedy
through the ropes, and swish — a sponge came hurtlin'
into the ring from his corner. It rolled to the edge
of the platform, quivered there a minute, and then
the blazin'-eyed referee with a flick of his heel sent
it spinnin' down on the reporters.

"Fight, you yellah bum!" he roars in Kennedy's
battered ear. "You wanted it; now take it!"

Kennedy, seein' they was no way out of it, stag
gered forward and swung wildly with both hands.
The Kid laughed out loud, measured him with his
left, and floored him with a right cross to the button
of the jaw. Kennedy, glassy-eyed, rolled over on his
back at "six," gazed up at the Kid he had tried to
maim for life a few minutes back, and waved a weak
hand.

"I — got — enough!" he pants and quit like a dog!

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 105

Then, with a happy smile on his lips, Kid Roberts
slid through my arms to the canvas in a dead faint.

It was three or four days after we got back to
New York again before I had the pleasure of viewin'
Miss Mabel Murray, the fascinatin' cigar seller. I
went over to the stand to buy a paper, and she pre
sented me with a killin' smile, callin' me up to her
end of the counter with a charmin'ly intimate nod.
"Say!" she says. "That bird Halliday must of figured
I just got shipped in here from Hensfoot Corners or
somethin', didn't he?"

"Why?" I says, with the greatest of interest.

"Well," she says, confidentially, "I'll tell you.
Y'know, if I do say it myself, there's worse lookers
than me, and I gotta stand for a lotta kiddin' durin'
the hours I put in here every day sellin' these here
Roperinos to the male's sex. I get four-flushed to
death from 8 a. m. to 5 p. m. daily except Sunday,
by everything from travelin' salesmen to risin' young
bill clerks, which can't control their generosity and
crave my company at lunch and so forth. Accordin'
to them, they're all millionaires' sons in disguise or
black sheeps of grand old families, and none of 'em
makes less than $5,000 a week, not countin' tips. Of
course all this goes in one ear and out another with
me, but I thought this Halliday was different. He's
such a good looker, his manners would make a head
waiter look like a stevedore, and his language — well,
half the time I didn't even know what he was talkin'
about! I admit I was on the verge of fallin' for
him — Mother mine, how he can dance ! But I
found out yesterday I'd been bunked again."

106 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

"I don't make you, kid," I says. "What did the
boy do?"

She leans over and grins.

"Say," she says. "It's a scream! He comes over
here very serious and says he's got somethin' im
portant to tell me — somethin' I gotta know before our
friendship can go any farther, get me? Of course
I had him pegged from the go in for what he is — one
of them tea-room boys which will stop at nothin' but
work! Naturally, I figured he was about to make a
touch. What d'ye think he told me?"

"Shoot !" I says. "I never win a guess in my life."

She leans back and busts right out laughin'.

"He claims he's Kid Roberts, the prize fighter,"
she chortles. "That bird a fighter! Say, if anybody
ever threatened to wallop him, he'd pass away in a
swoon ! How is it that none of you guys can ever tell
a woman the truth?"

ROUND FIVE
THE TAMING OF THE SHREWD

ONE of the unusually interestm' courses at my
college, viz., the University of Experience, is the study
of laughter — prob'ly the most abused and powerful
single agent for good or bad in the world. They's
no doubt that many's the delicate situation has been
saved by a well-placed giggle, but far more cases has
been shot to pieces by a poorly timed one. A good-
natured laugh for the example, has frequently been
known to prevent murder, but, on the other hand,
billions of guys has been bumped off for no more
cause than a single, sneerin' grin. The chuckle is the
boob's natural defense and the wise guy's offense, and
it's a beaucoup dangerous weapon either way!

But, in mass formation, the humble titter stands
alone as a maker or breaker of men ! The laugh of the
mob has kept Chaplin away from the almshouse and
Bryan away from the White House. They guffawed
Henry Ford into a fortune and Doc Cook out of one.
The Wright brothers was showered with snickers,
but they fin'ly made the world fly and the Anti-Saloon
League, a long-standin' object of mirth, is fin'ly makin'
it dry.

So ridicule is roast duck to some guys and carbolic
107

108 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

to others. It's stung thousands of losers into gettin'
across and thousands of winners into gettin' the rasp
berry. I could undoubtlessly trot out a hundred cases
of both, but a glance at the daily papers will supply
you with much fresher lists than I got. However,
boys and girls, if you'll keep your lustrous eyes glued
to the followin' pages for a few minutes, I will give
you a sensational example of how the jeerin' chortle
of a mob queered one of the most shrewdly crooked
schemes I ever was framed for, whilst as a box-fight
impresario I was endeavorin' to make Kid Roberts
reignin' king of the Leather Pushers. After the Ken
nedy muss, I took the Kid for a dash around the usual
heavyweight circuit from Harlem to Frisco, takin' on
all comers and always bellerin' for a muss with the
champ. The Kid made Annette Kellermanns out of
the bulk of his men, and the high divin' which was had
on that trip would of caused the extremely fair Ann to
give up the swimmin' game in disgust!

Out of twelve guys he went versus with, six of 'em
succumbed to the sleepin' sickness in from one to
three rounds, three lasted less than a minute, two scraps
was stopped to save the Kid from a manslaughter
charge; and one bird stayed ten frames and was pre
sented with a draw by a referee which had to be gave
aid and succor by the cops immediately after he whis
pered his decision to the stupefied crowd. The gent
which went the limit with the Kid was called Tiger
Capato. As they remarked when Roosevelt was a
infant, you'll hear more about that guy later.

As we stood to date, we'd had sixteen quarrels and
win fourteen by knockouts, and if that ain't a record

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 109

to get chesty about, then neither was Napoleon's!
Also, we'd gathered together numerous shekels and
our guarantees now run from $3,000 to $7,000 a fight,
accordin' to where it was and with which. Seven
thousand berries is interestin' money even to Charley
Schwab, and / was satisfied to leave well enough
alone and go right back over the trail bouncin' them
same babies once more for auld lang sang and, of
course, the pennies. But, brother, it was all different
with my food card, Kid Roberts. That boy was as
full of ambition as Pancho Villa and he wanted the
champion now or nobody! He still hated the box-
fight game from pit to dome and had swore on several
phone books that the minute he win the title and
copped one large, juicy purse, he'd leave the ring
flat on its back and go in some business. A business,
for the example, where, if anybody kept wavin' a
dirty towel up and down in front of him, he would at
the least have the pleasure of throwin' him out of his
office, instead of havin' to sit on a backless stool and
like it, as he did now !

How the soever, the champ turned a bevy of deaf
ears to our frenzied demands for a crack at his crown
and we might as well of tried to pick a fight with a
nervous rabbit. In the two years he'd held the title,
this cuckoo had fought exactly 901 guys — one set
up which lasted four rounds and 900 movie supers
which lasted four reels. He was out on the goldiest
gold coast of America, or, to get technical, Los
Angeles, Calipickford, makin' a picture labeled "Up
from the Gutter and Half Ways Back" or "From
Deckhand to Champion!" The screen slave drivers

110 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

had him sewed up for several months on a chilled-steel
contract callin' for a couple of hours' work every sun
shiny day at a niggardly pittance of $60,000 cash
and 10 per cent of the loot from the film. Likewise
he was allowed to wear white flannel pants and make
up his eyebrows in the last reel, and the Jane which
took off the part of the innocent little damsel he
rescued from the Home for Wayward Girls, or the
like, was a second Diana.

Now did that bird want to hurl all this overboard,
go into heavy trainin' for a coupla months and then
get roughed and jostled all over a ring by my young
bone crusher? Sweet Spirits of Niter — NO!!

But the indignant sport writers come to our as
sistance and without no preliminary warnin' opened
up with their heavy guns on the peacefully inclined
heavyweight champion of our present world. All the
ways across Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean, them
guys begin runnin' pictures of Kid Roberts with his
amazin' casualty list alongside of 'em — then they took
their typewriters in hand and let the keys run wild!

In the first place, Kid Roberts was always what is
known as "good copy" in the newspaper game. Just
gaze over the layout again; it'll only take a second.
Here was a ex-famous college star who'd entered the
prize ring to put his bankrupt father on his feet, who
against all the dope was knockin' everybody dead,
whose heiress had gave him the gate on the strength of
it and who'd fin'ly punched his way to a chance at the
world's championship. There we have as much ro
mance, human interest, thrill, and suspense as they was
in the French Revolution, as some bird wrote after

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 111

samplin' one of them new antidotes for prohibition.
Was a guy which had did all that to be kept from the
happy endin' ? Far be it from such !

So the young men went at the thing with a will,
printin' the actor-champ's somewhat mild record oppo
site the Kid's and demandin' that he leave the bathin'
beauties be and defend his title like a gent and a
scholar, or else resign and concede it to the Kid. Half
a million bucks wouldn't of bought the publicity we
was gettin' every day, and it didn't cost me a pleasant
smile. The big, handsome Kid's personality, the air
of class his blood and college had gave him, and his
willin'ness to fight anybody but the battleship Penn
sylvania, put 'em in back of him to a man. They's no
squarer shooter or better sport on the earth than your
average newspaper guy. Likewise I discovered a
long ways back that he's a great guy to have in your
corner and a tough one to have off of you. Show him
you got the merchandise and he'll drop everything to
help you deliver it, but try and slip one over on him
and Sweet Mamma — he shakes a nasty ink !

The champ simply grinned at this newspaper bar
rage, but the guys which had sank their sugar in his
movie didn't ! Contrary to the layman's opinion, they
is several ounces of brains invested in the films, and
these birds seen immediately that, unless their boxer
star come out of his hole and made a noise like a scrap
per, his ten-reeler was due to be a terrible bust.
Already advance announcements of it was beginnin' to
draw some scattered hisses hithers and yon, and the
panic was on !

112 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

It's unfortunately true that our dear old hard-
workin' U. S. likes to relax every now and then and
gets hysterical over them foreign whatnots which
comes here to grab off some real dough for a change
and then goes back and roasts us to a fare-thee-well.
But in spite of this slight weakness, we are far from a
nation of come-ons, as many of them patronizin' tour
ists discovered, after the first wild cheers had died out.
We don't care how much we spend for our toys, but
we do wanna see 'em go ! We insist that our plumbers
plumb, our bankers bank, our actors act, and our
fighters fight. We allow no guy to stall unless he gets
sentenced to Congress — the only cruel and unusual
punishment now legal under our punch-drunk Con
stitution !

Well, after a conference with his manager, press
agents, and photoplay magnates, the champ presented
the press with a statement in which he claimed he'd be
willin' to listen to us on the subject of fisticuffs the
minute he laid off elevatin' the screen, or, in the other
words, three months. In the mean's while, we wouldst
have to dispose of the Hon. Tiger Capato, the only
heavy in captivity which Kid Roberts had been unable
to make kiss the canvas and recline thereon till the
referee had pronounced him dead.

The Kid almost wept for joy when the news reached
him that he was gonna get a crack at the world's cham
pionship. He tore into our bower at the big-league
hotel we was stablin' at now, wavin' a bunch of evenin'
papers and grinnin' like a second Fairbanks.

"Six months from now I'll be champion !" he yells,
with a slap on my back that loosened four buttons on

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 113

the front of my vest. "Then one scrap for a couple
of hundred thousand and I'm through! I'll throw my
title to the pack and let 'em fight it, while I'll —

"Whilst you'll blow your end of the gate, go broke
and come back to the hit-and-run game again !" I butts
in. "Listen, young feller, don't feed me none of that
desertin'-the-ring-stuff — I was engaged in the gift of
pilotin' pugs when you thought a uppercut was a euchre
term. Once the heavy money, the thrill of landin' a
perfectly timed right cross, the screamin' mob, the
bein' constantly in the public's eye, and all the rest of
it gets into your arteries, you can't throw it off like a
old coat — and that's that ! No, sir, son ; right up to the
time the embalmer says: 'Well, I guess I'll finish this
one and then go home!' you'll be tellin' your fellow
ghosts that you could of licked the current crop of
heavies in the same ring if you hadn't bumped off. Ever
hear of a ex-champ that didn't try to stage a comeback,
regardless of age or condition? Take a squint at the
books — John L., Corbett, Fitzsimmons, Jeff, Bat Nel
son, Abe Attell, Young Corbett, Lavigne, McGovern,
Cans, Ritchie, Wolgast, Coulon, Papke, and the etc.
All of them boys was champs amongst champs and all
of 'em was try in' to crawl out of the pugilistic ash heap
back to the calcium for years after they'd been nothin'
but a faint memory to the mob !"

"Just a second!" flings the Kid over his shoulder,
rippin' off his collar and draggin' out the shavin' ap
paratus. "There's no comparison between myself
and those men, either in boxing ability or — well, let's
call it temperament. Without exception, all those
fellows you rattled off were born fighters — it was

114 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

in the blood ! They fought for money, of course, but
it was principally the sheer love of battle that drove
them to crawl through the ropes to kill or get killed,
long after their star had set. I am not a born pugi
list. I say that without any intent to sneer at what
might have been a great game if it could have been
kept clean! But it is a genealogical fact that I was
born and reared in an entirely different atmosphere.
I have no love for professional boxing, and I'm sim
ply using it as a means to an end."

I sit and watched this big blond shavin' for a min
ute, feastin' my trained orbs on the easy play of rip-
plin' muscle over them white shoulders which loomed
up out of his summer lingerie. A fighter? Say —
they was champion wrote all over him, from the heel
of his shoe to the roof of his dome! The only thing
which spoiled the general effect was his intelligent
look.

"I wouldst fain differ with thee, Big Guy," I grins,
after a while, "on the subject of you not bein' born
no fighter and likewise how ill in the abdomen the
box-fightin' game makes you. I admit that, from the
nursery up to a recent date, you was more used to
afternoon tea parties than twenty-four-foot rings
and that in your first few brawls you liked to cried
your eyes out every time you knocked some bimbo
for a goal. But a great change has come to the pass,
Kid, and whether you noticed it or not, I don't know,
but 7 did, because I'm gettin' paid to notice every
thing which is in the slightest way connected with
you — get me? I only wish I had a photo to show

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 115

you of your last coupla quarrels. I'd particularly
crave one of the fight with Soldier Gorman at St.
Paul — a picture of our meek little college boy gettin'
floored in Round One, tearin' out of my arms for
Round Two, standin' toe to toe with this near gorilla
Gorman, which stood up to it to the extent of frac-
turin' one of your ribs before he went out cold,
whilst teacher's pet, which hates to strike anybody,
crouched over him pantin', bloody and snarlin', till
I had to drag him back to his little corner! You
sick of the game? Kid, prize fightin' is your dish,
and a flash at your face when you get hurt tells that
part of it to the world!"

He suddenly quit shavin' and swung around on me,
with the razor still poised in the air and his face
flamin' as red as a oil-well fire where it wasn't
lathered. Then that give way to a worried look, as
he leaned back against the bureau and laid down the
razor.

"Gad!" he says. "Is that a fact? I seem to enjoy
this beastly business?"

"Oh, easily that!" I chuckles. "You have took to
pushin' leather like Theda Bara took to a camera. And
another thing, Kid, you have become one tough baby —
praise be Allah! When you're in there tryin' these
days, the way you go about your job would make the
wildest guy in Borneo swoon away with pure fright !"

Hidin' behind another blush, the Kid give vent
to a disgusted little shiver, looks at me kinda funny,
and then takes a long view of himself in the mirror,
like's he's mullin' over in his mind what I have just
told him.

116 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

Fin'ly he lets forth a sigh, picks up the razor, and
continues on with the shavin'.

"So I'm degenerating into a beast, eh?" he says
half to himself whilst he scrapes away viciously.
"Well, I'm glad you called my attention to that —
though it would be strange indeed if the vapor of
sordid, bestial atmosphere surrounding my present —
eh — profession, did not slightly tarnish the highly
sensitive polish of some generations of refinement.
I suppose," he adds, with a short laugh, "when I get
out of this infernal game I'll have to spend some time
in a finishing school before I'll trust myself to enter
a drawing room!"

Slappin' on the bay rum, he was grinnin' again like
the kid he was.

"Now about this Tiger Capato, the fellow I have
to whip before I meet" — his voice shook a bit with
pure, undiluted joy — "before I meet the champion.
Are you getting in touch with him?"

For answer I pointed to the bed, which was clut
tered with telegrams from every fight club in North
America, with the possible exception of the Mexican
Senate. We went over 'em together and fin'ly de
cided the best offer come from New Orleans, the
fracas to be held there within a month and to be a
fifteen-round rough-house to a referee's decision.
That last item give me a giggle. In fifteen rounds
Kid Roberts could of licked 850 Tiger Capatos and,
as for the decision thing, all we craved was a guy
which could count up to "ten" in a loud and melodi
ous voice!

The vulgar financial details of the bout was a

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 117

$25,000 purse to be split 60-40 and the wire also
says that the matchmaker of the club, with Tiger
Capato's manager, will meet me at the Claridge in a
couple of days, to post appearance forfeits, sign articles,
and the like.

I went down to the Claridge, as advertised, and asked
for the matchmaker, bein' immediately escorted to a
deadfall on the third floor. I just missed qualifying for
the morgue when the door is opened by no less than the
only enemy Kid Roberts had in the wide, wide world,
to wit, Dummy Carney !

The way that baby kept on top of us from the time
he first laid a eye on Roberts and started him pushin'
leather, till the Kid made his pile and quit, was some-
thin' remarkable! Dummy couldn't forgive himself
for lettin' the Kid get away from him, and he swore
he'd never stop tryin' till a scrapper from his stable
knocked my infant prodigy cold. Now he stood there
with a twisted smile on his thick lips and them beady
eyes of his enjoyin' my amazement to the last inch.

Before I can let out a bleat, he grabs me by the arm
and yanks me into the room.

"Where's the Kid?" he whispers hoarsely, lookin'
around.

"Doin' some road work," I says, still up to my ears
in astonishment. "What are you doin' here ? Where's
Capato's manager and — "

Dummy closes the door and grins. "He's here," he
says. "Sit down and take a load off your feet."

"Look here, Dummy," I says, facin' him. "This
here's got a wrong look to me! I come here to sign
articles with Capato's manager, not to — "

118 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

Once again he cuts me off, this time handin' me a
cigar. "I'm Capato's manager!" he says coolly.

The cigar tumbled out of my hands on the floor and
Dummy sit down and laughed out loud.

"Somethin' of a surprise party, hey?" he sneers.
"Well, what's wrong about me buyin' Capato from
Eddie Rainey — which is what I done ?" He reaches in
his pocket and flips me a paper. "There's the contract,"
he says. "As legal as snowballin' in Iceland. I told
you I'd get me a boy which would bounce that cuckoo
of yours — and I got him !"

Feelin' more at ease, I laid the contract on a table and
took up the sport of grinnin' myself.

"Stop makin' me laugh!" I remarks. "Where's the
matchmaker for the New Orleans abbattoir that's gonna
stage the slaughter of your tramp ?"

"Ah-heh !" coughs Dummy, knockin' the ash off his
cigar. "Eh — I'm the matchmaker !"

Sweet Mamma !

"You're one terrible busy guy, ain't you?" I sneers,
reachin' for my hat and gettin' up. "Well you got
nothin' on me — so am I ! The next time you wanna
frame somebody, Dummy, get further out in the sub
urbs. I was pullin' off them kinda fights before you
had wore out your first rattle. This here's gonna make
a swell story for the sport writers to tie into — so long !"

"Sit down and don't be no stupider than you can
help!" he snarls. "Did I ever strike you as bein' a
hick ? I got a business proposition to make you, durin'
which time we'll forget our wild love for each other and
let bygones be bygones. It's about the last chance we'll
get to clean up, no matter if Capato knocks Kid Roberts

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 119

dead, or vice and versa. The way I look at it, there's
fifty thousand for us to split, besides the crack one of us
will get at the title. D'ye wanna listen ?"

Well, I never claimed to be perfect !

A hour or so later I was on the en route back to my
inn, buried in what is known as thought. They was
nothin' new in Dummy's "business proposition" — it's
bein' pulled off every day and will be pulled off
as long as the boob birth rate continues to run sixty to
the hour. Unless the admirers of boxin' as a sport go
over it with a vacuum cleaner toot sweet and get rid of
all the Dummy Carney's which is killin' the game where-
ever they sit in it, prize fightin' is due to get the rasp
berry over here as sure as they's a snowflake at the
North Pole !

Here was Dummy's layout :

Kid Roberts and Tiger Capato which had already
fought one level draw, was to pull off another one in
this New Orleans burlesque. Whilst the hippodrome
lasted it would be a wow of a scrap — knockdowns, sar
castic conversations, nasty glances, and even a little gore
would be squandered if necessary, but, come what may,
it was to be a "draw." Everybody, includin' the ref
eree, would see to that part of it ! Me and Dummy was
to meet by "accident" in the sportin' editor's office of
the biggest New Orleans paper before the thing and
give that unsuspectin' young gent ten thousand berries
apiece to hold, each bettin' that his man would cop by a
knockout. This would help murder suspicion, besides
gettin' the fight plenty of advertisin'. Twenty thousand
bucks may not sound like so much, but laid down on the

120 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

table before you in fifty-dollar bills it looks like about
twenty million. After the boys had "fought" their
draw we'd both get back our sugar, of course, and the
Kid and Capato was to be present when we collected.
The Kid would then make some crack about bein'
robbed of the decision and Capato would immediately
make a pass at him. Then — warn ! They'd both start
mixin' it up, and have to be jimmied apart — all this, re
member, before the delighted eyes of the sportin' editor.
Would that little horseplay smoke up the return bout?
Well, what do you think ?

On the strength of the above drama the boys would
be rematched then and there for a twenty-round open-
air bout durin' the Mardy Grass week a month later.
The town would be loaded with free-spendin' tourists,
and the promoters figured on a fifty-thousand-berry
gate if they got the breaks on the weather. This time
it would be a up-and-up fight, and may the worst man
lose!

Boiled down, the whole proposition was simply the
time-worn scheme of drawin' two big crowds instead
of one, the fact that the fans which paid their jack to
see a fight in the first mill would be gypped not enterin'
into the thing at all. New Orleans happened to be
Capato's home town, and, as he had knocked a horde of
tramps dead down there, he was a heavy local favorite.
The prestige he'd gain by holdin' his own for fifteen
rounds with the sensational Kid Roberts would boost
Capato 100 per cent as a drawin' card, and even if the
Kid knocked him kickin' in the second and real fight,
he'd still hold most of his followin', who'd point to the
showin' of the native son in the first argument and call

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 121

his defeat in the second a fluke. As I remarked before,
there was nothin' new about this public-be-damned
burglary; it's bein' done day in day out by such man
agers and such promoters as would frame their brothers
for $1.50 — and are doin' their best to send professional
boxin' after the late Jack Barleycorn.

Before some enraged promoter, manager, or the etc.
can jump up and holler that I am not above takin' lib
erties with the truth, I will mention the case of a well-
known Philadelphia lightweight which a short time ago
caused a mild sensation by his quick knockouts of all
and sundry which could be lured into the ring with him
at his home town. This baby has a local followin'
which would make Harding think he was a man without
friends, and I can recall no better example of the facts
I have set forth above than this same native son. So re
markable was this kid's record that out-of-town sport
writers, which had only seen him fight by the via of a
telegram from his manager after each of his sensational
wins, begin mentionin' him as the logical guy to remove
the crown from the lightweight champion.

Then his manager, carried away by the reputation he
himself had built up for his meal ticket, matched him
with a tough kid from New York — a case-hardened
veteran which asked no favors and had stood off the
best of 'em. They all looked alike to this boy. It made
no difference to him as long as he got his pennies for
goin' in and takin' it, or vice and versa. He'd heard
all about this Philly marvel with the man-killin' kick
in each hand, and it bothered him the same way they
worry over the income tax in the almshouse. It took
the experienced campaigner about four seconds flat to

122 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

size up the other bird as a overrated false alarm, and,
havin' got that all settled, he panicked the crowd by
dumpin' the native son on his ear with the first wallop
he tried. Accordin' to newspaper reports, whilst the
dumfounded referee (also local talent) was gaspin'
forth the count over the flattened gladiator, his hyster
ical handlers showered him with water — which viola
tion of such rules as the game has brung him to life
in time to stall out the round. Now, of course, the
water-throwin' thing should have immediately dis
qualified that baby, and the other kid's manager hollered
murder over the foul. He afterward claimed he was
waved away and told if his boy didn't go on with the
fight he wouldn't get a nickel. In that way the local
drawin' card was saved from a one-round knockout
which would of cut in half his value to the Philly fight
promoters.

Followin' this accident, the Quaker City star went
back to knockin' over fourth-rate set-ups as of yore.
One night a Philadelphia city official dropped in at the
fight club where this boy wonder was astoundin' the
natives with his ability to push leather. Again the ac
counts state that five minutes after the official had
shoved his way through the shriekin' mob to the ring
side, the "bout" was stopped. Bein' somethin' of a
sportsman, this guy had become sickened by the sight
of the local marvel deliberately cuttin' up the helpless,
frightened, and bleedin' young novice which had been
selected for the slaughter by the careful club manage
ment. After stoppin' the manslaughter the official
walked over to the headliner's corner and warned his
manager in anything but drawin'-room terms that un-

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 123

less his boy was more evenly matched in the future he
would not let him fight again in Philly.

These two examples, which is a matter of record,
show how the local favorite is built up and protected
as a drawin' card by a great many fight clubs whose
coarse work is responsible for most of the agitation
against boxin'.

Although I knew what the Kid's answer would be,
I laid Dummy's proposition before him immediately.
I wound up by carelessly remarkin' that the extry
ducats which was in it for us might be a swell present
for his dear old father, and that as far as I was con
cerned he could use his own judgment about the thing.
He give forth a gasp when I told him his old friend
Dummy was now handlin' Tiger Capato, but he didn't
leap up and shriek for Dummy's gore like I half ex
pected he would when he heard the rest of it. He just
come over and patted me on the back with a chuckle.

"Nothing doing, old man!" he says. "Which, of
course, is what I know you told that thug. We've
somehow managed to escape the stigma of crookedness
so far, and we'll go through clean to the finish! I'm
going to put Capato away with a punch, if I can, but
if he whips me I'll be the first to congratulate him.
I realize I've got a big job on my hands this time — this
Capato is the fastest man I've faced to date, and he
can hit, in spite of what you say to the contrary. That
clip I got on the jaw in the first round of our previous
bout had me dazed for a couple of rounds afterward !"

"Aw, forget it !" I growls. "You was away off form
that night — that's all. But I'd like to hand Dummy
somethin' myself. Suppose I let him think we're goin'

124 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

through with this proposition, and then the chances
is that this false alarm of his will come in hog fat and
out of condition — make me? He'll think the thing is
framed and get careless and — "

The Kid shook his head.

"No — we can't do that either!" he says, shuttin' me
off. "That's all wrong too. It would mean a step
down to Carney's level — a first step that might lead us
through the whole vile labyrinth before we could stop.
No, this bout will be absolutely square, regardless of
the outcome. You had better warn Carney to have his
man fit, because, win or lose, Capato will know he has
been in a fight, I promise you!"

"But look here, Kid," I says impatiently, "that
honest-as-the-day-is-long stuff is O. K. in copy books
and the like, but this here's a game where a guy has
got to use his head as well as his hands ! There's
angles to it that you'll prob'ly never get, and, with what
we got at stake, we'd be a coupla fine bimbos if we
didn't grab every advantage. Another thing, don't
you suppose that Dummy Carney is figurin' on crossin'
us? D'ye think I fell for that draw thing? That
crook's got a coupla aces he ain't played yet, and we got
a right to protect ourselves, ain't we ?"

The Kid grins and holds up his hands.

"Here's plenty of protection!" he says. "Now let's
go to a show and forget about Dummy and his fellow
banditti. We'll enter no agreements with him or any
one else. My self-respect is about all I've managed to
hold on to, and I wouldn't sacrifice that for the champ
ionship itself !"

Can you beat them college guys? Now you can get

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 125

a idea of how valuable a manager is to one of them
babes in arms, hey ?

I went to look for Dummy to break the bad news
to him, and found he had wafted himself away to New
Orleans to get things under way for the brawl; but
whilst threadin' through Times Square I bump into
no less than Jack Easton, the champion's manager.
Jacques had unquestionably excavated a joint where
they thought the Eighteenth Amendment was a vaude
ville act, and he was lit up like Broadway at eight in
the p. m. From the welcome he gimme I could of been
his father. After we have exchanged the usual lies
about how we are makin' out, Jack won't have it no
other way but that I step around to his oasis and
knock over a powder with him, and I — well, you know
how weak the average man is ! Besides, I figured here
was a good chance to get some inside dope on the
champ's condition and the etc. So we duck around the
corner to this den of iniquity, and after we have
sneaked a couple past our pleasantly surprised tonsils,
Jack gets exceedin'ly talkative.

"C'mon !" he says, weavin' back and forth in front
of me. "Lesh lap up large quantities of hooch! I'm
looser 'en a pail of ashes to-day — gonna sign a seventy -
five-thousan' — 'scuse me — movie contract for the Big
Feller in the mornin'."

"Well, Jack, go to it," I says. "You better take
them movie guys whilst the takin' is good, because next
year I'll be handlin' a champion !"

"Humph!" he mutters. "You're gonna han'le —
gonna han'le shamp, heh? Stop kiddin' yourself, stop
kiddin' — 'scuse me, mush have caught the hecups from

126 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

that — that bartender there. What was I tryin' to say?
Oh, Kid Robersh. Well, say, they's as mush chance
Kid Robersh bein' shampeen as they ish of me becomin'
total 'stainer! Howsh Kid Robersh gonna be shamp
if he don't never under no circumstances get a chance
at the title? Ansher me that, heh?"

I commenced to smell large quantities of rats in this
drunken talk, especially after Dummy Carney's propo
sition, so I quietly lead Monsieur Jack Easton into the
back room and sit down at a table with him. When
I left him sprawled out there, gettin' the bartender
nervous with his snores some time later, I was on the
verge of hydrophobia, and I think if Dummy Carney
had come along then I would of took a chance and
croaked him for luck!

It set me back seven rounds of drinks, or, in the other
words, $14, to find out that Dummy had framed me and
the Kid like Delia framed Samson. There wasn't
gonna be no "draw" decision at New Orleans. There
wasn't gonna be no second fight, and the champ wasn't
gonna ever meet Kid Roberts if he could help it ! The
half -plastered Easton let all that fall from his silly-
lookin' face some time between the fifth and sixth shot
of grain alcohol, when he couldn't even recall who I was.
The big tramp which held the title didn't want no part
of Kid Roberts — what he wanted to do was to meet
Tiger Capato, which same he figured would be a spread
for him. Therefore, Capato was to put the Kid away
in the battle of New Orleans and kill off our claims
to a championship mill. The knockout was to come
in Round Four, by the way.

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 127

In order to guarantee my boy goin' out, Carney and
the yeggs which run this particular club had decided
to pull one of the rawest stunts known to a game which
packs more tricks than Houdini ever seen. This one
has been staged dozens of times out in the bushes, but
very rarely on the Big Time. It's usually pulled to allow
a beaten man a few extry minutes to recover, but I
never heard of it bein' used for the purpose Dummy
Carney had figured it for against Kid Roberts.

Exactly at the end of the first minute's boxin' in
Round Four every light in the clubhouse would sud
denly grow dim and then go out for ten seconds ! Kid
Roberts, knowin' nothin' about this, would be as much
startled as the crowd — certainly he'd falter in his stride,
drop his hands and prob'ly step back to wait for light-
But Tiger Capato, havin' nothin' else but this "accident"
in his mind for weeks, would be prepared. The first
slight dimmin' of the glare about the ring was to be the
tip-off to him, and he'd start one from the floor just
as it went black. It was a hundred to one he'd connect,
and when the lights immediately flashed up again, Kid
Roberts would be as cold as a pawnbroker's eye, and
that guy which pulled the switch in the basement would
be several blocks away from there and still travelin'.
Then the announcer was to jump into the ring, calm
the crowd by explainin' that it was simply a case of a
fuse blowin' out, and order the quarrel started again
at once! Now, even if the Kid was in any condition
to get to the middle of the ring, he'd be a dazed mark
for Capato then. The guys close to the ropes would
of seen Capato start a wallop, and their opinion would
be divided over the thing in the excitement. Many

128 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

would claim that, as neither boy could of known that
a fuse was gonna blow out, the break was as fair for
one as the other, and Capato had simply been lucky,
or clever, enough to beat the Kid to the punch. The
rest of the mob wouldn't know what it was all about,
but they'd see the Kid on the floor, and that would be
ample. Remember, it was Tiger Capato's home town !
As to this "lights out" stuff, any sportin' editor can
supply names and dates of duplicates of the above
sportsmanlike trick from his files to such gentle read
ers which is now grinnin' and callin' it impossible.

Well, as the time drawed near for the fight, I got
crazier every day. I was afraid to tell Carney I'm wise
to his plant for fear he'd call the bout off altogether
and give the champ the excuse he was lookin' for to
duck a battle with us. To make it worse, when I told
the Kid what I'd found out, he laughed his head off
and refused to believe it !

"Your mind has been preying on Dummy Carney for
so long you'd believe anything!" he chortles. "Why,
the thing's too preposterous to give a passing thought.
Besides, you say yourself that your source of informa
tion was a drunken man, and you know an intoxicated
person usually has a wonderful imagination. Not even
a Carney would dare attempt anything as glaringly
crooked as that — personally, I think the champion's
manager has been joshin' you !"

Sweet Papa!

Any doubts I might of had about it myself was all
wiped away in New Orleans a few hours before the
clash, when word comes to our room that a lady has

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 129

got to see Kid Roberts on a matter of life and death.
I could of choked the bell hop silly which brung up
that sensational news because the damosels had been
poison to the Kid up to date, and here on the brinks
of the biggest fight in his career a Jane has got to butt
in!

"Nothin' stirrin' !" I shouted to the boy. "Git outa
here and close that door !" Me and a coupla handlers
had the Kid flat on the bed, givin' him a final body
massage.

"Here — just a minute !" pipes Roberts, sittin' up with
a jerk. "Let's see what this is. I do not know why
any lady should want to see me now, but if it's as im
portant as that — " He reaches for a bath robe. "Have
the lady come up !" he tells the wide-eyed boy.

There is a timid knock at the door in a few minutes,
and in comes said lady. She's a thin, little, kinda wore-
out dame, but very soothin' to the eyes at that. Her
first bomb is that she will see Kid Roberts alone or not
at all, and she seems terrible worked up. Without a
word to us the Kid bows, opens the door to the sittin'
room of this suite, ushers her in, and follows, closin'
the door before I could make a move.

The conference lasts about ten minutes, durin' which
time I died about seven times and cussed myself to
death seven more for lettin' the Kid get out of my
sight! The mysterious female goes right to the hall
door, shakes the Kid's hand, makes him a present of
a soulful glance, and blows.

"Well, what the—" I begins.

"That," says the Kid very solemnly, "that — was
Tiger Capato's wife! A very sweet, wholesome little

130 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

woman and the mother of four children. She — eh —
ah — she is afraid — well, she — this may sound absurd
to you, but it didn't to me, not with the pathetic eager
ness she told it ! She had a dream last night in which
she saw Capato — her husband — knocked out. As I say,
you will smile, but, nevertheless, that woman is con
vinced that Capato is going to lose. I — ah — wish /
were as certain !" he adds, with a short laugh. "How
ever, she has asked me to do her a favor, which,
under the circumstances, I could not well refuse.
I—"

"For God's sake, what have you promised her, Kid?"
I bawls, grabbin' him.

"Don't get excited!" he says, movin* away irritably.
"As she explains it, Capato is married and has child
ren. Prize fighting is his profession — it's the only
thing he has ever done or can do well enough to make
a living. He's a big favorite in this town, and a quick
defeat would hurt his value to the clubs here to a great
extent. Capato's wife simply wants me to allow him to
make some kind of a showing for a few rounds — I tell
you, she is as certain that he will ultimately lose as I
am of my name ! She sat there and repeated it over
and over in a dull, toneless voice, with the fatalistic
calm that is peculiar to the superstitious. You do
not understand her type — I do. So, therefore, I
will—"

"You'll knock Capato dead with the first punch if
you can, or you'll leave the ring on a shutter !" I howls,
dancin' around him. "You big fathead, don't you see
now that Jack Easton's dope was right ? They got that
lights-out stunt framed for the fourth round, and she

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 131

simply wants to make sure that Capato will be in the
ring up to then ! Them guys is leavin' nothin' to chance.
They—"

"Oh, stop it!" barks the Kid. "Hang it, man, you
get on my nerves with your morbid belief that every
one is crooked ! You've got me all upset now with your
infernal nagging. Let me alone before I go to pieces
and make a spectacle of myself in front of that crowd.
If I didn't feel capable of taking care of myself, I
wouldn't enter the ring. I'll let Capato stay three or
four rounds for his wife's sake, and then go after him.
I told that poor, worried little woman I'd do it, and I
w ill. Now shut up !"

Up to the minute we crawled through the ropes he
wouldn't budge a scant inch from that.

As a last desperate resort I grabbed hold of a sport
writer and spilled the whole story in his doubtin' ears,
so that when the fourth round did arrive I'd at the
least be able to stop the fight and expose Dummy
from the ring. You see, I had it doped out that the
guy they'd planted at the switch in the basement would
have a certain hour and minute to snap off the lights,
and if I could jump into the ring and time my speech
properly the house would go dark right at the end of
it, provin' that I was tellin' the truth. The sport
writer warmed up as I went on with the thing, and
ended by tellin' me not to breathe a word of it to any
body else. He says if it was true it would be a whale
of a yarn for his paper, and if it wasn't he'd person
ally see that I got run out of the fight game.

"By the way," I says, "is Capato married?"

132 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

"No !" says the sport writer, scribblin' away. "Why?"

"Nothin' !" I groans and staggered over to the Kid.

There was all smiles in Tiger Capato's corner when
I fin'ly went across to examine his bandages, and Car
ney greets me with a chuckle. I suddenly leaned down
and stuck my face right up to his ear.

"You pull them lights and eighty-seven coppers will
be in this corner, you rat !" I snarls.

For just a fraction of a second Dummy drawed back
and whitened, and then he showed he had missed his
trade by not becomin' a actor.

"What's the idea — are you scared crazy?" he says.
"What's this stuff about lights ?"

I says nothin', but turned my undivided attention to
Kid Roberts. The boy was a bundle of raw nerves —
bouncin' up and down on his stool, slappin' his hands
together with a auick, jerky movement, and bitin' his
nps as fie stared out at the yellin' crowd. Then the
announcer called over to us to come to the center for
a flashlight pose, but you couldn't hear a word over the
din. Say — they was hangin' from the rafters, sittin'
on each other, millin' all over the newspaper guys at
the ringside, and pourin' in the doors which the coppers
was fightin' to close. Out in the street some more
thousands swarmed around waitin' to hear even some
noise from inside and try to judge how the battle was
goin' by that. The announcer called to the Kid again,
got no action, and motioned to the time-keeper to get
busy. That baby slams the gong for silence and — the
Kid hears this bell, leaps off the stool, and was half
way across the ring, both hands workin', before we
could grab him !

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 133

The roar of the mob hung fire for a minute, and then,
as they took in the situation, a yell of laughs comes
boomin' across the ring till it seemed to rattle the
buildin'. Like the Kid, the crowd was on edge, nervous
— almost hysterical — and the Kid's mistakin' that bell
for the beginnin' of the fight busted the tension. But
the effect of that tornado of hee-haws on Kid Roberts
was as sudden as it was remarkable. He turned and
faced the mob, pale as two dollars worth of skimmed
milk, and from the look he give 'em I thought for a
second he was gonna jump over the ropes and go to
the mat with the entire attendance! His lips curled
away from his flashin' white teeth in a snarl like a bad-
tempered wolf's, and the steady glare in his eye caused
friend announcer, which he wasn't even lookin' at, to
step hurriedly aside. In a instant I seen one chance
in a million to crab Dummy's frame-up and crab it to
the royal families taste. The way he was geared up
then, Kid Roberts could of licked the League of
Nations, and my job was to keep him that way for two
more minutes! Keep him tight strung to that cold,
blood-cravin', murderin' rage before he could let down,
think of Capato's "wife," or —

I grabbed his arm, let out one of them high-pitched,
nerve-gratin' guffaws, holdin' my side with my free
hand. "Why, you big boob !" I shrieks. "D'ye hear
them babies givin' you the laugh? The thing's gonna
be a farce! Ha, ha, ha, ha! My Gawd, I've handled
some boneheads, but you win the garage ! Sweet Mam
ma — you won't have to knock Capato dead; he'll die
laughin' !"

134 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

"You too, eh?" he bites off through his set lips, and
sends me head over heels through the ropes with a
push. I must have took a funny fall, because off goes
the mob into a fresh spasm, and Capato acted as laugh
leader. They was still holdin' their ribs when the bell
clanged for real; the newspaper guys, havin' made
ample notes of all this stuff, settled back to watch a
long, tough fight — when, before the clang has died out,
Kid Roberts is plungin' into Tiger Capato's corner.
The Tiger ain't had time to take the grin off his face,
but the Kid took it off with a left jab that spun Capato
around like a top and left a jagged, scarlet streak.
There was no laughin' now — just a continuous roar,
like a billion tons of coal goin' down a tin chute into
a empty cellar. Shiftin' his headlong attack without a
wasted motion, the Kid pinned the dumfounded Capato
against the ropes in his own corner and begins shootin'
lefts and rights to the body with the steady rap, rap,
rap, rap of a steam riveter. This guy they called the
Tiger never got a chance to set before he was half ways
out on his feet. A newspaper guy next to me, callin'
the punches to his telegraph operator, give it up in dis
gust and switches to: "In the first two minutes Kid
Roberts belted Capato with everything but the club's
franchise."

The frantic shrieks from his handlers stirred Capato
into tryin' desperately to duck, dodge, cover up, or dive
into a clinch, to escape the hurricane of leather that
bounced him off the ropes and back again, but he
might as well of tried to stop a grizzly's charge with
a pea shooter. A terrific left to the stomach doubled
him up like a match stick in its last glow, and, as his

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 135

rollin' head fell forward, a right swing connected with
a crunchin' plop ! Dead to the world, Tiger Capato slid
along the lower rope, sagged there for a second, and
then slid like a sack of flour under it and down almost
in Dummy Carney's shakin' arms. The Kid stepped
back and threw up his head.

"Laugh at that, you fools !" he roared, and walked to
his corner in the nearest thing to silence I ever met in
a fight club. Then the mob got its second wind, and
they must of heard 'em in Los Angeles and figured
another quake had arrived.

It took about five minutes for the crowd to get sane
enough to even start for the doors, and it took about
fifty cops to keep 'em out of the ring. The Kid's color
had come back, and he's interested only in gettin' my
word that I didn't get hurt when he dumped me through
the ropes, and that I ain't off of him. He must of
apologized ninety times at the least!

"By Gad, I need a keeper !" he says, still grippin' my
hand. "I — I must have lost my head completely when
that crowd gave me the laugh!" He give a shiver.
"Ten thousand of them laughing at me — imagine, sit
ting there and jeering as if I were some sort of clown !"
He blazed up again for a instant and then looks kinda
shamefaced. "Darn it all," he says, shakin' his head,
"I've broken my promise to Capato's wife — I said I'd
let him stay, but that laugh drove everything out of
my head but —

"Shut up!" I howls, crazy with joy. "You done a
bcaucoup job."

A little guy shoves his way over to us. It's the

136 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

sportin' editor I had told about Dummy's attempt to
frame us. He looks sore.

"Say!" he growls, "what kind of a thing were you
tryin' to put over on me with that double-crossin' pipe
dream of yours? Of all the weird yarns I ever heard,
that leads the league ! You New York guys must think
everybody that don't live within subway distance of
Times Square is a hick, hey? So they was gonna job
that man-eater of yours in the fourth round — just like
a movie, eh? Villain in the cellar at the switchboard
and everything else. Shame on you !" he says, waggin'
his finger at me and pullin' out his watch. "I must
have had a wisp of hay in my mouth when you come
along. Let's see now, the slaughter started at 10 p. m.
on the dot, and it's now pretty near twenty after —
ten-nineteen, to be correct — so that your conspirator in
the basement, not knowin' that the party's all over,
would be throwin' off that switch in about a minute —
which would have been shortly after the start of the
fatal fourth round. Then the fiendish Tiger Capat — "

He never finished the rest of that because, without
no warning, every light in the place went out !

ROUND SIX
WHIPSAWED!

THE gift of bein' able to think, whilst his charmin'
opponent is merrily bouncin' gloves off his achin' bean,
has turned seemin'ly certain defeat into a sensational
victory for many's the battered and punch-drunk box
fighter. Next to the ability to knock a man kickin'
with either hand and the heart to weather a sudden
unexpected hurricane of crushin' rights and lefts to
the body or jaw, coolness under fire is the most im
portant part of the high-class leather pusher's make
up. Hundreds of promisin' kids, which can hit like
Caruso can sing and take punishment like the informa
tion clerk at a railroad station, never get past the semi
finals because the only use they make of their heads
is to butt the other guy with.

They know that a punch on the jaw will prob'ly
knock their tete-a tete for a goal if it lands on what
is known to the trade as the "button," and with that
idea firmly planted in their mind they sail out of their
corner at the first bell and begin wildly swingin' at
the bobbin' chin in front of 'em with gusto and
abandon. As far as they're concerned, the other baby
ain't got no short ribs, kidneys, heart, stomach, or
any of the other places where a well-timed right or

138 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

left smash might end the thing and send the crowd
home hoarse and rejoicin'. They once flattened a guy
with a roundhouse swing to the jaw, and they're now
convinced that all they is to the art of box fightin'
is jab with the left to the body and then, as friend op
ponent's guard comes down, cross the right to the jaw.
It's comical to watch them boneheads work when
they're in there tryin' with a cool-headed, clever kid
which gets 'em all figured out in Round One and
makes 'em punchin' bags from then on. The fast
boxer, which ain't especially fond of takin' it, knows
they're dangerous right up to the last bell, no matter
how badly he's outpointed 'em, because one properly
placed clout from this flounderin' tramp may put
him out for half a hour. So, guessin' their every
move and bein' sure of his own footwork, he keeps
stickin' his chin invitin'ly in front of 'em. The boob's
eyes glitters and he stabs his ponderous left feint for
the body, at the same time drawin' back the deadly
right so's a guy sixteen miles from the clubhouse
would know what he figured on doin' with it. The
boss boxer makes a play at droppin' his guard. The
boob swings, misses, and is exceedin'ly surprised to
find his own right eye beginnin' to close and the mob
yellin' for his immediate extinction. He shakes his
head doubtfully, pulls a silly grin, and tries again, with
the same result. Next time maybe the other kid
walks into the right swing, lets it go over his shoulder,
and shakes the tramp from stem to stern with half a
dozen rights and lefts to his wide-open body before
the disgusted referee pulls 'em apart. And so it goes
to the final gong, the clever guy which can't hit pilin*

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 139

up points and the ham with the man-killin' wallop
rippin' the air with useless wallops which tire him
out and make him a set-up, because he ain't got
brains enough to realize his attack is all wrong and
needs to be mixed up a bit to get results.

The toughest job a pilot of box fighters has is to
hammer into the usual mass of concrete between the
neck and hair of his meat cards the importance of
watchin' at all times durin' a hard bout for the lucky
break which means a win for the guy which takes
advantage of it. It may be a little incident which the
crowd never sees. For the example, many's the guy
I've seen knocked cold the instant he reached down
mechanically to give a hitch to a pair of slippin'
tights. The other baby had noticed that his playfellow's
trunks was loose and was waitin' till he reached
down to grab 'em, knowin' that for maybe a eighth
of a second his guard would be lowered — and — well,
a eighth of a second's enough ! The heavyweight
championship of dear old England once depended on
a thing as small and seemin'ly as unimportant as that.
Pull your chairs up close, and I'll just about kill the
next half hour with the tale.

About two months after we have knocked Tiger
Capato dead in a round — the Tiger bein' supposedly
the last hurdle between us and the champ — me and
Kid Roberts is convened in our lair at the hotel in
New York discussin' the fascinatin' subject of box
fightin'. The indications was that the champ's movie
contracts would keep him outside the ropes for the
worst part of a year, but in the meanwhile we have
got to eat and likewise add to this bank roll for the

140 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

Kid's busted old man. Business in our line was very
dull in the land the Marines made famous, for the
reason that we have trimmed all the good heavies
and the Kid will not under no circumstances frame
a scrap or fight set-ups.

"It's more than eight weeks since I fought Ca-
pato," the Kid growls, pacin' up and down the room
like a irritated panther. "In that time we haven't
earned a penny, and I haven't drawn on a glove.
I'm getting stale through lack of work and — "

"Just a minute," I says soothin'ly. "It's your own
fault we can't get no work. If you'd of saved up
some of them boloneys for return dates, instead of
bouncin' 'em all in a couple of rounds, we could go
back over the circuit like the rest of 'em does and

clean up again. Now, the only way we can get a fight
»

"Is to join the Polish army, I suppose!" butts in
the Kid bitterly. "Well, if—"

"No!" I hollers, jumpin' up. "Not Poland, but
England ! France and England, where the set-ups
runs wild and where any guy which gets through two
fights without bein' knocked kickin' is made cham
pion of Europe in whatever class he's in. Why, you'll
be a riot over there, Kid; I must of been crazy not
to of thought of it before!"

"Well, don't talk about it ; let's go !" snarls the Kid,
nervously reachin' for his hat. "I'm going out and
walk off some of this depression, and incidentally
I'll find out about passports and accommodations — it
will give me something to do. This infernal inactivity
is driving me mad and it must be damned unpleasant

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 141

for you, old man, to have to bear the brunt of my
beastly temper."

"That's all right, son," I grins, pattin' him on the
back. "All real fighters is temperamental, whether
they work with their head or their hands. By the
way, speakin' of fightin' and the etc., d'ye know our
contract run out last week and that right now they
ain't a thing holdin' you to me if you want to cut
loose? You're no fifty-dollar preliminary ham any
more, Kid; you're the next world's heavyweight
champion, with a possible half million iron men ready
to fall into your pockets in two or three years. Also,
you ain't no bone-headed roughneck which don't
know what it's all about; you got a college education,
a business head, and somethin' I'll never have — class!
If it come to it, you could make your own matches,
look after your own affairs, and a few extry pennies
will get you experienced handlers to swing a towel
in your corner every time you start. All this would
mean a savin' to you of half your earnin's — the half
I get now. I want you to know just how you stand
so's you can make your own choice, Kid, because you —
well, you been different than any guy I ever handled:
we been more like pals than manager and box fighter
— and I got a right to enjoy the sensations of bein'
square if I wanna."

The Kid come over and takin' both my hands in
them bone crushers of his, presented me with a full-
toothed smile.

"As long as I remain in the ring I want you to
look after the business end of my affairs," he says.

142 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

"It was your canny matchmaking, whole-hearted en
couragement and the shrewd advice and training
you gave me that took me as far as I am now ! It
was also you who bullied the promoters into giving
me the guarantees I've been getting and got my price
raised from two hundred a bout to five hundred and
more a round. I'm not going to cast you aside now,
just when there's a chance for you to cash in on your
efforts. No, we'll stick together until the finish and
keep the split at fifty-fifty, old man. You're earning
your share as much as I earn mine. Why, if I
couldn't look over when the going gets rough and see
you in my corner, I'd be as helpless as a rudderless
ship ! As you say, we've been pals — and pals don't
break over money. We don't need a contract. I'm
sure our friendship is stronger than any legal sheet
of paper. Let's continue as we have been doing on
a — a — gentlemen's agreement. Does that hit you all
right?"

Did it hit me all right? I'll ejaculate it did!
Imagine a blue-corpuscled, classy, inlaid in the de
canter aristocrat like him, intimatin' out loud that I
am what is known as a gentleman. Sweet Mamma,
shou!4 he of gave me a hundred thousand bucks right
then, I wouldn't of felt no better!

Well, about ten days later we are out on the boundin'
billows on the en route to King George's home town,
and they ain't no hospital and few cemeteries in the
world containin' a guy one-fifth as sick as me. For
three days I was a object which would of aroused pity
in the chest of a Bowery loan shark, and I accumu
lated some doubts about Columbus discoverin' America,

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 143

on the account I don't believe anybody every stayed
on the ocean that long. With the Kid, how the so ever,
it was all different. The boy had sailed a mean yacht
and the etc. when his masculine parent had large
quantities of sugar, and he was as much at home in
the cradle of the deep as a barnacle. He dragged
me out of the cabin where I had crawled to die in
peace and made me gallop around the deck, till,
much to my dumfounded astonishment, I was able
to listen to the dinner bugle without goin' into con
vulsions as heretofore.

About four days after the ship has been caperin'
wildly hithers and yon on the ocean, and I have de
cided they is more heroes in the navy than any other
place in the wide, wide world, a ball is had on the
heels of supper. The Kid drags out his "Curse you,
Jack Dalton !" scenery, wraps it around his manly
form, and won't have it no other way but that I climb
into the one he made me stake myself to and join the
merry mob on the promenade deck. As a dancer, I'm
a fine box-fight manager ! I don't know the difference
between a bar of music and a bar of soap, provided
they is any, and after I have sit out a couple of one-
steps with Janes which would be safe anywheres and
which talked about their varied operations and how
many times they had been across, I escaped to the
smokin' room on the account of preferrin' the male
liars to the female pests.

But Kid Roberts had a field day with the ladies
as per usual. This big blond in evenin' clothes was
a sight which would of made Apollo take arsenic,
and, Sweet Mamma, how the women did set sail for

144 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

him, once he started steppin' out on that ballroom
floor! Young, old, and unhappy mediums in between
crowded around the Kid, vampin' him silly, while
their boy friends and bitter halfs let forth glowers
of rage.

How the so ever, while Kid Roberts had a fatal
weakness for the sex made famous by the Garden of
Eden, I didn't get particularly nervous as long as he
played no favorites but kept circulatin' hithers and
yon among the beautiful girls, some of which was
in evenin' gowns which would of wrung a gasp from
Annette Kellermann.

But, alas and alackaday, my worst fears come to
a head when along around the shanks of the evenin'
a couple of newcomers appeared on the scenes, in
the shape of a inclined-to-be elderly and dignified
gent and a inclined-to-be young and dazzlin* girl.
Aside from everything else, money and class stuck
out all over 'em. Kid Roberts let forth a gasp and
flashed white for the part of a second when the old
boy drawed off the girl's opera cloak, revealin' some-
thin' in the feminine line which would of mesmer
ized Adam into givin' Eve her apple back untasted.
Sweet Papa, what a knockout she was ! One of them
little de luxe editions of the world's greatest mys
tery story, viz., woman: hair a bewilderin' fluff of
polished copper, eyes as fascinatin' as a month-old
baby's and less sophisticated, a complexion which
would retail for about ten thousand fish, could you
get it in a can and a — eh — a figure which would
make the front row of the Ziegfeld Follies seem like
a shapeless mass. I figured her age at about half a

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 145

hour past nineteen, and they is no doubt that many's
the tall, willowy blonde took one look at this vest-
pocket size heart breaker that night and wished she
had missed the boat !

The Kid was down for the count after the first
look, and the luck of fools and lovers, which is the
same thing, was with him. Over comes the old gent
himself whilst this second Venus is dancin' with some
bimbo which must of been born with a four-leafed
clover in each hand.

"Pardon me," remarks the apparent father of the
prettiest girl on our popular planet, whilst he pulls
a grin which tags him to me as a regular guy. "You're
Kane Halliday, are you not?"

The Kid looks kind of flushed, but he was al
ways there with the old drawin'-room stuff. "I am,"
he admits, with a well-placed bow. "But you have
the advantage of me, I'm afraid."

"I suppose so," says old Father William. "It's
some years since I last saw you, and then you were
too busy to stop for a chat."

He puts his hand on the Kid's shoulder and throws
that grin into high.

"You were — ah — going through eleven husky young
Harvard cubs with a pigskin tucked under your left
arm !"

The Kid blushes like a bevy of schoolgirls, but
before he can set the old guy goes on: "I'm Sena
tor Brewster of New York, a schoolmate of your
dear mother's — whom you greatly resemble — and an
admirer of your prowess in the twenty-four-foot
square. I saw your last fight with Kennedy and

146 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

it was a corker. Halliday, your right hook to the jaw
is the fastest thing I've ever seen inside of a glove
and I haven't missed a championship bout in the last
twenty-five years !"

"You're a boxing enthusiast, then?" inquires the
Kid with the greatest of relief, whilst a wanderin'
eye fixes itself on the girl which had been with the
old boy.

"Indeed, I am!" says our elderly tete-a-tete, with
a touch of gusto. "Much to the annoyance of Dolores
— my daughter — whose feminine curiosity led her
to witness one prize fight with me and who, I am
sure, will never see another ! Not understanding the —
eh — fine points of the game, she thought it merely a
brutal and disgusting exhibition — to quote her ver
batim. I've been boxing with an instructor at my club
in Washington for nearly a year, and I feel like a
boy of twenty. I don't know what a doctor looks
like, and I'm eating and sleeping like a Hoosier farm
hand! If you intend doing any training to keep in
condition on the trip across, Halliday, I'd be delighted
to come down to the very excellent gymnasium they
have on the lower deck and — ah — limber up a bit
with you."

The Kid smiles down at this good old sport, which,
for all his white hair and wrinkled face, looked the
photograph of health and likewise able to give a good
account of himself, fisticuffally speakin' should the oc
casion ever come up.

"I shall be pleased to have you, senator," says Kid
Roberts, and then, realizin' that him and the sen.
is far from alone, he introduces me with not a little

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 147

zest. The president baiter seemed tickled silly to be
hangin' out with the famous Kid Roberts and his
equally likable manager, and I was beaucoup glad
that I'd had brains enough to be caparisoned in a dress
suit, the first and only time in my gay young life I
ever give a U. S. or an any other senator the pleasure
of shakin' hands with me.

"I want you to meet my daughter," says the gentle
man from New York, and the Kid's eyes takes on a
glint which might of caused the senator to reconsider
his proposition, if he had noticed it.

The Kid smiles and then immediately gets serious.
"Perhaps," he says quietly, "perhaps Miss Brewster
would not care to be introduced to a — a — prize fighter,
in view of her dislike of boxing."

"Eh — ahem," says the senator, linking his arm
in the Kid's, — "I — ah — Halliday, whatever you may
be doing now and for whatever reason, you are
a gentleman born. You forgot I reminded you that
your mother and I were schoolmates. For a heavy
weight boxer you are singularly free from the usual
marks of your profession and — ah — it might be
as well not to mention your — ah — calling to Dolores
just now. It seems to me that we can find many other
interesting subjects to discuss."

The Kid bowed, but they was a queer look on his
face, and the next thing I know we are havin' another
orgy of introductions, and then Dolores Brewster
and the Kid is slidin' over the polished floor and me
and Senator Brewster is out in the smokin' room
talkin' box fightin' and drinkin' none of your business !

148 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

Well, from that minute till we fin'ly reached the
bustlin' village of Liverpool, Kid Roberts hung around
Dolores Brewster like she was a glass bowl and he
was a gold fish. They danced, eat, walked, talked,
bridge- whisted, ouija-boarded, and whatnot together
till they was the talk of the ship.

When the Irish coast looms up on the horizon the
Kid bounces into our cabin at the witchin' hours of
midnight and without no preliminaries knocks me
for a goal by announcin' he's gonna wed Dolores
Brewster at his earliest possible convenience. This
was about the eighteenth romantical affair de heart
which had occurred to the Kid since he come under
my wings and about the first one to show the ear
marks of bein' annoyin'ly serious on the part of both
sides. I spent somthin' like two hours beggin',
threatening pleadin', and arguin' with Kid Roberts
against allowin' himself to be dragged to a altar be
fore he had became heavyweight champ of the entire
world. He sit on the side of his berth with a far
away and long-ago look on his face and a shoe in his
hand, and when I get all through on the account I got
to get my breath, he let forth a sigh and remarks to
a near-by porthole :

"And to think — to think we're going to be mar
ried as soon as we reach London !"

Sweet Mamma, a guy in love is tough to take !

How the so ever, I'm still hopin' that somethin'
untoward will come to the pass as of yore before this
love's young dream can turn into a nightmare for
me. My wildest hopes was realized the night we
anchored in a river which the English has nicknamed

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 149

the Mersey. The Kid and his charmer is givin' the
dark deck and moonlight thing a heavy play folleyin'
the customary dancin' and by dumb's luck I happen
to almost stumble over 'em whilst I'm taking a slight
promenade. I have never listened at no keyholes
or the like in my life, as I am not that type of guy,
but I could not prevent myself hear in' Miss Dolores
Brewster tell the Kid that unless he give up the prize
ring at once and immediately, all bets was off. He
was a nice, bright, handsome, and ambitious kid, but
she wanted no leather pushers in hers, and that was
that!

I leave it to you how I waited and hung on the
Kid's answer. They was no question but that he was
head over heels as far as Dolores was concerned and
everybody in the world knows that a guy which has
fell a victim to love's sweet charms ain't got the brains
of a gnat left in his head. The heavyweight title and
all the sugar which went with it was loomin' in the
offin' and if Kid Roberts threw away his gloves now —
Woof, just thinkin' about it got me on the brink of
the hysterics!

"My dear," he says, "what you ask is impossible.
I have gone too far to turn back now. The atmos
phere of the prize ring is almost as obnoxious to me
as it is to you, but until I have earned enough money
to rehabilitate my father and myself I must go on.
Also, you seem to forget that if we are to be" — the
boy's voice shook a bit, and he leaned closer if that
was possible — "if we are to be married, I must have
enough money to insure your — "

150 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

"Father has more money than he knows what to
do with," she butts in, layin' a vampish hand on his
arm.

"He is very fortunate," remarks the Kid kinda
chilly, as he straightened up. "But your father's
money has nothing whatever to do with me. No, dear,
if this were a book or a moving picture, I would
probably renounce my present profession in a highly
melodramatic manner, and then it would be discov
ered that I am really the heir to the throne of Alluvia,
or something like that, in disguise. But being sordid
reality, I'm afraid I'll have to play my hand out to
the finish. There is too much at stake for me to give
up now!"

Dolores played her ace. She give vent to a sigh and
presented the Kid with a glance, which if it made me
dizzy, what do you figure it must of done to him?

"Even for me ?" she murmurs.

"Even for you!" answers the Kid, hoarse but firm.

Dolores Brewster gathered up her cloak and drifted
into the cabin without as much as a glance or a answer
to the Kid's dazed exclamation.

So that was all settled!

Three weeks after the above came to the pass, me
and Kid Roberts is located at Hampstead Heath, a
burg on the hoopskirts of dear old London, trainin'
for a scheduled twenty-round muss with Bandsman
Shayne, heavyweight assault and battery champion of
the United (ha, ha!) Kingdom of Ireland and Great
Britain.

I signed articles for the entertainment whilst the

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 151

Kid was scourin' Blighty with a vacuum cleaner in a
effort to find Dolores Brewster. Bandsman Shayne
was likewise among those absent at the signin' of the
articles, the pugilistic pride of England bein' tourin'
the outlands as a vaudeville attraction. So the young
men didn't meet when us managers convened at the
National Sportin' Club and, over a couple of seidels
of the stuff the Anti-Saloon League made famous, ac
cepted a purse of four thousand pounds for the mas
sacre, to be split 60 per cent to the winner and 40
per cent to the guy they carried out. Bandsman
Shayne's manager was a tall, slim, walrus-whiskered
baby which packed a shifty eye and mixed a mean
highball. He looked, talked, and acted like the unde
feated champion boob of the world, and that's what
I figured him. Oo la, la, what a awakenin' I got!

Well, the Kid took to his trainin' like Mary Pick-
ford took to a camera and within a week I was prac
tically out of sparrin' partners. Cut to the quick by
the charmin' Miss Brewster havin' gave him the rasp
berry, he went around snarlin' and growlin' like a
peeved bear, and he seemed to get a lot of relief by
batterin' his handlers from pillar to post.

I found handlers as scarce in and around Hamp-
stead Heath as silence is in a locomotive works, and
when about ten days before the fight a big husky
strolls into our camp and asks for a job I could of
kissed him, and for all I know I did ! This boy was
one tough-lookin' baby and he had "I-can-take-it!"
wrote all over him. He was a good fifteen pounds
heavier than my 195 ringside Kid Roberts and fully

152 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

as tall, and before he ever raised a glove I knowed
he had been to the races many's the time before, by the
way he climbed through the ropes of the trainin' ring.
He claimed he was entitled Gunner Enright and was
due to go to the post himself in a couple of weeks.
He says likewise that he wants experience more than
anything else and would give the Kid all the limberin'
up he could stand for two pounds a week and board.

Gunner Enright had been in our midst just one
hour, English time, when I was fallin' over my own
feet makin' him propositions to come back to the U. S.
under my management, for I seen that this bimbo
could knock two-thirds of our second-rate heavies
for a row of refuse containers. Kid Roberts was as
happy as a bride winnin' her first argument and
promised this guy a bonus if he trimmed the Engish
title holder, because the Gunner was givin' him the
first real workouts he'd had since we hit the old
country. He was fast, he was clever, he could hit,
and he could take it, and that's all even the A. E. F.
could do, hey?

Gunner Enright told me he'd think over my propo
sition to come back with us to the formerly Land of
the Spree, and when I asked him was this Bands
man Shayne a false alarm or a bcaucoup puncher, the
Gunner curls his wolf's lip and pans the English
champ for half a hour. He claims the box-fightin'
musician is as yellah as the Chinese flag, has ducked
either twelve or eighty-six chances to meet him, and
that Kid Roberts should put him away with three
or four clouts at the utmost.

A few days before the large clash the Kid draws

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 153

me aside whilst waitin' for the Gunner to get into
his trainin' togs, and they's a queer smile on his face.

"This Enright would be a sensation in America if
he was properly matched," he says. "No man I have
fought has given me a stiffer argument than he does
when he gets warmed up to his work. He's a terrific
body puncher and can also take his gruel without
flinching — if you've noticed, he's scarcely taken a
backward step in all the workouts we've had together.
I have the firm conviction that this fellow has never
really cut loose yet. He gives me the impression many
times that he's holding back his returns. Tell him
to-day to let me have everything he has in stock. If I
can't handle a sparring partner, I've got no business
in the same ring with a champion, and the sooner I
find it out the better!"

I grinned and glanced toward Gunner Enright, which
was comin' over with the gloves.

'"As usual before every big scrap you got a attack
of nerves," I say. "I'll tell this cuckoo to give you
the works, and then I want you to knock him out —
just so's he won't kid himself that he could take you
if he wanted to."

The Kid shakes his head. "I'm not going to punish
any sparring partner unnecessarily," he says. "I'm
getting plenty of work letting them come to me and
simply standing them off. You've seen that I always
let them clinch and recover when I forget myself and
sting them a bit. I've been a little more strenuous
with this man than with the others, only because he
can assimilate punishment and seems to fight better

154 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

when he's shaken up. Tell him to try and knock me
out — I want to see what he's concealing."

They boxed three two-minute rounds, goin' at it
hammer and tongs, and they was a lot more action in
this thing than in many's the real mill I've looked at.
Gunner Enright took me at my word, and if he didn't
endeavor to knock my comin' champ for a goal, then
Grant didn't care whether he win the Civil War or not !
The Gunner was gettin' a trifle too fast for me, and
had opened up a old gash over the Kid's left eye which
bled rather lavishly, when I called a halt. Right before
I bawled "Time !" he staggered Roberts with a beauti
ful right to the head, and the Kid, thoroughly enjoy in'
himself, come back with two lefts to the jaw that
dropped the enthusiastic Gunner to his knees. That
was ample for me, and I stopped the show. Much
to my amazement, the Gunner apparently lost his head
and insisted on continuin' the quarrel. He begin by
pleadin' and wound up by gettin' nasty. When he hol
lered that he could "Bash the bleedin' Yank's fyce
in!" meanin' the highly amused Kid, I paid him off
and, with the kindly assistance of a couple of volun
teers, throwed him out of the camp.

The night of the Kid Roberts-Bandsman Shayne
fracas they closed all doors of the National Sportin'
Club at half past eight. The main event wasn't due to
get under way till ten, but the galleries and other seats
for the middle clawsses and the etc. each contained two
guys a few minutes after the entrances opened at seven.
This Shayne person had a followin' which can only
be compared to the one Roosevelt had and they was all
there to see their man give the American leather

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 155

pusher the trimmin' of his young life. The English
sports figured the bout would be a spread for their
champ, and before my exactin' duties called me to
the dressin' room, I had got down five thousand fish
on the possibilities of the Kid's right hook to the jaw
at 2y2 to 1.

The weights was announced as : Kid Roberts, \96y2 ;
Bandsman Shayne, 214.

Bandsman Shayne was already in his corner when
we come to the party, as I had purposely made him
wait for us to see what it would do to his nerves. I
was very anxious for my first flash at him, and so was
the Kid, but he had so many handlers and the like
flittin' around him that it was the same as impossible
to view him. Fin'ly the referee called us to the center
of the ring for final instructions, and Bandsman
Shayne stepped forward, facin' the Kid.

Roberts gave vent to a gasp which could of been
and no doubt was heard in Shantung, and, Sweet
Papa — I liked to fell through the ropes !

Bandsman Shayne was no less than our old pal and
formerly chore boy, "Gunner Enright!"

I don't know whether that referee told us we was al
lowed to kick and bite in the clinches and that knives
would be furnished after the first round or not. I
never heard a word he said, for I was gettin' set to
clip Bandsman Shayne's grinnin' manager on the but
ton, when the white-faced Kid Roberts shoved me
away. The referee raised his eyebrows and coldly
motioned me to our corner, where I slumped up against
the ropes in a trance. Think what that English — ah

156 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

— ah — cuckoo had pulled on us ! Knowin' we'd never
seen the Bandsman, he sends his man up to train for
this championship battle with the very man he's gonna
fight! A instant's thought will show the dummest
bimbo in captivity the priceless advantages Bandsman
Shayne win for himself by this raw trick. He's
worked out every day with the guy he's gonna face in
the ring for the real muss. He's apparently learned
every punch, every trick, and every weakness of his
comin' versus, whilst at the same time, by skillful
fakin' of his own work, he's gave away no information
of value on himself. He's givin' us about two minutes
to shift our carefully rehearsed and long-planned
scheme of battle and he's grabbed off a powerful asset
in the moral blow this last-minute discovery handed
the Kid, which walked slowly back to his corner
waitin' the openin' gong, every muscle doin' a dance, his
teeth fastened in his lower lip and his face whiter than
eight dollars' worth of cream. They wasn't a dozen
guys around that ring which after one searchin' glance
wouldn't of bet fifty to one Kid Roberts didn't last a
round with the laughin', jokin', and supremely confident
Bandsman Shayne. Before I could rouse myself and
make a last desperate protest to have the mill called
off, the old cowbell rung out.

They hadn't exchanged three wallops before I seen
we was in for a rough evenin', if not for crushing de
feat ! This Bandsman Shayne was a fighter and the
Kid was wilder than a Borneo circus attraction. In
his desire to end matters at once, Roberts missed a
half dozen leads, and the smilin' Bandsman peppered

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 157

him at short range with rights and lefts to the body
that had the Kid floimderin' about the ring, punch
drunk and weary before the openin' frame was half
over. I don't think Kid Roberts landed four clean
wallops durin' the entire session. He simply got off
on the wrong foot and couldn't set himself thereafter.
Comin' out of a clinch, the Bandsman deliberately
butted my boy with his head, layin' his right cheek
open and drenchin' him scarlet. The referee politely
warned the Englishman in response to my frantic
yells of "Foul !" and, a few seconds ahead of the
gong, Shayne connected with a long overhand right
to the jaw that sprawled the Kid on his face in a neu
tral corner. He was on one knee, shakin' his head to
clear it and gazin' at me for advice, when the referee
had counted "eight" and the welcome bell rung.

They is a mild clappin' of hands around the ring
side and some real old-fashioned yells from the gal
leries whilst we're hustlin' the Kid to his corner and
workin' over him. I guess to everybody but me he
looked a beaten man! His left eye was completely
closed, his lips puffed and swollen, and the gash in
his right cheek took five stitches to close. But his wind
was still perfect, a cold vicious grin had took the place
of the nervous twitchin' of his mouth, and as he shook
the water I doused him with from his blond hair he
grunted : '"This fellow can hit, but I'll get him in the
next round!"

Round two opened with the Kid dancin' lightly
around the confident Bandsman and suddenly hookin'
his right to the head and smashin' his left to the body.
The Englishman looked surprised and backed to the

158 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

ropes cautiously, showin' a beautiful defense for the
Kid's determined efforts to hook his right to the jaw.
They fiddled around for a minute, each tryin' to con
nect with one solid smash that would finish it, and
then Shayne worked close, leanin' his entire weight
on the Kid so's to get the full advantage of that extry
seventeen pounds weight. In response to my frenzied
yells which caused amazed stares from the ringsiders,
Roberts fought himself free and drove Shayne to the
ropes with a hurricane of rights and lefts to the head
and face. A left swing buried the Kid's glove to the
wrist in the Bandsman's short ribs and gaspin', the
champ begin to wilt. Roberts feinted swiftly with the
same left and then crossed his right to the mouth,
bringin' a stream of crimson as the Bandsman begin
to tin-can desperately around the ring. Pinned in his
own corner, the English mauler showed he was a ring
general by pretendin' to be dazed and groggy and
slumpin' back against the ropes. The Kid fell for it,
and, as he sprang in to finish him, Shayne suddenly
straightened up and drove Roberts back on his heels
with a perfectly timed right hook, followin' that with
four stingin' jabs to the mouth with his left before
the astonished Kid could set. It looked like anybody's
fight, and they was toe to toe exchangin' wallops at
the bell.

The second the Kid is on his stool I am yellin' into
his ear : "'What's that guy suckin' his lips in for, d'ye
know ? I been watchin' him all through this round and
he keeps puckerin' up like he had somethin' in his
mouth. What is it?"

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 159

The Kid glanced up, kinda puzzled. "I — why — I
don't know, I'm sure," he says. "Unless — well, the
first punch I landed in this round caught him square
on the open mouth. It may be that I loosened one of
his teeth and he's drawing on it to get it loose enough
to—"

"To get rid of it, to get rid of it !" I hollers. "Just
what I had doped out ! Now listen to every word I'm
gonna say, because it means a quick knockout if you
folley my instructions. Pay no attention to any part
of this tramp but his mouth! That tooth's gettin'
looser and looser and pretty soon it'll come all the
ways out and — get this now — he'll turn his face for
a second to spit it out ! Get that ? He'll have to turn
his face to one side; it's a natural movement. You
keep watchin' him suck away on that tooth. When he
turns his face to get rid of it, be set to let him have
the right on the button. It's a fifty to one shot, but
if you connect, you're heavyweight champion of Eng
land !"

The Kid's eyes flashed and he reached a glove for
my hand and shook it silently, but hard enough to
make it ache for a week. Then the bell brought him
off his stool to the center of the ring, where Bands
man Shayne begin peckin' away at his sore eye with the
flashiest left I've seen since Jack Johnson's. The Kid
snapped over a wallop now and then, but his one good
eye was glued to the Bandsman's puckerin' lips, and
his deadly right, flickin' back and forth, was ready
for immediate use. Suddenly they both started a rally
at the same time in mid ring, and after Roberts had
drove Shayne's head back six times without a return

160 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

with right and left hooks, the Englishman had enough
and dove into a clinch. They wrestled all over the
ring, crashed into the ropes and slid along 'em, the
Bandsman hangin' on for his life and the arm- weary
Kid desperately tryin' to wriggle free. The referee
tore 'em apart in our corner, and the Kid swiftly
stuck his left in Shayne's face. The English champ
shook his head, worked his lips for a instant, and then
twisted his neck slightly as he spat out the tooth. The
Kid's right had started with the workin' of the lips
and it connected just as Shayne's jaw was swingin'
back, addin' double force to the blow which lifted the
Bandsman a good three inches off the floor, turned
him half around, and brought him to the mat with a
crash that shook the buildin', the first part to touch the
canvas bein' his shoulder blades.

The referee could of counted a billion. At "ten"
the body had scarcely settled. So that was that!

A half hour later we're comin' out of the dressin'
room when a silk-hatted, evenin'-dressed, and familiar-
lookin' gent busts into us. A close inspection reveals
that it is no less than our old shipmate, Senator Brews-
ter. He grabs the Kid, hugs him, waves a American
flag, hugs me, jabs another flag into my coat lapel,
and in a hoarse voice which he claims he contracted
durin' the first round, tells Kid Roberts he has saved
his country's honor, E Pluribus Unum and Nux
Vomica, and that he personally can lick Bandsman
Shayne, all his handlers, and the referee !

"But come on!" he winds up out of breath. "I
have a car waiting outside, and we'll all go over to

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 161

my hotel and — why, say, Dolores won't be able to speak
above a whisper for a week ! She — "

We're out on the street by this time, and the excited
Sen. Brewster is shovin' a path through the half -crazy
Americans to a big tourin' car which contains one ter
rible pretty girl, answerin' to the name of Dolores
Brewster, in the rear seat. She puts everything she
has on a smile, presents it to the dum founded Kid.

"Dolores !" he whispers, turnin' to the old man.
"Why — what — how — did — what is she doing here?
You never brought her to see — "

"She gave me no peace until I did !" grins the happy
old gent. "She insisted upon seeing you annihilate
the English champion, and, why, in the second round
she—"

'"My God !" breathes the Kid, lookin' at her. "You
saw that bestial exhibition?"

"I most certainly did, Kane," smiles Dolores, with
the greatest of enthusiasm. "I'm so glad you won, but
of course father and I knew you would. Why, we
were sitting only a few yards from the — ah, ring, isn't
it? — and father won some huge sum on you, and I
didn't think it was brutal at all! Who and where do
you fight to-morrow night, dear ?"

To-morrow night. Sweet Papa, tie that!

ROUND SEVEN
YOUNG KING COLE

GRAY matter pays as big dividends in the prize ring
as it does in any other game, and many's the battle-
scarred old veteran is in there now takin' on the top-
notchers for big guarantees and stallin' off these hard-
hittin' but slow-thinkin' young bruisers by simply
outguessin' 'em, just as Christy Mathewson pitched
winnin' ball long after he was past his prime by usin'
his head as somethin' more than a convenient place to
hang his cap. It's a real treat to watch the master
ring artist (not the knock-'em-dead slugger) at work.
Fast as wireless, cool as a January breeze, merciless
as a famished tiger, he can do with a pair of four-
ounce gloves what the average guy might accomplish
with a baseball bat and a ax. He goes around his man
like a cooper around a barrel, makin' him dizzy with
lightin' feints and slashin' him to ribbons with jabs that
cut and sting like the flick of a bull whip in the hands
of a master mule skinner.

The razzin' of the mob which resents his cleverness
and craves blood and knockdowns worries him the
same way they worry in Hades over the price of foot
warmers. He's there for business, and from his ex
pression you'd think him and the guy he's swappin'

162

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 163

wallops with was the only two guys in the world, let
alone in the clubhouse.

Does the tramp rock him with a chance smash, and
he curls a contemptuous lip over his shoulder at the
yowlin' pack whilst he clinches to steady himself, then
pushes this boloney away and, with a couple of vicious
jolts, makes him back-pedal nervously, wilt, and cover
up. He never gets excited, never gets mad enough to
miss, never stops studyin' his man's weaknesses till the
quarrel's over. Floored, he don't lose his head and
bounce up before the referee can begin the arithmetic
lesson, like the tramp does when he can in fear of the
mob's roar of "Yellah!" Instead, he takes a long count
— it uses up precious time and gives him a chance to
think, and when he does get up, unless he's out on his
his feet, the other guy is due for a lively couple of
minutes, if not for a knockout !

From the instant this baby steps out at the openin'
clang of the old cowbell, he's a student and a finished
workman. He's generally got some plan of battle all
doped in advance, but if that don't give him immediate
results he shifts to another and another with a speed
and skill that gives the real lover of boxin' more genuine
thrills than a dozen knockdowns. He finds out whether
the other guy don't like it in the jaw or body, and works
accordin'ly. He discovers whether his little playmate
wilts under rough handlin' in the clinches or if rushin'
him to the ropes and pinnin' him there makes him wild
with his returns. He tries talkin' to him, shakin' a
wicked tongue in a effort to stir the other guy into a
crazy rage which will make him throw caution to the
breezes and tear in wide open, willin' to risk anything

164 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

for a chance to stick over a haymaker. Then the old
master flits about the maddened slugger, rippin' in
stingin' hooks and jabs and keepin' up a runnin' fire of
conversation which would make a paralytic rabbit take
a punch at a Bengal tiger. Till at length, arm weary
and discouraged, the pantin' tramp staggers about the
ring a crimson, battered hulk that dully wishes only one
thing in this wide, wide world, and that's the sound of
the final bell !

Every guy has his weak point — even Adam was a
apple addict — and these cool-headed glove artists is no
exception. The trouble with these flashy boxers is that
nine and seven-eighths times out of ten they can't hit.
To jazz a well-known say in', they can lead their man
to slaughter, but they cannot make him sink ! And the
mob don't want no part of these babies which could
box ten rounds under a needle shower without gettin'
hit by a drop of water. They want to see somethin'
fall, and as a result these cool, shifty scientists never
get the popularity that comes to a killer of the Dempsey
type.

How the so ever, occasionally up pops a miracle
which not only does he pack a opiate in each glove,
but he's also got somethin' connected with his dome
besides a couple of tin ears. He can box with the
boxers, slug with the sluggers, and give the gluttons
for punishment acute indigestion. Kid Roberts be
longed to this class, and it was usin' his cranium when
his right cross wasn't enough in his brawl with Gour-
net, the French champ, which turned certain defeat into
a sudden, sensational win.

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 165

The Bandsman Shayne melee kind of throwed a
damper over business for a spell, as the rest of the
English fistic stars figured the Kid was too tough for
'em after readin' the punch-by-punch account of that
muss. We was about ready to come back to the Home
of the Brave when I run into a big English boxin' pro
moter up at the National Sportin' Club's fights one
night. This bird had a concession to put on a mill at
no less than Monte Carlo, and by the end of the week
I have put up a five-thousand-buck appearance forfeit
and signed the Kid to meet anybody the promoter
selected for a twenty-round argument at roulette's
home town within a month. We was guaranteed twenty
thousand iron men and two round-trip tickets, with a
privilege of 35 per cent of the gross. Pretty soft, hey?

When I got back to our hut after signin' the articles
I found the Kid conspicuous by his absence, so I sit
down to look at a bunch of them illustrated sportin'
papers without which no American barber shop is
properly equipped and which had just been sent to me
from home. The first thing that strikes me is how
things has changed with the regard to the ads which
fills up the back pages. They used to be whole columns
of stuff like "Drink Habit Cured with One Dose !" and
"Send Us a Buck and We'll Make Him Sober !" but
now it's all different. The advertisements which
greets the eye these days is : "Own Your Own Still !
Complete Brewery, $2," and "Make Your Hooch at
Home and Giggle at Prohibition. 3,000 Sure-Fire
Recipes, One Case Note!"

Suddenly there is a rap at the door, and I extended
the courtesies of our boudoir in a loud but friendly

166 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

voice. Said door opens, and allows a tall, thin guy of
about thirty autumns to ease into the room, remove
a pair of yellow gloves, and regard me with a cold and
fishy eye. He's wearin' a pair of glasses which looks
like spare rims for a flivver, and was dressed in what
was like as not the height of fashion somewheres,
only I don't know where. A gold-headed cane com
pletes the layout. His openin' remark is a cough.
I easily ducked that, and he followed it up with : "As
I understand it, I am speaking to the — er — ah — mana
ger of Kane Halli— of Kid Roberts?"

"You are awarded the chiffon ice pick!" I says.
"What of it?"

"May I sit down for a moment?" he remarks, glancin'
about the room and lettin' forth a slight shudder when
he sees the forty-six colored bath robe I had bought for
the Kid.

"What d'ye want ?" I hollers pleasantly. "Get to the
point and be done with it !"

He presents me with a frown and slides into a chair.
"I shall get to the point, you may rest assured," he
says. "I am a — ah — a friend of Hall — of Kid Roberts,
and I have some information to impart to him that — ah
— that is so vital to his future welfare that, in order
to deliver it to him personally, I have missed my boat
connections to Paris."

"That's tough !" I says. "What d'ye want me to do
— bust into sobs? The Kid ain't here. Tell me the
bad news, and I'll slip it to him the second he comes in."

"That is impossible!" he says, very chilly. "If you
are really a — ah — a friend of Roberts, you will find
him for me at once !"

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 167

I got up and looked him over, and he leans back in
the chair and begins to tap one hand in the palm of
the other and gaze out the window at the city of Lon
don. So I put my hat on the place I bought it for and
started for the door.

"Who shall I say is seekin' him?" I asks, hesitatin'.

The mysterious stranger turns loose a yawn, reaches
into a side pocket, and hands me a card, on which, from
the feel to the naked hand, the letters is raised a foot
high. Naturally I glanced at it. It says the f ollowin' :

AUGUSTUS ROBERTSON-CARROWSMITH, 3o.

Sweet Mamma!

"So you're a infielder, hey ?" I remarks courteously.

A icy eyebrow goes up. "Beg pardon?" he says.

I waved the card at him. "It says on this you play
third, don't it ?" I explains.

"Will you be good enough to get Mister — eh —
Roberts at once ?" he snorts, and gimme a splendid view
of his back.

By dumb luck I run into the Kid in the hotel lobby,
so I slipped him the card this guy gimme. A short
look is all that's needed to make the Kid's naturally
fair complexion seven shades lighter and sends his eye
brows into a hard, straight line. He crams the card
into his pocket like he wanted to shove it all the ways
through, and then follows me into the elevator with
out a word.

168 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

When we stepped into our room Mister Agustus
Robertson-Carrowsmith, 3d, got up at once and shoved
his hand out to the Kid, which was lookin' him up and
down very stern and cold.

"Well, Halliday," says Augustus, "I suppose you
must guess the purpose of my visit."

"I haven't the slightest idea why I am so honored,"
answers the Kid, payin' everything but attention to
the other guy's outstreched hand. "Make this inter
view as brief as possible, Carrowsmith !"

Friend Augustus registers what is known far and
wide as a blush. "May we have — ah — privacy?" he
inquires, with a slight nod at me.

"Say anything you have to say before this gentle
man," snaps the Kid. "Only say it quickly !"

"Very well," bows Augustus, 3d, turnin' his back
to me to show his cordiality. "Halliday, I have dis
covered that you are masquerading under the name of
— ah — Kid Roberts, and that — you will pardon me, but
I must be plain — and that you are a — ah — a common
prize fighter !"

"Well?" says the Kid, foldin' his arms and as cold
as a icicle.

This here didn't seem to be just what Augustus had
expected. I think he figured on creatin' a sensation
at the least. However, he bucked up and went on : "I
have come to — ah — to offer you a position with us as — -
as — ah — well, I am sure father will find something foi
you to do at — ah — at a nominal salary until you — ah — '
rehabilitate yourself. In a word, I have come to save you
from the humiliating position you have — ah — fallen into
through your father's unfortunate — ah — failure. I — "

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 169

"Save your breath," the Kid cuts him off. "I am
perfectly content as I am !"

"Content!" gasps Augustus, throwin' up his hands
and rollin' his eyes to the ceilin'. "Gad, man — are you
insane? Kane Halliday a prize fighter! Think if this
should become public property — why, damn it, man,
you've got to stop this degrading thing ! You owe it
to your friends, your college, your — "

"Stop !" roars the Kid, his face whiter than the color
itself. "How dare you come here and patronize me,
you hound ! Your father and his gang of legalized cut
throats stripped me and mine to the bone — picked us
up, broke us in bits, and threw us away. Took advan
tage of friendship, trust, and what none but criminals
would call opportunity to ruin us, and you dare to offer
me an underling's job where I probably would be get
ting my weekly pittance from the money you wrung
from my own father ! I owe nothing to my friends — I
have no friends — they scurried away like the rats they
were from the sinking ship of my father's fortunes.
As to my college, it should be proud of me. At least,
it didn't turn out a quitter! I took my medicine and
I'm making good now on my own. It'll be a long climb
back, but I'll get there, Carrowsmith, and when I get
there I'll get you. Now go, or I'll further shock your
damned hypocritical dignity by throwing you out of
my room!"

Augustus gasped, give a shiver, and tried to malee
a dignified exit. He failed.

The Kid takes out a handkerchief and wipes his
hands carefully, though he hadn't touched this bird

170 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

at all. Then he glances at his watch and whistles.
"Hurry up and get into your evening clothes," he barks
at me, startin' the water in the bathtub and commencin'
to strip. "We're going up to the Savoy, where some
of the bunch who were in my class at Yale, and happen
to be here, are giving me a little dinner to celebrate my
approaching contest with the world's champion."

"Yale guys?" I says. "Why, what tha — why, I
thought all them old Elis was off you for life since
you become a leather pusher?"

"Why ?" inquires the Kid. "Because that little rotter
Carrowsmith came here and upbraided me ?" He curls
his lip. "Don't be an ass ! Carrowsmith no more
represents the real college spirit than a mongrel hound,
for instance, represents the spirit of the blooded dog."

"All right, all right," I cuts him off, "go ahead. I'm
glad to hear them babies is regular guys — but where
do / fit in this here party ?"

"Whither I goest, thou goest !" laughs the Kid. "As
my friend and manager, you'll be as welcome as I'll
be. Come on, snap into it — you have just about time
to shave."

"Nothin' stirrin' !" I says. "I belong at a Yale dinner
the same way I belong in the White House ! My gram
mar would never stand up under the strain of bein' al
lowed to roam wild among a lot of cuckoos with F. O.
B., B. A., I. E., and the like tacked after their names."

"Come on!" he grins, givin' me what he prob'ly
figured was a playful push and which flopped me on
top of the bed. "Don't be a crape hanger all your life.
These boys are regular fellows. I know you're going
to like them, and they're going to like you !"

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 171

And, gentle reader, such turned out to be the case.
They was half a dozen of them boola-boola birds on
hand, most of 'em sons of guys which has $160 for
every mongolian in Shanghai, and they all checked up
as aces. Anyways you want to look at it, a beaucoup
time was had by all with a real gang, and if by some
odd coincidence I ever get wed I will ship the plurality
of my children to the handiest college, if only for the
chance they'll get therein to be regular when they come
out!

How the so ever, we met somebody at this dinner
which come near costin' Kid Roberts his chance at the
world's heavyweight title, about a quarter of a million
bucks, and Dolores Brewster. This somebody was the
only scrapper in the world I conceded could put Kid
Roberts down for the long count. Could trim him with
out gettin' warmed up and could trim him to the
Queen's taste. Here was a battler which had took 'em
all on, regardless of weight, age, color or distance,
knocked 'em all kickin', and had never had a scrap that
was even close! They all turned into set-ups when
they went to the post with this battle-scarred veteran.
Why, to give you a idea of just how tough this baby is,
they won't even let him fight in America no more ! The
guy I have reference to is Jack Barleycorn.

Well, Kid Roberts never done nothin' by halves —
he never outpointed no guys, he knocked 'em cold — and
the next mornin' I catch him orderin' brandy and soda
from a bell hop, and he ain't been out of bed five min
utes. I give the bell hop the air, and when the Kid
banged out of the room a half hour later we was both
hoarse, and he had swore that his scrap at Monte Carlo

172 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

was his last under my management. Still in that humor,
he called on Miss Dolores Brewster and managed
to get himself in wrong with her. This released the
last brake the Kid had on himself, and when I fin'ly
dug him up at midnight in a extry swell Piccadilly
booze emporium he was buy in' for one and all, and if
W. J. Bryan had seen the shape he was in he'd of bust
out cryin'. A young army officer which had trailed
around with the Kid all night told me they had been
gave the raspberry at the Carlton when the Kid
climbed up on the bar, announced himself as the only
son of Old King Cole, and demanded that a covey of
fiddlers be sent to him at once.

Kid Roberts opens a watery eye about noon the next
day, drinks between four and twenty-one gallons of
ice water, and apologizes to the world at large. He
listens to my bawlin' out in silence whilst shavin', and
then he sit down and wrote about ninety telegrams to
Miss Dolores Brewster, sendin' one. They was no
answer, and fin'ly, by the via of the telephone, he found
out that Dolores and her dad had gone to Paris, leavin'
no word for him what the so ever.

From then on I had my hands full keepin' this big kid
within the bounds of reason and away from the festive
brew. I give him lectures which would of got me thirty
solid weeks on any Chautauqua circuit in the world, and
I endeavored to keep right on his back from the time
the alarm clock made good in the mornin' till we set
the thing at night. But there was times when he man
aged to slip away, and by the day we hit Monte Carlo,
with the battle less than a week off, constant cigarette

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 173

smokin' had ruined his wind, he was flabby and out of
condition, and he didn't give a trout's foot whether he
fought Gournet, the guy the English promoter had
picked to meet him, or not.

I knew that Dolores Brewster's father would be at
the ringside, because the old guy was a blown-in-the-
flask fight bug and had promised the Kid he would be
there, after seein' him flatten the English champ a few
weeks before. Whilst talkin' to us after that brawl
Senator Brewster had also let fall the information that
he always stopped at the Hotel Crillon when in the city
which added "oo-la-la" to our language. So, in a loud
and desperate voice I called on a woman for help for
the first time in my life. I sit down and wrote a long
letter to Miss Dolores Brewster, tellin' her that since her
and the Kid fell out he was goin' to Gehenna at a speed
which would make a nervous greyhound look like a
crippled snail. I explained just what he was doin', just
what was at stake, and that I was playin' her as my
last card. I also worked in the fact that unless Kid
Roberts pulled himself together at once, this French
battler would murder him, and the disgrace would bury
him, addin' that the Kid's future was in her hands and
that a mere note from her with a couple of "dears"
and a few mentions of the preposition "love" in it
would make everything Jake.

I mailed the above to the Hotel Crillon and give my
self up to the art of wishin'.

Well, I run a dead heat with Aladdin, and he had a
lamp. The day of the bout no less than Dolores Brews
ter breezed into Monte Carlo herself ! This was beyond

174 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

my wildest nightmares, and I was over to the hotel she
phoned me from in one runnin' jump. In the lobby I
bump into "Honest Joe" Hammond, which, with a
bunch of other globe-trotters in his line, is makin' book
on the fight.

"What about this muss?" he says, pullin' me aside
before I can duck him. "I'm layin' three to one Roberts
cops, but I'm gettin' a big play from some American and
English jobbies on this Gournet guy. It don't sound
reasonable. Are you levelin' with the Kid in this one?"

"We level in all of 'em!" I says. "You see what's
goin' on, and you know as much as I do. The Kid's
gone cuckoo and ain't trained a day — that's the low
down between you and me — but we have cooked nothin'
up. Would I be liable to lay down to this Frog with
a crack at the world's title in sight ? The Kid ain't in
condition, but — "

"I don't care if he's on crutches !" butts in "Honest
Joe." "If you're tryin', that's all I wanna know. So
far I'll go to the cleaners for sixty thousand men if Kid
Roberts don't ash home in front. So you can see !"

I reached in my pocket and handed him a roll of
fifteen one-thousand-buck notes, or "grands," as them
addicted to slang calls 'em.

"Bet this for me, Joe," I says, "at them 3 to 1 odds
you was talkin' about, and take 2 per cent of the loot
for your commission. How 'bout that?"

"Honest Joe" merely scribbled a receipt, gimme it,
grinned, and drifted away.

An hour later me and Miss Dolores Brewster is in
the world's famous casino where every time the
roulette wheel stops spinnin' somebody goes cuckoo

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 175

with either joy or grief. From all the reliable reports
we can get, Kid Roberts is in there somewheres — six
hours before he fights Monsieur Henri Gournet, heavy
weight champion of France !

I planted Dolores Brewster in a little loungin' room
off the big gamblin' saloon, whilst I shoved hithers and
yon through the mob lookin' for the Kid. On my
travels I pass to one side of a bird which looks terrible
familiar, and in a second I got him pegged as no less
than this Carrowsmith stiff which bawled the Kid out
in London for bein' a pug. Him and a couple of
French guys, all fairly well lit up, is chatterin' away and
I was all set to eavesdrop a bit when I see Dolores
makin' her way to the long roulette table in the middle
of the big room.

I was beside the Kid's future bride when she pushed
her way through the hysterical mob around the table
to the back of the Kid's chair. Even the wildest of
'em give way for Dolores after one look, and I heard
many's the gasp which the turn of the roulette wheel
had nothin' to do with! At the right of the Kid was a
bunch of hard-lookin' guys, leanin' almost on top of
him, apparently watchin' his play and makin' cracks to
each other in French. I didn't like the way they was
lookin' at the Kid and then at each other, but I didn't
get no chance to take that part of it up, because Do
lores leaned right over the Kid and whispered somethin'
in his ear.

For a instant he looked straight ahead with his eyes
starin' open and his jaw droppin' like he couldn't be-
.lieve his ears. Then he got slowly up, swung around,

176 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

and faced Dolores. There they stood lookin' at each
other, like that crowded, buzzin' room was a deserted
island and they had each discovered for the first time
that they was somebody else on it. I noticed this Car-
rowsmith guy and his two pals pushin' through the out
side fringe of the crowd, and the tough lookers which
had been hangin' around the Kid's chair also seemed
to be gettin' uncomfortably close. As I reached down
to grab some of the Kid's winnin's, which he seemed to
of lost all interest in, I remember feelin' a sudden chill.

Then comes the movie !

Dolores stepped back, motionin' for the Kid to fol
low, and in doin' so bumped squarely into Carrowsmith.
This bimbo made no attempt to get out of her way, but
stood there with one hand on her shoulder, grinnin'
somethin' in her ear. At the same minute the Kid seen
him for the first time, but the sneer of recognition was
wiped off his features when Dolores drawed back, her
skin flamin', and slapped Carrowsmith in the face. The
two guys with him, grabbin' her arms, begin to laugh,
and then, with a hoarse snarl, the Kid dove through
the mob sendin' 'em scatterin' right and left. The
roughnecks immediately closed in after him, and one
of 'em stuck out his foot but missed trippin' the Kid,
when a chair caught him square in the back of the neck
and closed his interest in the further proceedin's. I
swing a mean chair !

The Kid's first rush landed him in front of Carrow
smith and his two stewed allies, and they went down
so hard they was all cold sober when they hit the floor.
The Kid wheeled and swung Dolores up on the
roulette table, and. with his back to it, took the plunge

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 177

of the mob with his bare fists, pumpin' 'em back and
forth as regular as a steam riveter and with about the
same execution. Usin' what was left of a gilt chair
as a persuader, I worked my way to him, layin' about
me right merrily. I have been in some busy corners
in my time, but for fifteen minutes of action and thrills
the battle of Monte Carlo leads the league ! It is safe
to say that this gilded joint never staged nothin' like
this before and never will no more — this here world's
famous gamblin' palace, where when a guy ruins him
self they give him a gat and ask him will he kindly step
out in the garden before usin' it, so's not to muss up
the place and disturb the other players. But, then, they
never had no mob in there before like the Roberts-
Gournet fight brung there either ! Women begin to
faint and scream respectively and perfect strangers fell
to maulin' each other with a gusto. By the time the
dinky little coppers with their trick swords was
swarmin' into the place, the Kid and me, shieldin' Miss
Dolores Brewster between us, walloped our way out a
side door to the car I had brung her there in.

We dropped Miss Brewster a block from her hotel,
so's that if the law was awaitin' us she wouldn't be
mixed up in the thing. My idea, however, was that the
gendarmes, havin' got to the Casino a trifle late for the
big show, would have no idea who started the thing,
and Gournet's merry men wouldn't tip 'em off because
if we got pinched and couldn't fight they couldn't collect
their bets. I had it about right.

We got up to our room without no trouble, except
that we widened many a eye and caused a epidemic

178 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

of shoulder shruggin' among the inhabitants of the
lobby as we crossed to the — eh — lift (foreign stuff).
There is no question that we was a couple of tough-
lookin' babies ! Half of my suit was elsewhere. I
didn't have no hat and I was featurin' a rapidly closin'
left eye. The Kid looked like a new English copper
after his first night patrollin' a beat in Cork. Both his
hands was badly bruised and swollen, and in two or
three hours he was goin' to climb into the ring against
Monsieur Henri Gournet.

He never said a word from the time we left Miss
Brewster till we got safely in our room. Then he
walked up to the mirror and give himself a long once
over, lettin' forth a sigh that rattled the window shades.

"Cheer up, Kid," I says, slappin' him on a gory
shoulder. "We have qualified as union movie heroes
this afternoon! Look what we done — we bust up the
gamblin' hell, rescued the fair damsel, knocked the vil
lain for a row of ash cans, and to-night we — "

He throws off my arm and tears himself away from
the glass.

"Let me alone. I feel like a beast !" he snarls, rippin'
off what's left of his shirt and hurlin' it in a corner.
"That hound Carrowsmith was right," he adds. "I
have become degraded!" Whilst he's talkin' he jerks
out the bottom drawer of the bureau and slams it on
the floor. "Here," he growls, "have a porter come up
and clean out this mess !" The next minute he's in the
bathroom under the shower.

"This mess" was several bottles of hooch which had
been the Kid's travelin' companions for his brief tour
as Young King Cole. That was the first and last time

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 179

the Kid hit up the red-eye whilst I had him, and after
all he'd done he was entitled to one joy ride — hey?

We got down to the arena where the slaughter was
staged and into the ring about ten that night without
no trouble from the police. The crowd was no bigger
than the population of Nebraska, only more mixed, and
when they seen the Kid's somewhat battered appear
ance as he climbed shakily through the ropes there was
quite a shout went up. The French champ looked
twenty pounds heavier than the clean-muscled Kid, and
was covered with fur like a grizzly. I walked right
over to him and shoved through his handlers.

"Lafayette, we are here !" I remarks. "Them gun
men of yours failed to cook us this afternoon, and we
aim to square up with you in the next couple of rounds.
Don't try no tricks to-night, Frog, or — "

"Je ne comprends pas, monsieur!" he butts in.

"Try it and I'll murder you !" I says, and turns my
attention to the Kid.

He needed it. He was shaky and used up from the
afternoon's melee, disgusted with himself for lettin'
the beautiful Dolores see him in that rough and tumble,
and the hostile, foreign crowd was shootin' his nerves
to pieces. He wanted the thing over with, and he glared
across the ring at Henri Gournet till friend Henri be
gin lickin' his lips and turnin' his face the other way.

The French referee was as excited as a bride lookin'
up time-tables for her first honeymoon trip, and he
must of learned the English language from a ouija
board, because all he knowed was "Yes" and "No."
I hadn't the faintest idea of what his intructions was,
and the next minute the party is on.

180 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

It was easy to see before they had exchanged a half
dozen blows that the Kid carried the heavier guns, but
Gournet, like most of them foreign scrappers which
gets anywheres, was a boxer rather than a slugger. He
was satisfied to carry on the battle at long range and
outpoint his man, whereas and to wit the Kid wanted
to end it with a punch and took a dozen wallops without
seemin'ly tryin' to duck 'em in order to land one crusher.
He chased his man all over the ring, but the Frog was
clever and kept slidin' along the ropes, keepin' the Kid
off balance with a very sweet straight left that pecked
at the edges of the Kid's unhealed wounds of the after
noon and opened 'em up. The mob was yellin' for the
Frenchman to take a chance and stand up to the Kid,
but Gournet turned a deaf ear to their entreaties and
continued to back pedal, jab, and clinch whenever the
Kid shook him up. Kid Roberts was as wild as a in
furiated tiger and missed a dozen haymakers, each miss
makin' him wilder and all of which tickled the mob
silly. Toward the end of the round he fin'ly connected
with a savage right to the body and Gournet's grunt
could be distinctly heard in South Wales. His knees
sagged and he dove wildly into a clinch, but the Kid
shook him off with a grin and drove him against the
ropes with a left to the jaw, one inch too high or that
would of been the wind-up. Quick as a flash the Kid
was on top of him, suddenly cool and unhurried as he
measured him with a light left and prepared to smash
over the sleep producer. Gournet suddenly stuck a
feeble left in the Kid's face. They was no steam at all
behind the punch, yet the Kid staggered back, shook
his head from side to side, and then was short by a foot

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 181

with both hands right at the bell, which could hardly
be heard over the uproar which greeted the French
man's narrow escape.

The mob gave the Frog a ovation as he stumbled to
his corner, and his seconds jumped in to give him a
kiss ! The Kid slumped down heavily on his stool and
dug at his eyes with his gloves.

"You must have let some of that alcohol you rubbed
me with get into my eyes, you fool !" he growls at me.
"I can hardly see this fellow and they're smarting ter
ribly. Wash my eyes out, quick !"

I pushed back his head and examined the glims in
question. No wonder the Kid's judgment of distance
had been way off. They was red-rimmed and blood
shot, and I bet they was painful! I put handlers on
'em with sponges soaked in ice water, and then I looked
over to Gournet's corner — thinkin'. Bendin down fin'ly
I sniffed at the Kid's eyes and in two jumps I was in
the Frenchman's corner, divin' through his handlers
and grabbin' up his gloves before them babies knowed
what it was all about. One smell was ample.

That big stiff had soaked both his gloves in oil of
mustard !

New ? No ! That one had whiskers on it when the
one of puttin' lead in a glove was born. Can't be done !
Why not? Who examines a fighter's gloves once the
bout's under way ? Any old-time scrapper or his pilot
will grin with remembrance when he reads this. It's
pulled quite frequently in the tall timbers to this day.

Well, the referee had rushed over after me to see
what was the trouble and the coppers was havin' a
merry time tryin' to keep the interested attendance out

182 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

of the ring. I immediately claimed the fight on a foul,
and the English promoter, the referee, and Gournet's
manager pulled clocks on me and gimme five seconds
to get out of the ring. I danced around 'em, pointin'
to the Frog's gloves and then to my handlers workin'
over the Kid's eyes, but they was nothin' stirrin'. The
promoter yells that we won't get a nickel if we don't
fight, and he would also see that the authorities found
out who started the fracas at the Casino.

At this point "Honest Joe" Hammond sticks his head
under the ropes and begs me to go ahead and kill this
Frenchman, otherwise him and his pals would be hit
for more than seventy thousand bucks. In the midst
of the argument the bell rung for the second round,
and I hollered to the Kid to stay on his stool, at the
same time wavin' my handlers down and steppin' out
side the ropes myself so's this referee wouldn't dis
qualify us for me bein' in the ring. Gournet dances
out to the center, smilin' at his friends, and the referee
steps over to where Kid Roberts is still sittin' on his
stool, half blinded and crazy with pain. He gives my
boy one look and then, raisin' his arms, begins countin'
him out as he sit there. I plowed my way around the
mob to his corner, stood the perfectly legal count till
the referee reached "nine," and then shoved the Kid
flounderin' into the ring.

Instantly Gournet swung his right to the jaw, and the
Kid crashed to the mat, rolled over on his stomach,
and was up at eight, weavin' back and forth on his feet,
one glove to his eye and gropin' for the Frenchman
with the other like the blind man he was. The crowd
had gone stark crazy, and I chewed my lips till the hot

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 183

blood run down my chin at the sight of this boy, which
I'd brung within a foot of the world's championship,
bein' slaughtered in cold blood by this third-rate, foul-
fightin' Frog tramp. Again the Kid hit the mat from
a hurricane of lefts and rights to the head, and again
was on his feet before the fatal "ten," grabbin' the
Frenchman around the body and holdin' on for his life.
Wow ! You should of heard that crowd ! Gournet had
now gone cuckoo himself at the prospect of knockin'
out the wonderful Kid Roberts — a thing which never
entered his head when he entered the ring. He chopped
himself free and twice more floored Roberts, and I got
a couple of towels ready to hurl in, with my heart
busted into little pieces which seemed to clog up the
blood in my veins ! As I bunched up the towels, I
stuck my head up under the lower rope where the Kid
was on one knee at the count of "seven." His head
come slowly around and he looked at me.

"Stay down, Kid — we're through here!" I bellers
hoarsely, and raised my arm to throw in the rags and
save the boy from what looked like downright murder.

He shakes his head, and with a last look at me delib
erately winks!

He was raisin' himself to his other knee when "Hon
est Joe" tore the towels from my hand with what is
known as a round oath. Kid Roberts got to his feet,
stumbled around like a movie drunk, and started what
looked like a last despairin' swing at Gournet's jaw.
In his eagerness to get it over with, the Frenchman
slipped to his knees rushin' in, and the blow just grazed
his hair as he was goin' down. On the second the Kid
reaches over and helps him to his feet, though he nearly

184 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

fell on him doin' it. "J'en suis tres fache, mon ami!"
he pants with a crimson smile.

The Frenchman stops short with a look of absolute
surprise on his face which would of been comical if the
situation hadn't been what it was. The idea of this
poor battered boob, which could scarcely see and which
he had fouled from the go in, apologizin' for a plain
accident seemed to paralyze him for a second. He
faltered in his stride, unconsciously lowerin' his guard,
and in that same second the Kid suddenly straightened
up and crashed him face down on the gore-spattered
canvas with a right hook to the button of the jaw. He
never moved a muscle while the dazed referee counted
him out — fifteen seconds, accordin' to "Honest Joe"
Hammond's stop watch.

So that was that!

On the ways back to Paris I was busy balancin' our
cash, and the Kid was talkin' to "Honest Joe," which
seemed to have lost ten years of his age somewheres.

" — So when I found I couldn't see, with that oil of
mustard biting at my eyes," the Kid was sayin', "I real
ized that I was in for a severe beating — that Gournet
can hit ! — unless I met that fellow at his own game,
matched him trick for trick. Aside from the first
knockdown in the second round, I wasn't floored ! I
took those falls deliberately to clear my head, to think,
and incidentally to allow that stuff to evaporate from
my eyes. I decided then to try a little — ah — psychology.
I figured that a sudden, unexpected mental shock
would momentarily halt the Frenchman's wild lunges
— interrupt his thinking apparatus which was timing

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 185

his blows. So when he slipped I instantly seized that
second to act. I helped him up, you remember, and
apologized courteously and stood off, apparently wait
ing for him to recover his poise. That unexpected act
had the desired effect. Astonished, he hung fire and —
well, I knew if I ever landed a solid punch he was
whipped !"

"Ehheh," says Joe. "Well, that's fine — fine business.
But if I was you, boy, I wouldn't draw them finishes
so close hereafter !" He mops his brow with a hand
kerchief. "Did you not get up from that stool, they
would of took me down the line for about seventy
thousand fish! As it lays, I win twenty-eight thou
sand on the fight. I took ten thousand even from one
guy alone."

"Who was that hick?" I asks, from idle curiosity.

"It's a funny thing," says Joe. "This dumb-bell
didn't even see the quarrel. He was the guy which tried
to wreck the Casino to-day, y'know, and it seems he
got pinched. He gimme his card — " Joe searches his
vest and pulls out a pasteboard. "Here it is," he says.
"His name's Carrowsmith and — what are you guys
laughin' at?"

ROUND EIGHT
HE RAISED KANE

AMONGST the various gents which baffles the alms-
house by the via of boxin', there is one baby which is
seldom the hero of any prize-ring movies, plays, or
novels, yet this guy is as important to the box fighter
as his arms. I refer to the coatless, shirtless, hoarse,
and perspirin' custodian of the water bucket, sponge,
and towels, the Gunga Din of fistiana, i. e., the second
or "handler."

From the time the jovial David knocked the genial
Goliath for a goal, pugilistic history is dotted with the
names of famous seconds whose shrewdness, swift
thinkin', imagination, and remarkable knowledge of
ring craft has saved many's the totterin' champ from
a violent and sudden partin' with his title. Again,
poor advice at a critical minute from a excited
handler has sent scores of inexperienced young scrap
pers rushin' off their stools into a knockout, when
skillful instructions might of landed them home a
sensational winner. The next time you go to a pro
fessional aggravated assault and battery seance and get
sick of watchin' a couple of them tired business men
cuffin' each other, shift a eye over to their corners
and watch their handlers work. The ones which

1 86

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 187

jumps up and down beside the ropes, shuttin' off the
view of guys which has sent in from five to twenty
berries for a look, and keeps up a continued screechin'
of : "Go on, kid, knock him kickin' !" "Bring up the
left, you saphead ! Bring it up!" 'Kill the big tramp !"
and the etc., is as big a handicap to their man as tonsil
litis would be to Galli-Curci. When the fighter can
hear their bellers at all over the roar of the gore-
hungry mob, it irritates and confuses him, especially
when one of his seconds is yellin' for him to shoot
his left and another is bawlin' : "Send in 'at right!"

That type of second don't mean nothin' and is a
heavy liability to a scrapper. But the other kind,
these babies which has made the handlin' of fighters
a science, is worth their weight in rubies, and if paid
on the basis of their actual value durin' a tough bat
tle, would get half their man's share of the purse at
the least. You seldom see them birds hoppin' hithers
and yon and shriekin' their heads off whilst their man
is in there tryin'. You'll notice they crouch as close
to the ropes as the referee will let 'em and when
their boy gets puzzled and flicks his head to 'em for
advice, they got a intelligent answer to shout him,
some crafty move to recommend which usually gets
the dazed mauler out of a tough hole.

This gent earns his sugar in the rest between
rounds, not whilst his boy is mixin' it up and com
pelled to give his charmin' opponent his undivided at
tention. All durin' the round the big-league handler
glues his eyes on the fighters and his brain is workin'
faster than the pumpin' arms of the pantin' bruisers.
He picks out the most glarin' weaknesses of his boy

188 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

and also those of the other bozo ; he gets angles and
sees chances to cop quick that the battler can't see whilst
he's desperately tryin' to land his haymaker or keep
himself from kissin' the canvas. He dumps out his en
tire bag of tricks, collected in years of "bein' behind"
scrappers — champs and tramps. He pulls stuff that
just stops at bustin' what rules the game has and fre
quently even knocks over the traffic sign. For instance,
a beller about the other cuckoo's gloves bein' too light
and a demand that they be examined. He knows said
gloves are O. K., but if he can get away with it, the
ensuin' argument with the referee may hold up the
fight for even three minutes, enough to give his battered
scrapper a chance to recover. When his boy flops on
the stool at the end of a hectic frame, watch him pour
a continuous cool and unexcited stream of advice into
the kid's crimson ear as he bends over him and kneads
the quiverin' body muscles. Advice that's the result
of expert sizin' up of what's happened in the round
just fought : "Don't try to box with this guy, keep
sloughin' him all the way. Pound his heart, he don't
like 'em there !" or : "Keep this boob movin' ; don't
let him set — get me? Spar him off this frame. Make
him miss and tire him out. We'll knock him dead a
little while later. Don't slug with him till I tell you !"
and so forth, till the bell sounds and the kid steps out
again, freshened up, clear-headed and confident.

I said before that inexperienced seconds is a big
handicap to a box fighter. Yet Kid Roberts, licked to
a fare-thee-well, sprang from his stool and win a
world's championship solely on the account of the
two guys which was shakin' the towel in his corner

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 189

— two guys which had never before in their lives
handled a fighter and never did again. Let's go !

After we have bounced the French title holder at
Monte Carlo, all the other foreign leather pushers it
would have been worth our while to mingle with claimed
exemption. The Senator and his eye-soothin' daughter
havin' concluded their business abroad, i. e., havin' a
whale of a time, is ready to sail for America, and of
course the Kid immediately develops a terrible yearnin'
for his native heath. So the result was that we all
sailed for the Gem of the Ocean together. The Kid
and Dolores went into secret conferences on the novel
subject of love's young dream, which lasted till we
slid past Quarantine and me and the Senator become
familiar figures in the smokin' room, talkin' each other
silly on subjects from boxin' to bankin' and politics to
parcheesi.

Just before we tied up at the dock we all separated
so's to fool the ship-news reporters, which surrounded
the Senator whilst the camera boys was shootin' the
smilin' Dolores from all angles. Three feet away,
with his broad back to 'em, stood the Kid, and I kept
wonderin' how much the newspaper guys would give
to know that the best story they'd fell across in many's
the day was right under their noses. Dolores Brews-
ter, society bud, only daughter of millionaire Senator
Brewster of New York, engaged to Kid Roberts,
heavyweight championship challenger. Woof — Sweet
Mamma !

Then a reporter seen the Kid, and in a instant a
United States Senator was left flat on his back right

190 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

in the middle of lettin' forth a opinion on Russia or
somethin' equally as enthrallin', whilst the reporters
and camera men swooped down on the grinnin' Kid
and bombarded him with foolish questions. I stood
by beamin' and smirkin' like a mother watchin' her
boy wonder recitin' the twelve o'clock ride of Paul
Revere to the school board. Then come the jolt!

"Well, Kid," says a sharp-eyed little runt from
the "Evenin' Moan," "what are you gonna do about
Dynamite Jackson?"

"Prob'ly play him philately," I says, before the
Kid can answer. "Who the — eh — who's Dynamite
Johnson ?"

"Not Johnson," says the reporter. "Jackson —
Dynamite Jackson. He's a gentleman of color, and
the color ain't white ! Whilst you and your man-eater
has been frolickin' around Europe, this big dinge has
come up from nowheres and made a name for him
self around New York. He flattened Tiger Anderson,
Bull Kelly, Jim Sewell, and Young Scavelli in one
round the each, and he smacked Soldier Martin for
a row of shanties last night in just six frames !
Whitey Burns, which has the Arena Club in Newark
now, stands ready to -offer you $55,000 for your end,
win, lose, or draw for eight rounds, no decision. Why,
say, the mob which will turn out to see this — "

"That's all blah!" I cuts him off. "We never
fought no dinge, and we never will !"

"Now look here, fellah!" he snarls, shovin' his
sharp little face up to me "this nigger should have his
chance. If you duck him, I will personally roast your
man to a fare-thee-well, beginnin' with to-morrow's

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 191

paper. Every white man in this village and in hun
dreds of others which reads the papers, and has heard
of both Kid Roberts and Dynamite Jackson, is hopin'
you'll take this high-steppin' dinge and knock him
dead. I hope you kill him! But if you don't take
him on — "

"Just a moment!" butts in the Kid, which ain't
batted a eye durin' all of this. "I'm afraid you're ex
citing yourself unduly, old man. When I first went
into this game, I made up my mind that under no cir
cumstances would I ever step into a ring with a colored
man. Never mind my reasons — they're ethical and
my own. But your contention is absolutely right. A
real champion should bar no one, whether it be a con
test of brains or brawn! It is my place as challenger
to prove beyond a question of a doubt that I am of
championship caliber. Very well, I will meet this
negro, as far as I'm concerned — to-morrow night!"

Warn!

"Look here, you guys — " I hollers, whilst the re
porters is tryin' to mob the Kid and a little bimbo
as large as a chicken and with the same kind of a chest
is struttin' around and bellerin' about the undaunted
white race to a big fat grinnin' Senegambian porter,

«T »

"Shut up, Stupid!" grunts the reporter from the
"Evenin' Moan," "or I'll start a conspiracy to keep
your name out of the papers. The Kid's the guy I
should of talked to in the first place. How a real
fighter ever got tied up with a burglar like you is
past me ! This boy has got to where he is on sheer
courage and his own nut. The first time he takes

192 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

one syllable of advice from you, he'll become a
bum!"

Well, as the French says : "Kappa Delta Omega
Tau!" hey?

The Kid didn't fight Dynamite Jackson the next
night, but they did crawl through the ropes before
either ten or thirty-six thousand maniacs about two
weeks later. I'll say this Ethiopium was good ! For
three rounds he toyed with the cautious Roberts till
none of the crowd could speak above a whisper and
most of 'em wanted the Kid's life. In Round Four,
under my orders, the Kid took off the wraps and
murdered all the bugs with weak hearts by droppin'
Jackson twice. In Round Five they stalled some
more and drawed a hat and program shower from
the cuckoos in the gallery. The sixth innin' was a
wow ! They both come out to end it with a punch, and,
boy, it was pretty. Both could hit and both could
take it, and that's what happened. This dinge fought
like his life depended on every wallop, and right at
the bell he connected with a terrific smash to the body
that floored the Kid in his own corner. It took some
scientific work to bring him around, and when he
opened his eyes he pushed me away from the reddened
side I was anxiously kneadin'. His face was a pasty
gray.

"Don't rub that, you ass," he groans through set
teeth. "He's broken one of my ribs !"

0 sole mio!

1 motioned for the referee.

"If you stop this, I'll kill you!" snarls Roberts,

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 193

and he looked it as he sneers out at the ravin' crowd.
"Look at the damn beasts !" he grunts. "Listen to
them. The blood lust ! Look at that fellow's face."
He pushes my head around to lamp a fat, putty- faced
guy — collar gone, eyes poppin' from his head, and per
spiration pourin' off him in streams, who's mouthin' :

"The big bum's yellah; the nigger'll kill him!" over
and over like a chant. "And I have to perform for
that animal!" groans the Kid, writhin' in agony and
talkin' half to himself now. "Damn that nigger — is
this, then, the end after those two years of hell?
Keep that fool away from my side with his oil, I — "

The bell rung.

Dynamite Jackson would of won then and there if
he'd of known the damage he'd already done. But he
didn't, for the Kid was grinnin' at him coldly and
pokin' out his marvelous left. The dinge looked the
picture of confidence and swung his head for a wise
crack to his corner. I bet they've trained him out of
doin' that again! As his bullet head flicked aside,
Roberts whipped both arms over like twin snakes, and
— woof — how it must of hurt him to straighten up!
The left took Jackson on the chin, and as he sagged
forward the right — oh, that sweet right ! — thudded
home over the heart and, brother, no man — not Jack
son, not Samson — could of taken them two clean
smashes and remained upright.

The Kid never looked back at him, but staggered
over into my arms. Oh, sure, the rib was busted all
right, and I'd paged a medico when he left his stool.
We left Dynamite Jackson with the howlin' lunatics.
He was out half a hour, and we nearly got pinched.

194 THE LEATHER PUSHERS
So that was that.

The Kid's sensational win over Dynamite removed
the last barrier between us and the mill with the champ,
but that clout in the ribs gummed up the works a bit.
Some X-ray stills of the thing showed a nasty frac
ture, and the best bonesetter in New York claims it
would be suicide for the boy to enter a ring inside of
three months. However, I cheered up and made the
best of it, figurin' that the long rest would do the
Kid good, as I didn't want him drawn too fine from
too much work. Three months' lay-up would also ease
the strain on his nerves and give him a chance to put
on weight — not fat — for the champ, which scaled
around 215 ringside to the Kid's 195.

They was little hagglin' over signin' the articles,
three weeks later. Twenty-five rounds to a decision
was fin'ly agreed on as the distance, and I captured
the champ's goat early by remarkin' that two rounds
would be ample. The king of the heavyweights de
manded $125,000, win, lose, draw, or earthquake, and
Jimmy Brandt, the promoter, which had come prepared
to give him twice that and throw in Grant's Tomb if
necessary, kidded the big boob into fin'ly acceptin'
$110,000. When it come to dealin' with us, they was
even less bargainin'. Me and Brandt had got that all
set a week before, viz., $30,000 guarantee, $10,000
trainin' expenses, and 33 1-3 of the movie rights.
These last can be showed in Europe, South America,
and the like, and if the massacre goes long enough is
worth more than you think.

Well, after I have put up a ten-thousand-buck ap-

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 195

pearance forfeit, swore that Kid Roberts would box
no more till he met the champ, and agreed to start
trainin' on the scene of the battle a month before the
clash, the champ poses for some newspaper stills with
the Kid, and we're all set. Roberts dashed off to the
fair Dolores, figurin' her half dead from lonesome-
ness, as he hadn't seen her for about a hour, whilst I
spent a pleasant afternoon signin' movie and vaudeville
contracts for the Kid, to go into effect immediately after
the championship battle and to have a value of nothin'
unless the Kid finished exactly first in that fracas.
Then I grabbed a rattler for the wilds of Maine, where
me and my athlete was goin' to hunt and fish and fish
and hunt till a month before the big fight.

One of them Yale pals of the Kid's had nothin'
less than a shootin' box up there, and he wouldn't have
it no other way but that me and Roberts consider it
our home till we got ready to go into heavy trainin'.
So I went up ahead to get my hands on a couple of
guides and the etc., with the Kid due to join me in a
week.

Well, boys and girls, one fatal night I was sittin'
in a easy-chair before a roarin' log fire, enjoyin' the
art of smokin' and readin' "The Life of Napoleon,"
and thinkin' how many ways me and Napoleon was
like each other — and there comes a knockin' on my
chamber door, as Eddie Poe, the Raven, used to say.

The next minute I am enjoyin' all the delightful
sensations of havin' stopped one of the Kid's hooks
with my chin, as a result of havin' just read one of the
world's greatest short stories, i. e., a telegram. Here
it is :

196 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

Take next train New York Meet me Yale Club All
plans upset. ROBERTS.

Sweet Papa!

Well, I again had the sensations of feelin' like
Napoleon, only this time I felt like the well-known
army man must of felt durin' the last half of the ninth
at Waterloo. . . .

When I fin'ly get past the doorkeeper at the Yale
Club, the Kid is pacin' back and forth in the lobby and
the minute he flashed me he dragged me into a little
room at one side. His twitchin' lips showed me where
his nerves was.

"Now what the Gehenna's the — " I begins.

"Everything's the matter," he butts in, finishin' for
me. "Lower your voice, can't you? This is a gentle
men's club, not a gymnasium !" A yellow piece of paper
is shoved under my eyes. "Read that and weep !" he
says.

This one is a wireless, readin' thusly :

Arrive pier 49 North River Thursday noon Keep
-from newspapers Booked as R. H. Carson. . . J. A.

"Who's J. A. ?" I says, handin' it back.

The Kid bends over and hisses in my ear, like a vil
lain in the old-time gun operas which the movies killed
off: "J. A. is J. A. Halliday— my father!"

"Well, that's fine!" I remarks pleasantly. "I'll be
glad to meet the old gent. But what's this jam you're
in now?"

He swung around on me, and for a instant I thought
he was goin' to forget we was in a gentlemen's club
and not no gymnasium.

"You — you — you colossal ass!" he busts out fin'ly.

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 197

"And I thought you might help me. Gad, what a
mess!" he adds, slappin' the arms of his chair.

"Mess of what?" I says, torn between innocence
and stupidity.

"I am glad we're not alone," snarls the Kid, after a
long, bloodthirsty look, "or I'm sure I would assas
sinate you in cold blood ! It is more than two years
since I said good-by to my father. He left here proud
in the assurance that I would uphold the best traditions
of our family and make my name in the profession
I had chosen — engineering. In all our correspondence
I have avoided any reference to the fact that I am a
pugilist, and from the amount of money I've been
sending him he obviously thinks I'm a success, per
haps a nationally known authority on — "

"But the newspapers will be printin' — " I begins.

"Bosh !" says the Kid impatiently, "Kid Roberts will
mean nothing to him. Besides, I doubt if he ever
more than glances at a sporting page. He had writ
ten me three letters to the effect that he was coming
back and, lacking a forward address, they were all
held at the club here while we were in Europe. I just
got them when I dropped in yesterday. Why, in his
last letter he says he's coming to realize the culmina
tion of his greatest hope, or words to that effect. Can't
you see what that means? He's ready for his come
back ! And to think — oh, don't sit there looking at me
like a fool. Can't you suggest something?"

"Why not come clean with the old man and be done
with it, Kid?" I says, after a minute. "They's worse
things than bein' a leather pusher. You made a name
for yourself, you got a bank roll, and you're level.

198 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

Why, say, they's thousands of good citizens which can
reel off your ring record and measurements and don't
even know the plot of the Constitution!"

"You don't understand," says the Kid, patiently.
"Perhaps your philosophy is right, but it would be
useless to attempt to convert my father, and the caste
he represents, to it. He would simply consider that I
had dishonored the name of Halliday and that his own
son had made a mock of him. When he went on the
rocks through the perfidy of his most trusted friends
it broke his heart, but not his spirit. He took his gruel
like a gentleman and pinned his hopes in me. He is
not a young man, and this second shock might kill him.
Kane Halliday, prize fighter !" The Kid gives a
shiver. "Gad. I can see his face now !" He gets up
and takes a turn around the room.

"Look here," I says, gettin' up myself. "For two
years you've allowed your old man to think you was
a dude when it come to civilly engineerin'. Now, then,
whether you're a fighter or a plumber, the fact that
you ain't what you claimed to be is what's goin' to hit
the old man, ain't it? Sure! Therefore the thing
is to make it look like you was a beaucoup civil engi
neer till you win the title. Then you can come clean,
all will be forgiven, and no harm done ! Get me ?"

"But if—" says the Kid wildly.

"Shut up," I says. "This joint's a gentlemen's club
and not no gymnasium ! Now what we'll do is to hire
a office somewheres. I can fix that up with any one
of the Jersey promoters and we'll paint your name on
the door, plaster the place with maps and whatever a
civil engineer works with. Fine! You show that to

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 199

father and we got that all jake. When the time comes
to start trainin' for the big fight, you got a heavy job
on out of town, get me? Away we go. You knock
the champ for a row of milk cans, come back, show
the old man your movie and vaudeville contracts which
runs over $175,000 for next year; tell him why you
didn't confess all before, that you never fought under
your real name, anyways, so that part's all right, and
if he don't kiss and make up —

But the Kid is dancin' around and huggin' me till
the bell hops is wonderin' which one of them cheated
and sold him a pint.

"Enough, enough!" he cackles. "Good Lord, man,
give me credit for some imagination. That's my one
chance, an appeal to dad's sense of humor — and he
has one. Besides, your stunt probably isn't half as
despicable as it sounds. After all, it's for dad, even
if we are deceivin' him, and in the end I'll tell him the
whole business, of course."

"Say," I says, "I bet if your father ever seen you
mixin' it up he'd be yellin' his head off and become a
fight bug for life ! Them dignified guys is all alike.
I know a supreme court judge which got thro wed out
of a movie theatre for gettin' the hystericals over
Chaplin. C'mon, we got to work fast. Call up Miss
Brewster and the Senator and wise 'em up, so's they
don't innocently tip off your father that we're a couple
of first-class liars !"

Like wire walkin', this here proved easier said than
done. At the first blush, the delicious Dolores says
they is nothin' stirrin' on stallin' old man Halliday as
far as she is concerned; what kind of a person would

200 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

he think she was, etc., etc., and etc. Well, I devoted
my talents to the Senator which had once told me to
look him up any time he could do anything for me.
The proposition landed sock on his funny bone, and be
tween us we fin'ly captured Dolores. Dave Martin, a
Newark fight promoter, rents us his office for a spell
on the promise that we will box our first exhibition
at his club if we trim the champ. We take all the stills
of great and near great pugs off the walls and replace
'em with a entirely different kind of maps, blue prints,
and stacks of novels on the gift of civil engineerin'. A
gay young stenog is hired and put to work copyin'
off the City Directory, after we have with some dif
ficulty convinced her that we ain't crazy or that she
ain't bein' led into a trap. Then we get "Kane Halli-
day, Civil Engineer," painted on the door, the Kid
goes over to meet his dad, and I sit down in the office
and wish us both luck.

After a while the Kid reaches me via phone and
says father has arrove lookin' like two $500,000 bills,
and he is goin' to take him to dinner at the Ritz. Dave
Martin comes up later to get some papers from his safe
and says they will be a openin' pretty soon down in his
temporary office for a bright young stud-poker player,
so I fled the joint myself. Before leavin' I told the
dazed stenog to be sure and stay till 5 p. m., as I ex
pected President Wilson, Caruso, Ty Cobb, Eva Tan-
guay, and the Prince of Wales for a conference.

The followin' day Kid Roberts brings his male par
ent over to Newark. The big, upstandin', dignified old
boy was very sweet to me and I fell for him right
away. A close-up of him and you could see where the

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 201

Kid got not only his heft but his class. He looks
around the office approvin'ly, nods pleasantly to the
charmin' stenog which is typin' seven letters I have
dictated to myself, squats in a comfortable chair near
a window and there he camps all through one of the
most nerve-rackin' mornin's I have ever put in any
wheres !

They was a million pugs and their managers which
had to be shooed away and shut up without gettin'
the old guy suspicious. Fin'ly at noon we had a ex
cuse to go to lunch and the Kid seen that his dear old
dad didn't come back afterward.

At last comes the time when we have to start West
to begin trainin' for the big fight as per our contract.
The Kid tells the old man at a dinner up at the Sena
tor's palace one night that "business" will call him out
of town for about a month. He says that this job's
the biggest one he's undertaken yet and that if he puts
it through successfully he'll be fixed for life, all of
which is true. Then, he adds with a happy smile,
Dolores is goin' to be his sweet young bride.

"Provided," smiles Dolores, with a breath-takin'
blush, whilst the Senator and the Kid's old man is
slappin' each other on the back — "provided you give up
your present — ah — profession, Kane !"

The Kid begins to choke over his oysters, and his
old gent looks up kinda puzzled.

"And why, Miss Brewster?" he says. "Why should
Kane give up the profession of engineering? Surely
it is an honorable one and he's been tremendously suc
cessful at it, hasn't he?"

202 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

Warn ! Dolores win the celluloid fireman's hat, hey ?

She flames red to her shoulder blades, stalls for a
minute by takin' a drink of water, and then gamely
faces the Kid's father with a innocent smile. "Why —
why, I suppose you'll think me foolish, Mister Halli-
day," she stammers, fakin' it wonderfully. "But — er —
engineering will keep Kane away from home so much
that—"

It was the Kid's dad himself which come to her
rescue with a boomin' laugh and a wink to the Sena
tor, and that baby grabbed the chance to switch the
talk to the Japanese question. So that was all settled !

We caught a midnight rattler that night, leavin' the
Kid's old man with the Senator and Dolores where
he was to stay as their guest till we come back.

Late in the afternoon of the day Kid Roberts was
to go to the post for the world's heavyweight cham
pionship, I was walkin' down the main street of the
burg the battle was staged in on my ways to meet
Jimmy Brandt, which promoted the battle, for a final
conference. The town was loaded to the guards with
fight fans from all over the Land of the Free, and
every incomin' train was dumpin' off hundreds more,
which battled with each other to give the speculators
anywheres from a hundred berries up for seats within
telephone distance of the ring. They was not as much
profit for the speculators in this as you'd think, as the
boys was all workin' for the promoter on a straight
salary. The Kid was takin' a nap at our camp guarded
by no less than Dynamite Jackson, which I'd brung
on at beaucoup expense to work out with the Kid
durin' the last two weeks before the mill. The boy had

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 203

used up all the cheaper help long before. Passin' the
lobby of the hotel on my ways back, I'm edging through
the jam when out of a taxi piles a couple of guys which
has a familiar look. Their backs is to me, but yet
they's somethin' about the way one of 'em carries him
self that sets me thinkin': I know this guy, who is he?
And then as the bell hops run out for their suit cases,
this bird turns around and I catch a good square view
of his face.

Sweet Mamma — it was Kid Roberts' old man!

At the risk of 'em seein' me, I stopped dead not
three feet away and took a good long look. When the
other guy started up the steps, the thing was cinched.
He was Senator Brewster.

I staggered up against a convenient lamp post and
I'd of been there yet, I guess, if a copper hadn't come
along and nudged me with his stick. "Take 'at booze
away from here," he says. "They're watchin' me
pretty clost !"

Still in a trance, I sidled into a taxi and beat it for
the camp. Of course, I took it for granted that the
old boy had been out to see Kid Roberts and prob'ly
made a scene and the like, and I could imagine what
shape the Kid was in by now. Think of it, to have a
thing like this happen on the very brinks of a cham
pionship battle!

Dynamite Jackson is on guard outside the room
where the Kid's sleepin', just like I'd left him. He
greets me with a dazzlin', gold-toothed grin. "Can 'at
white boy fight like he kin sleep," remarks Dynamite,
noddin' to the door, "us handles a champeen by to
night !"

204 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

"You big black tramp!" I snarls. "What d'ye
mean by lettin' anybody in to see the Kid this after
noon? Didn't I tell you — "

"How come?" butts in Dynamite, losin' his grin.
"Ain't nobody been botherin' around heah, 'ceptin'
yo' ownseff. Like y'all demands, I been settin' heah
doin' a piece of readin', and they ain't been as much
as a strange breeze come through 'at doah !"

The "piece of readin' " Dynamite meant was a ac
count of his seven-round battle with Kid Roberts,
clipped from a New York paper. He'd haul that
clippin' out and grin over it fifty times a day.

Well, Dynamite convinced me that the Kid's old
man hadn't paid his party call yet and once again I
was able to resume breathin'. I never let the Kid
know they was a thing out of the way, though he
laughed his head off when I posted a guard at every
entrance to the camp and even barred the newspaper
bunch till we entered the ring that night.

The ring was pitched in a ball park, but it was sum
mer, and the air was just right. When we crawled
through the ropes and looked out over that roarin'
ocean of bobbin' faces, it seemed to me like everybody
in the world had turned out to see this scrap. Given
a guess, I'd of said they was twenty-eight million guys
there, but the official attendance was a scant 45,000.
The movie lights overhead made the ring stand out in
the surroundin' gloom as bright as a sunny day and
blinded us till we got used to it. The Kid was cool
and unsmilin', showin' nerves only by the shufflin' back
and forth of his feet as he sat on his stool after bowin'
to a two-minute ovation from the mob. He sat with

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 205

his eyes fastened on a spot on the floor and looked
neither to the right or left whilst Dynamite and Knock
out Burns rinsed his mouth and massaged him, and I
repeated my instructions. I told him to go after the
champ from the bell, carry in' the battle to him and
keepin' him movin' too fast to set. I don't know
whether he heard me or not. He kept mutterin'
thank God his father couldn't see the next five minutes.
I turned away my head and says nothin'.

A sudden, deafenin' din from the crowd told us
the champ was on his way down the aisle, and in a few
minutes he stepped through on the other side, waved a
bandaged paw at the frantic mob, and walked over to
our corner. I felt the Kid's muscles tense under my
hand, but he didn't move or look up. The champ
reaches down and examines the Kid's bandages, care
fully and deliberately, but failed to get a rise out of
him. I got one out of the champ, though.

' You can shake hands now if you want to," I says
to him. "It'll be the last chance! We want to come
out fightin' with the bell, O. K. ?"

He shrugged his shoulders, but he stopped grinnin'
at his friends and walked over to his corner after
that.

The introductions and posin' for the newspaper and
movie stills was soon over, and then with a final roar
the mob drawed its breath and settled back, the tele
graph instruments beatin' a steady tattoo. I just got
down under the ropes with the bell.

The Kid was across the ring like a panther and on
top of his man before the champ was clear of his

206 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

corner. They sparred cautiously for half a second,
and then the Kid was short with a right to the head,
the champ counterin' swiftly with a right and left to
the body that brought a yell from the mob and a
nervous grin from the Kid. The champ then tried
to end matters with a punch and swung a vicious right
for the jaw, but Roberts was gettin' cooler now and
easily blocked it, puttin* both hands to the face and
dancin' lightly away before the champ could set for a
return. The customers begin yellin' for action, and
the Kid obliged by drivin' the champ to the ropes with
a volley of lefts and rights to the head that made the
title holder dive into a clinch, where he hung on till the
crowd booed him and the referee must of broke his
arms tearin' 'em apart.

When they broke, the champ was bleedin' freely
from a cut over his right eye and the Kid immediately
made that the target for a beautiful left jab. The
champion was mad now and took all kinds of chances
to land a haymaker, but the Kid kept him off with his
left, occasionally rippin' in that terrible right to the
heart.

A second before the bell, however, the champ un
corked a right swing that landed flush on the Kid's
jaw. It drove Roberts hard against the ropes, and on
the rebound he fell into a wicked left to the body that
dropped him to his knees. The crowd stood up, yellin'
wildly, thinkin' the thing was over, but the Kid was
up at "five," bangin' away with both hands and drivin'
the astonished champ across the ring. The bell found
them clinched in a neutral corner and Roberts run to
his stool grinnin' and unmarked outside of a slight

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 207

swellin' on his jaw. The champ looked very tired, and
durin' the rest the odds switched from eight to rive,
with the champ favorite, to even money.

The champion come out for the second round to get
it over with, and after pumpin' three stiff lefts to the
face without a return, shifted his attack to the body,
which begin to show big red blotches over the Kid's
bum rib. Roberts fin'ly untracked himself and sent the
champ staggerin' back with a wicked right uppercut,
followin' that with a left to the mouth that showered
the champ's neck and shoulders with gore. The mob
kept up a continual din that must of been heard in
Egypt. Crazy with rage, the champ pumped in two
rights that looked pretty low, and the referee cautioned
him, but the Kid waved the official away and drove a
terrific right to the champ's ribs and nearly knocked
him through the ropes. It looked like the end, and the
Kid drove the mob into several higher degrees of in
sanity by crashin' the champ to the canvas with a per
fectly timed right hook to the jaw. He took "nine"
and was in a bad way when he floundered to his feet and
managed to clinch right in our corner.

Then come the most sensational thing I ever seen
at a prize fight — the thing the newspapers give more
space to than they did the fight ! The champ has his
back to me and the Kid is lookin' out at the crowd over
his shoulder, tryin' to work loose and finish his man.
Suddenly his face goes a dull white, and his eyes takes
on a wild stare. His arms slowly slides down the
champ's quiverin' back and he shivers, like they was a
sudden draft. I jumped on the stool and looked into
the crowd, followin' his own startled gaze, and I seen

208 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

his father, Dolores, and Senator Brewster sittin' in a
ring-side box !

Even the newspaper guys is excited now, and the
mob is jumpin' up and down yellin' "Fake!" when the
champ slides away, deliberately measures the hyp
notized Kid, and floors him with a right swing. The
round had fifteen seconds to go, and I could of cheer
fully murdered the Kid's old man then and there and
taken the "chair" with pleasure! Gypped out of a
world's championship ! Over the moanin' of Dynamite
Jackson I hear "nine!" from the referee and see the
Kid strugglin' to his feet, reelin' about like a guy full
of hooch. The sneerin' champ straightens him up with
a left jab and then drops him again with another
crashin' right. In the middle of the count which
would of surely been the wind-up, the blessed bell
rung.

We had to half carry the Kid to his chair, where he
slumped over in a heap, his head saggin' forward on
his neck like the same was broke. The referee walks
over, takes a look, and gazes at me inquirin'ly. Before
I can say anything, somebody grabs me by the shoulders
and shoves me to one side, I hear familiar voices and
see Senator Brewster and the Kid's old man, their
blazin' white shirt fronts spattered with blood and wa
ter from the sponge Dynamite is wavin' at 'em,
climbin' through the ropes. Like a flash, I sees a chance
in a million to cop, so I shoved the Kid's dumbfounded
handlers out of the ring. The old man is slappin' the
Kid's face to bring him to. The Senator has emptied
the water bucket over him and is now shovin' the am
monia bottle under his nose.

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 209

"Come on, son!" the old man's half shoutin', half
cryin'. "It was my fault, I should not have come here,
I know. But, oh, my boy, I wanted to see you win.
Come on, it's dad — can you hear me? It's dad, Kane
boy — go on and kill that fellow ! Son — son — wake
up!"

The Kid's glazed eyes began to clear, and he sees
his old man. Senator Brewster, a sight for the movies,
is rubbin' him with alcohol, and tears, get that, tears,
is streamin' down his face. The Kid shudders and be
gins straightenin' up. "Dad," he says, "I — "

"Don't talk !" pants the old man, rubbin' his wrists.
"I'll explain everything later. I want to see you a
champion! Come on, son — see, your color's coming
back now. Go out and win ! Remember in that Har
vard game when you were knocked out in the first few
minutes of play and insisted on staying and — oh, son,
come on — "

"Why, of course!" smiles the Kid, dazedly. "I
know this is all a nightmare, but even in a dream I can
whip this fellow ! I—

"You got eight seconds to get your man off
his stool !" grunts the referee. "Wanna throw it
up?"

"Ring the chimes," barks the Kid, "I'll be there!"
He turns to his old man : "Dad, I would never have lied
to you, but — "

"Who's them old guys?" says a newspaper bird to
another one which has left his telegraph operator and
is in our corner, drinkin' in every word.

"Well," says the other guy, grinnin', "I'll be on the
street with it first anyhow, so I don't mind tellin*

210 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

you. One of 'em's Senator Brewster of New York
and the other's old J. A. Halliday — Kid Roberts'
father — and they're handlin' him, that's all !"

"Wow !" yells the first guy, "I don't give a damn
who wins this scrap. Sweet Cookie — what a story!"

The bell clangs, and I shove the Senator and the
Kid's old man out of the ring just in time. The cham
pion's handlers is yellin' over the ropes to the referee
and pointin' to our corner, but he don't pay no atten
tion to 'em. The champ advanced smilin'ly, when a
human cyclone struck him in mid ring. It was the first
punch that he didn't expect that licked him, because the
Kid put everything he had left in that — a right swing
to the jaw that dumped the champ with a crash that
sent up showers of dust from underneath the padded
canvas. He pulled himself up by the ropes at "eight,"
shakin' his head to clear it and pawin' weakly at the
dancin' Kid in front of him.

"Take your time, Kid !" I bellered, and the boy
heard me over the roar of the crowd, for he nodded
and coolly measured the totterin' champ with a light
left before floorin' him again with a right to the but
ton. Again the champ floundered to his feet — they
called him yellah afterward, but I seen the fight ! — and
again the fast tirin' Kid dropped him, this time usin'
both hands for the job.

The champ got to his knees, slid back, and fin'ly got
up at "nine," and now the Kid stepped back and hol
lered to the beaten champ's seconds to throw in the
sponge and save their man from further punishment.
They hesitated and, with a dyin' effort, the champ

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 211

swung for the Kid's unprotected face, missed and
sprawled full length on the mat, face down.

As he started to drag himself to his feet, a pitiful
sight, the towel came hurtlin' into the ring from the
other side, and Kid Roberts was heavyweight cham
pion of the world !

The Kid's old man was talkin' behind the barred
doors of the dressin' room, whilst the mob pounded
outside.

"When I went to South America, son," he says, "I
arranged with the Pinkerton agency to keep tabs on
you. I knew the pitfalls and temptations that faced
you when — when I went bankrupt and was forced to
set you loose on your own. They've been sending me
press clippings about you almost since I went away —
why, Kane, the object of my trip here was to see you
win the championship ! When you did not immediately
enlighten me, I decided to let you think I was fooled
so that you could work out your problem in your own
way. I—"

"Then," gasps the Kid, "I've been writing to you
that — a — and you have known I was a prize fighter
since — "

"Since your first professional fight, son, two
years ago," smiles the old man, pattin' his shoulder.
"Ahem!" he says, his eyes twinklin', "J. A. Halliday,
father of the world's heavyweight champion — well,
that's something!"

ROUND NINE

LATELY you'll find a lot of women at prize fights.
Some of 'em covers their white faces with their hands
and devotes themselves to wishin' it was over, and some
of 'em stamps their feet on the floor as excited as the
hoarsely bellerin' stevedore on one side of 'em and the
wheezin' corporation lawyer on the other, and hollers
shrilly : "Knock him out ! Knock him out !"

I ain't got the slightest intention of gettin' mixed
up in no argument as to whether it's proper or no for
a member of the adjoinin' sex to be a part of the
yowlin', cussin' mob which watches one guy endeavor
to knock another one stiff for pennies. In the first
place, anything any Jane does is O. K. with me. In the
second place, I know nothin' what the so ever about the
girls except I am practically certain that if it wasn't
for them we'd all be throwin' coconuts at each other
in the tops of the trees to-day. But to get back to the
original subject, the bloodiest prize fight I ever seen
since I been pilotin' leather pushers was deliberately
staged by a woman, because she hated the game.
Sounds odd, hey? Well, listen!

After Kid Roberts, with me at the wheel, had win
the world's heavyweight title, we tell the ambitious

212

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 213

young men which is clamorin' for first punch at the
new monarch of the maulers that we have declared a
armistice for a year at the smallest as far as vulgar
fistycuffs is concerned. We have a movie agreement
which would make the charmin' Mrs. Fairbanks raise
her equally charmin' eyebrows and a circus contract
runnin' into as beautiful figures as Ziegfeld ever seen.
The circus portfolio comes first and calls for the ap
pearance of the Kid twice the day durin' a tour of the
country. He's down on the menu to punch the bag,
pull the weights, skip rope, shadow-box and step a
couple of frames with his sparrin' partners. The big
wow at the finish is a offer to take on any man, woman,
or child in the audience for three rounds.

At the time this round opens, Dolores had gone to
Washington with her father, which had been suddenly
called there as the Senate had decided to begin playin'
practical jokes on the President again. Me and Kid
Roberts with our kingly retinue was flittin' through the
train-stops-on-signal-only burgs, knockin' the natives
cold with our forty-minute demonstration that self-
defense is not only a plea, but a art.

It was at a one-night stand in Chickasha, Oklahoma,
that one Joe Kenny — the hero or villain of this yarn,
whichever you like — first took a runnin' jump and dove
into the spotlight. Followin' the "amazin'ly agile ac
robats" and the "extryordinarily educated elephants,"
the cheaper help was chased out of the arena, givin'
Kid Roberts the place to himself. In the middle one
of the three big circles a regulation ring was swiftly
throwed together before the eager eyes of the awed
customers, the tent lights was all dimmed, and a blindin'

214 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

calcium was throwed on said ring. Then a special an
nouncer begin a long debate with himself which was
mostly blah blah, and wound up with : ". . . and now,
ladees and gent-tel-men, I have the great pleasure of
intreeducin' to you one and all the most scientific,
polished, gamest, and hardest hittin' exponent of the
manly art of self-defense that the American prize ring
has ever preeduced [the cheerin' usually begin about
here] — the world's champeen heavyweight boxer, KID
ROBERTS !"

Whilst the band played "Dixie" on account of the
Kid bein' a born New Yorker, and the mob went hys
terical by a large majority, Roberts, caparisoned in a
dazzlin' dress suit, circled the arena twice standin' up
in the back of a auto liftin' his hat and bowin' this way
and that.

Followin' a exhibition of trainin' stunts which was
eat up by the natives, the Kid went two snappy rounds
apiece with his sparrin' partners, a good dinge heavy
correctly called Dynamite Jackson and Knockout Burns,
a tough old war horse. Then whilst the mob, which
has just seen enough to set 'em deleerious, is howlin'
their heads off, the announcer holds up both hands for
silence, grabs up his megaphone, and tells the world
that Kid Roberts will box three rounds with anybody
in the tent outside of the elephants, usin' ten-ounce
gloves, which is the same as pillows, to four-ounce
mitts for his darin' opponent. In his hand the an
nouncer waves a little pink slip of paper.

"Ladees and gent-tel-men!" he says. "It has been
the custom in the past, when champeens towered the
country takin' on all comers, to offer a reward of some

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 215

sum like a hundred dollars to any man which could
stand before the title holder for three or four rounds.
The results of this was that a lot of young and inex
perienced boys got their heads beat off and took crool
and unusual punishment try in' to stay on their feet
so's in the order to git that jack. I want to say to you,
one and all, this evenin', folks, that Kid Roberts is not
that kind of a champeen. He's beneath takin' the ad
vantage of his soopeerior strennth and skill. But on
the behalf of the management I hereby show you a
certeyfied check for five thousand dollars, which will
be presented to any man in this audience which can
knock Kid Roberts off his feet inside of three rounds!"

This always goaled the mob.

Naturally we had a couple of huskies planted in the
attendance which volunteered when the young men was
coy about takin' a chance of stoppin' the Kid's right
with their chin. But now and then that five-thousand-
buck offer caused some rustic which would of dove off
Washington's monument into a bucket of water for a
five-dollar note to come to the fore.

Such, gentle readers, was the case that night in
Chickasha.

The announcer had hardly finished when they is a
slight commotion in one of the back rows and a growin'
rumble of cheers from the crowd. Up the aisle comes
a human mountain which could prob'ly of gazed over
the top of Eiffel's Tower without standin' on his toes,
and who was likewise as delicate and sickly lookin' as
the Rock of Gibraltar. Under a mop of black hair, cut
high and round in the rear, his weather-beaten, sharply

216 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

cut features wasn't bad looking in a hick way. I'd
guess his age as thirty-five, too old by about fifteen
years to take up box fightin' as a trade. Boxin', boys
and girls, is strictly a young man's game.

"Woof !" grins Dynamite Jackson to the Kid. "Sure
is a tough baby comin' to visit us, boss. Looks like
to me you're gonna be compelled to smack 'at boy
down !"

It looked like to me, too, when this guy puts one
mighty paw on the top rope, vaults into the ring with
a thump that sent up clouds of dust from the canvas
and begins removin' his coat and collar. The mob is
with him to a man, and he's blushin' furiously, but
game, as he begins rollin' up his sleeves without givin'
the smilin' Kid as much as a look. Fin'ly he bends
down and ties up a loose shoe lace, takes a couple of
reefs in his belt, and faces us.

"Le's go!" he snarls at the Kid, and puts up his
hands.

Whilst the crowd is still shriekin' I grabbed this
dumb-bell's arm with both hands and explained to him
that whilst his spirit was O. K., his costume was a trifle
out of order for a boxin' bout, and that if he'd step
into the dressin' room with the handlers everything
would be jake. At this the man mountain balks. He
claims that nothin' in the wide, wide world will induce
him to remove his citizen's clothes and reveal his manly
form to the multitude in a brief pair of trunks, as he
is on hand to fight — not to go swimmin'. He's also
got a kick to register with the regard to wearin' gloves,
on the grounds that nobody could hurt each other with
their hands all cushioned up, and he sneerin'ly inquires

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 217

if the Kid is afraid of him. This cuckoo was a bit
rough, hey?

Well, we fin'ly talked him into strippin' to ring togs
after I have convinced him that Kid Roberts has showed
no signs of tryin' to sneak out of town since lookin'
him over, and that he'd be pleasantly surprised in a
few minutes at the damage it was possible to do with
a pair of boxin' gloves if they was properly applied.

The fifteen minutes or so which this bimbo devoted
to changin' his costume was nerve-rackin' on the crowd,
and by the time he stepped into the ring again they
was all ready to bite nails. A cheer which swayed the
tent poles greeted him when he throwed off the over
coat he had draped over his walkin' beam shoulders
and walked over to the corner selected for him. He
viewed the two circus attendants which was deputized
to handle him with open suspicion, and absolutely re
fused to sit down on the stool whilst waitin' for the
bell. Oh, this baby was rarin' to go !

"What's yer name, feller?" whispered the announcer
hoarsely, standin' beside him. "And whereabouts are
ya from?"

"Joe Kenney," says the hick in a voice as deep as
the center of the Atlantic. "My place is near Chick-
asha, and —

"That don't mean nothin'!" snorts the announcer,
straightenin' up and facin* the crowd. "Ladees and
gent-tel-men !" he roars, pointin' to the astonished
Joseph. "We have with us to-night Oklahoma's favor
ite son and one of this fair State's leadin' exponents of
the manly art, which has — ah — defeated some of the
best men in his class. He will now box Kid Roberts

218 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

three rounds and attempt to win the five-thousand-
dollar prize by knockin' the world's heavyweight cham-
peen off of his feet. Allow me to present to you, one
and all, Hurricane Kenney, the Chickasha Bone
Crusher !"

The mob howls with joy, and Joe Kenney 's eyes
stuck out of his head till you could of knock 'em off
with a cane when he hears the title which the announcer
had bestowed on him, the first time, as I found out later,
he had ever stepped into a ring ! Whilst our referee
is tellin' the Chickasha Bone Crusher that kickin', bitin',
jiu jitsu, or pullin' a knife will disqualify him, a scat-
term' beller of "Weights! Weights!" comes up from
the customers, and the announcer again whispers to
Joseph, then leans over the ropes.

"The weights!" he hollers. "The weights is: Kid
Roberts, one ninety-seven and a half; Huriicane Ken
ney, two hundred and twenty-six !"

"Wow !" shrieks the crowd. "Knock him out, Ken
ney, we're with ya !"

Then the bell rung. Kenney had evidently made up
his mind that he would qualify immediately for the
"Hurricane" label which had just been gave him, for
he charged across the ring at the Kid with a snarl like
a famished panther. For a man of his bulk he was
really surprisin'ly light on his feet, but the first wild
haymaker he let go was the tip off that Joe had never
before pushed his knuckles through a boxin' glove.
The Kid lazily blocked the punch and countered with
a straight left to the mouth that made Kenney say
how do you do and brung joyful yelps from the crowd.

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 219

The Chickasha Bone Crusher then uncorked a wicked
right swing to the body, which, although the Kid took
it on his elbow, drove him against the ropes and the
crowd crazy.

Kenney followed the Kid up, pinnin' him against a
ring post with his huge body, and suddenly slidin' one
arm around the champ's neck, he begin whalin' away
at the stomach with the other. The big tent fairly
quivered with the uproar now, half the mob booin'
Kenney and yellin' for the referee to break 'em, and
the other half screamin' for the Bone Crusher to knock
the Kid stiff. The pantin', excited, and red-faced ref
eree, both hands grabbin' the wagon tongue that passed
as Kenney 's arm, was actually swingin' off the floor
on it tryin' to unhook it from around the Kid's neck.
He might as well of tried to push over the Rocky
Mountain with one hand !

Roberts curled up and kept his head, makin' most of
Kenney's rib crackers glance off his arms, but some of
'em was gettin' through, and when they did, havin' 226
pounds of bone and muscle behind 'em — well, they
wasn't doin' the Kid any good. He kept choppin' at
Kenney's head and face with his right, but this baby
seemed to have a iron jaw, and, besides, they was too
close together for the Kid to put any snap in his blows.

Roberts looked at me over the human bear's shoulder
and shook his head, kinda puzzled.

"Down below, Kid !" I hollers. "Down below — work
on his heart !"

Still cool, the champ drops his head till it rests on
Kenney's heavin' chest. He sets himself for half a

220 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

second and then both arms begin pumpin' like pistons
into the Hurricane's body, left — right, left — right, left
— right, left — right! A minute of this and Kenney's
grunts with each blow could be plainly heard by guys
in the last row. The arm comes away from the Kid's
neck, and I see the back muscles quiverin' under the
rollin' skin.

Quick as startled lightnin' the Kid shifts his attack,
and a vicious right uppercut sent the Bone Crusher
back on his heels, pawin' at the breeze for support.
Roberts, however, refused to follow up his advantage
and put him away, but contented himself with left-
handin' his man all over the ring — never lettin' the be
wildered Kenney set for a solid punch.

The bell only seemed to irritate the Hurricane
further, and he took two free swings at the Kid after
the latter dropped his hands and started for his corner,
for which the mob gave him the razz.

When the indignant referee explained to him that
the gong meant cease firin', Kenney grinned sheepish
ly, walked over to the Kid and shook his hand, mum-
blin' somethin' about not knowin' the rules.

The Kid presents him with a pleasant smile and a pat
on the back, and as Joseph returns to his corner the
crowd give him a hand which would of tickled
Chaplin.

Durin' the rest I told the Kid that as this Kenney
person was about the foulest fighter I ever seen work,
he had better crack him and be done with it.

Roberts shakes his head and says he'll merely keep
him off and let it go at that.

"This fellow isn't deliberately foul," says the Kid.

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 221

"He's simply ignorant of the rules — that's all. I don't
believe he ever fought in a ring before in his life until
this minute. Besides, he's too tough and too game to
be stopped with a punch. I'd have to wear him down
with punishment first, and I'm not going to cut him
up. Let us alone, we're having a lot of fun !"

Kenney didn't land two solid wallops durin' the en
tire second round, though he must of throwed eight
million gloves in the general direction of the Kid's
jaw.

Long before the bell he was so blown and tired from
his own exertions that he lumbered around after the
dancin', smilin' Kid like a drunken elephant.

Roberts simply give the Hurricane and the crowd
a boxin' lesson, avoidin' Kenney's terrific clouts by
shiftin' his body aside a fraction of a inch or makin'
the Bone Crusher's well-meant efforts slide harmlessly
around his neck by rollin' his head this way and that,
whilst the customers squealed with glee. The gong
was a welcome sound to Monsieur Kenney, which
flopped heavily on his stool, blowin' like a school of
whales.

Round three was a duplicate of the other two, with
the slight exception that it only went a minute and a
half. Kenney was slow to leave his corner, and so
tired from chasin' the elusive Kid about the ring that
he could hardly raise his hairy arms. His stomach was
pumpin' in and out like a bellows.

The mob, quick to sense his condition, implored the
Kid to knock him for a goal, but Roberts had no such
idea. He straightened the Hurricane up with a couple
of stiff jabs to the face, and Kenney's knees sagged

222 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

as he fell over against the ropes, mouth open, gaspin',
and primed to be bounced.

The Kid stepped away from him to make him lead,
and as Kenney swung wildly with both hands to the
head, the champ slid inside the blows and planted a
short right hook to the jaw. I know Roberts pulled
the punch. There was hardly enough kick in it to
rock a man, and a few minutes earlier Kenney would
of brushed it off like a fly. But now it was all differ
ent ! Out of condition and exhausted by his own wild
swingin', the Bone Crusher toppled to his knees with
a crash that shook the ring.

He paid no attention to the referee's count — prob'ly
didn't know what it was all about — but turnin' his head
around he snarled somethin' at the cuckoo mob, which
was on its feet screamin' at him. Slowly and pain
fully Kenney pulled himself upright at the count of
"six," a thin, crimson stream tricklin' from one corner
of his mouth, where the Kid had prob'ly loosened a
tooth. He spread his tremblin* legs wide apart to brace
himself upright, and faced the Kid with danglin', use
less arms, his glarin' eyes the livest portion of his
tired body. Settin' his jaw, Kenney stares grimly into
the Kid's troubled features.

"Go ahead, old-timer," pants this twenty-nine carat
gamester, "they ain't nothin' to hinder yuh now !"

With the deleerious mob bellerin' for murder, show
me the champion or preliminary bum which wouldn't
of measured this guy and knocked him stiff!

But Kid Roberts drew back and looked sharply at
the beaten Hurricane for a instant, and then, as Ken
ney suddenly swayed on his feet, the Kid stepped for-

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 223

ward and caught him in his arms, easin' him gently
to the floor.

"Next !" bawls the announcer.

The mob is already jostlin' out of the exits.

We had to lay over in this burg till two o'clock the
next afternoon, and durin' breakfast in the Kid's pri
vate car we get to talkin' about Monsieur Hurricane
Kenney, the Chickasha Bone Crusher. I had person
ally gave that baby a lot of thought, for at the time I
was already keepin' a eye out for a possible successor
to Roberts, which couldn't be moved a inch from his
determination to quit the ring after a couple of fights
as champion, win, lose, or draw. The fact that the
Kid had disposed of Kenney with the greatest of ease
the night before didn't bother me at all — Kid Roberts
himself was a terrible bust in his first start.

Kenney had showed he possessed the first and most
important requirement of a fighter, viz. and to wit,
courage. Also, I had the Kid's word for it that he
could hit. As he stood now he didn't know the differ
ence between a left hook and the referee, but he could
be taught that, and likewise to hit from his bulgin'
shoulders instead of from his hips. Although he looked
ten years older, he had give his age as twenty-four,
another big help. Standin' a good three inches over
six foot, he scaled 226, of which perhaps fifteen pounds
was flabby and could be worked off, leavin' him a steel-
sinewed, giant fightin' machine with heart enough to
make him a serious problem in a twenty- four foot ring
for any man ! As a matter of fact, I figured that about
three months readyin' up and workin' out with my

224 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

champ would make Kenney ripe to wade through the
third-rate heavies as sensationally as the Kid did.

I put it up to Roberts, and he was enthusiastic.

"Bring him along, by all means," he nods. "He's
a good, game fellow and may develop into a first-class
heavyweight. At all events, he'll make a splendid spar
ring partner, for, in spite of his greenness, he's tough
and dangerous enough to keep me on my toes for a few
minutes at least. I admire the way he stood up to me,
and I'll take a great deal of interest in teaching him
what I can."

He takes out his wallet and removes a hundred-case
note. "Here," he adds, "that big fellow's poor showing
against a smaller man last night must have been rather
humiliating. I know how miserable I felt the first
time! Give him this — it'll cheer him up a bit. From
the desperate way he tried to put me out, the poor
devil probably needs it, unless I'm very much mis
taken."

He was very much mistaken! I ambled into a gen
eral store where they sold everything from potatoes to
pianos, and learned that Joseph Kenney could be found
on a cattle mine about two miles out of the metropolis.
The merchant prince which owns the store heartily rec
ommends his son as a scout, and a long, lean, lank
dumb-bell garbed like Wm. S. Hart, minus the artillerv,
quits killin' flies with the lash of a quirt and nods for
me to follow him out.

I was just goin' to inform him that ridin' horses
was one of the two or three things I ain't fluent at,
when he leads me over to a ancient, dilapidated flivver,
and motions me to enter therein.

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 225

"Wait a minute!" I says. "How much is it goin'
to set me back for this joy ride?"

"Twenty dollars !" answers my charmin' guide, auto
matically disqualify in' himself as a movie cowboy by
usin' two hands to roll a cigarette.

"I'll give you five," I says, pleasantly.

"Done," he says. "Git in and hoi' fast !"

Joe Kenney, nee the Chickasha Bone Crusher, was
discovered aboard a horse with some guys afoot which
was mendin' rails in a fence. He returned my greetin'
intact. A little mouse under his right eye and a slightly
puffed lip was the only visible signs of strife on
the man mountain's countenance. Realizin' how a
hundred bucks must appeal to a forty-dollar-the-month
cow-puncher, I drawed forth the bill and handed it to
him.

"A little present from Kid Roberts," I explains with
a bewitchin' smile. "Likewise, I have come to offer
you a chance to make as much in a week punchin' ears
as you'd make in a month punchin' steers ! Boss here,
is he?"

The world's largest cowboy looks the hundred-case
note over carefully, folds it up, and slips it in his pocket.

"Much obliged !" he says. "This here's the Crawlin'
S ranch. I own it, so I reckon I'm the boss!"

Anybody which has nothin' else to do can picture my
astonishment.

"Aheh," I says, when I recovered. "Of course, bein'
the wealthy owner of a steak farm instead of a lowly
cowboy, them — ah — hundred smackers I just give you
was unnecessary and — "

"That's all right," butts in the Bone Crusher.

226 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

''Every little bit helps ! Come up to the house and I'll
hear yore story."

"Eh — I hardly think it's worth while now," I says.
"I'm afraid my stuff wouldn't hit you at all — you bein'
a rich cattle king and the like. I come here with the
idea of gettin' you interested in the box-fightin'
industry, but "

"Well, pardner," interrupts Kenney, his eyes
gleamin'. "Yuh couldn't have throwed in with a more
interested man. As a matter of cold fact, yore talkin'
to the comin' heavyweight champeen of the world!"

This was all different and I followed him up to the
house without no more further ado.

A sweet-faced, brown-eyed, fairly good-lookin' young
woman is sittin' on the pazzaza wieldin' a mean darnin'
needle and exercisin' women's inalienable right to hum
to themselves whilst workin'. At the foot of her
rockin'-chair romped, as I rightly guessed, three little
Chickasha Bone Crushers.

The girl's face lit up like a cathedral when she seen
Kenney, and I discovered I had been mistaken when
I thought her fairly good-lookin'. She was beautiful.
This love thing is wonderful stuff, and I bet they'll
be a crash heard round the world when / fall into it !

Mention of the fact that I was manager of a prize
fighter killed off the welcomin' smile on the face of
Kenney 's wife, but the introductions was accomplished
without violence and we went on inside the house. The
Chickasha Bone Crusher dragged out a box of cigars,
a wink, and a bottle of prohibition antidote in that
order.

Then he sits down and stretches himself.

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 227

"Come a-shootin' !" he says.

I asked him if he was in the habit of drinkin' and
smokin' as trainin' exercises, and, frownin', he says he
was in the habit of doin' what he pleased, so I made
the greatest haste to remark that whilst it was none of
my business, he was ruinin' his wind with the smokes
and his nerves with the hooch and that most successful
scrappers laid off both.

With a grin, Kenney reaches lazily over and picks
up a unusually thick poker from the fireplace. Placin'
his hands about a foot apart on it, he bent it double
like I'd fold a sheet of paper. Then he bent it back
again and tossed it clatterin' on the floor.

I'd never seen the stunt done before with such little
effort. They was no veins standin' out like whipcords,
as the sayin' is, on Kenney's 20-inch neck, nor did
beads of perspiration drop off his brow. He done the
thing as carelessly as he'd break a matchstick. The
Bone Crusher didn't have to do that to show me his
muscle. A look at him and you'd believe he'd moved
Grant's Tomb six inches with his shoulders! But
strength alone, boys and girls, is not enough to become
a title holder in fistiana.

For the example, every good wrestler has had ambi
tions to become a boxin' champ at one time or another in
his career and a great many of 'em have laced on a pair
of gloves and stepped into a ring only to be made look
foolish by some third-rate pug. Even Frank Gotch,
the daddy of 'em all, once had this experience. Pro
fessional strong men, weight lifters, and the like are
flops as a rule when they turn to the ring. Their
sinews havin' been developed for show or pushin' and

228 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

haulin' purposes, they're so slow and muscle-bound that
the slighter boxer has no trouble at all steppin' around
'em and pastin' 'em pretty.

But to get back to the Bone Crusher. Inside of a half
hour I have found out that readin' about what heavy
weight champions got for a few minutes' work had
murdered Joe Kenney's interest in the art of raisin'
cows. Likewise, Joseph made no secret of the fact
that he figured himself a topside slugger, able to hold
his own with the best of 'em right now.

"Well, Joe," I says enthusiastically, when he got
finished, "I'm for you and so's Kid Roberts. Get your
hat on and we'll go down to a notary's public if they
is one in this burg. I'll sign you up for three years and
you can start workin' out with the Kid right away.
With me as your manager and the champ as your
teacher — why, say, inside of a year — "

"Draw in yore loop, old-timer!" butts in Joe, risin'
and handin' me my hat. "I don't need no manager, and
I ain't aimin' to take no job as a helper. I don't want
to take advantage of yore champeen by joinin' up with
his outfit, because I can lick the tar out of him right
now ! While yore here, I'm a-givin' yuh fair warnin' —
the next time I run across yore man, I'm comin' a-
sluggin' with both hands !"

A dumb-bell is a awful thing, hey?

The Kid and me split a laugh between us when I
told him how the Chickasha Bone Crusher had received
my generous offer. Then we forgot all about Mon
sieur Kenney.

The next stop was Tycopee, another duck-in and

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 229

duck-out hamlet, and when the Kid finishes his act and
calls for volunteers, Battlin' Thomas, one of the plants
we carried, starts up the aisle, as they is no response
from the brave men and true in the audience.

Half ways to the ring the Battler is pushed to one
side by a large, tall person wearin' a wide-brimmed
black Stetson.

Layin' one hand on the top rope, the stranger leaps
into the ring, waves his hand airily to the shoutin'
crowd, and presents me and the Kid with a sneerin',
full-toothed grin.

"Beats all how us boys do cross trails !" says Hurri
cane Kenney, the Chickasha Bone Crusher, throwin' his
coat over one of the posts. "I'd admire to draw down
them five thousand dollars. Whereabouts is them
gauntlets ?"

Twenty minutes later the Kid is shakin' hands with
a somewhat battered and slightly bleedin' human shock
absorber entitled Hurricane Kenney. One of Kenney's
glims is a study in purple, and a cut on his left cheek
bone shows the dashin' rancher to be possessed of red
blood anyways. Kid Roberts is sportin' several crim
son blotches on his gleamin' white body where some of
the Hurricane's wild haymakers has landed, but outside
of that is unharmed.

"Better luck next time, old man !" smiles the Kid as
we're leaving the ring.

"I'll knock yuh out the next time !" growls the jovial
Kenney.

We had a hundred-and-fifty-mile jump from this
slab, and a wicked rainstorm when we got there kept
most of the natives away. But it didn't keep Joe Ken-

230 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

ney away ! Joseph ambled up the aisle and took a front
seat whilst the Kid was givin' a exhibition of bag
punchin'. Seein' him, the Kid laughed and then nodded
pleasantly and Joe replied with a snarl that caused the
hicks on both sides of him to edge from him nervously.

A short time afterward Joe give the customers a
treat by crashin' through the ropes to the floor twice, in
his desperate efforts to knock Kid Roberts for a row of
ash cans. About the only time Kenney laid a glove
on the Kid was when they shook hands at the end of
the thing.

Well, for the next half dozen times the Chickasha
Bone Crusher was a regular feature of the show,
wherever they permitted boxin'. Kid Roberts, which
seemed to be gettin' a lot of giggles out of Kenney,
refused to knock him stiff and be done with it, although
he always had to slow up this big ham early with a
smash over the heart so's no accidents would happen.
Fin'ly we get to New Orleans, where we're due to
linger a week. Kenney fails to appear on the openin'
night, and I lay the Kid eight to five that the Bone
Crusher has decided to call it a day. He showed up
on the last night and the big stiff thereby costs me
eight hundred fish.

But before Kenney lumbered into the ring that eve
me and the Kid has a visitor in the shape of no less
than the Bone Crusher's charmin' young wife. She
has came all the ways from dear old Chickasha un
known to her bitter half, and if it wasn't for the cute
trick she had of scrunchin' up her little nose I doubt
if I would of knew her.

They was half moons under the honest brown eyes

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 231

and she's a bit pale and drawn. Sniffin' scornfully at
the bespangled, short-skirted ladies of the trapeze and
the etc., she made her way over to where we was
standin' on the lot. She'd seen me, of course, before,
but not the Kid, and she's standin' right in front of
him when she asks where she can find the champion.

Roberts has his hat off and is bowin' at her before
I can stall her and Mrs. Hurricane Kenney's eyes reg
isters surprise as they sweep the smilin' Kid from stem
to stern. No doubt she expected to see some cauli
flower-eared, red- faced, snaggled-toothed, hairy cave
man instead of this handsome young blond which looked
almost slight alongside of her gigantic helpmeet.

Although I kept both ears wide open and both eyes
glued on hers whilst she talked, I could find nothin'
suspicious about her story — told in a haltin', moist
voice which had the sympathetic Kid for her, and me
waverin' before she had said six words. It seemed
that Joe Kenney had now gone cuckoo on the subject
of box fightin', and his idea that he would be the next
world's heavyweight champion had been greatly
strengthened by the fact that the Kid hadn't flattened
him to date. So he has turned his ranch over to a
dumb-bell brother to run and, accordin' to Mrs. Ken
ney, said brother is runnin' it right into the ground.

At this point Mrs. Kenney resorts to the use of props.
She extracts a gram of lace from her pocketbook and
with a occasional touch of it to the eyes she says she
and the Bone Crusher was happy and everything was
jake till the circus and the Kid come to town. She
don't accuse the Kid in words of havin' gummed things
up, but she does it with her eyes, whilst she's half

232 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

sobbin' that she don't want her husband to be no
pugeylist and that him chasin' all over the country after
the circus is bustin' up her home. She claims if the
Kid don't send the wanderin' Bone Crusher back to
Chickasha, Kenney won't have no wife, ranch, or jack
left.

"It might sound funny to you, Mister Kid," she
winds up, with a quiverin' of lip that was sure fire on
Roberts. "But it's a tragedy to me !"

Well, the Kid spent the best part of fifteen minutes
tellin' her to go home and cheer up, leavin' everything
else to us.

He says if Hurricane Kenney shows up in this burg
he will have a long talk with him and do all he can to
lay him off the art of box fightin'. He also adds that
Kenney is the luckiest guy since Columbus to have
discovered a wife like she, which brings a healthy blush
and a pleasant smile to the rapidly brightenin' face of
Mrs. K. Then I crammed into her hands a lot of
balloons to be bio wed up and other souvenirs of the
circus for the kids, and we took her to the station in
the Kid's bus, so's the Bone Crusher wouldn't run
across her was he in our midst.

These frequent settos with the good-natured world's
champion wasn't makin' Kenney no worse, and he has
now advanced to the point where he's hittin' straight
from the shoulder and the Kid is extended to keep him
off without droppin' him this time. After the bout we
go into the dressin' room off the ring to interview Ken
ney as advertised to his wife. As a success, the inter
view was a failure.

Kid Roberts, with a brotherly air advises the Chick-

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 233

asha Bone Crusher to quit followin' us hithers and yon
and go back to his charmin' consort. He tells Kenney
what a tough game boxin' is, how he personally dislikes
it himself and that he's goin' to leave the ring flat on
its back in another year. Windin' up, the Kid pats the
Bone Crusher on the back and remarks that with his
wonderful family and prosperous ranch, Kenney 's a
sultan compared to the average prize fighter.

The Chickasha Bone Crusher, pullin' on his citizen's
clothes, has heard Kid Roberts through without a word
but with a sneer on his face which would of caused
anybody else in the world outside of the Kid to knock
him dead as he sat on the stool. Now, he looks up
from tyin' his shoes and one swollen lip curls to the
tip of his beak.

"Sho' is noble of yuh to look after me," he snarls,
"but yuh can't buck jump me thataway . I aims to stay
on yore back till I'm champeen, which same I'll be as
sure as my name's Joe Kenney! Reckon I'm gettin'
too rough for yuh, hey ? Come mighty near ropin' yuh
there for a minute to-night, didn't I? Yeh, and I
would have, only they rung the bell when they seen yuh
was hurt. Good thing I had them pillows on my hands
or I'd have sure mussed up that baby face of yourn,
pardner! I'd admire to take yuh on in a finish fight
with bare knuckles — without no bells and without that
cotton paddin' on my hands !" He give a nasty laugh.
"But I don't reckon yuh hanker for no manhandlin'.
Takes a fighter for that, not a boxer, hey?"

"You big — " I begins, but the hard glitter only stayed
a second in the Kid's eyes. He pulled me to the door.

"Kenney," he laughs shortly, "you're an insulting and

234 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

aggravating fool! For your information, let me say
that I could have knocked you out at any time you were
in the ring with me. I don't want deliberately to hurt
you, and evidently nothing but a thorough beating will
reach your asinine egotism. Well, I'm human, Ken-
ney — in the future, keep away from me !"

We didn't wait for the Bone Crusher's answer.

From New Orleans to Washington Kenney followed
the circus, but he had no more bouts with the Kid.
Instead in every town he publicly challenged my title
holder to a finish fight for the world's championship,
which got us beaucoup publicity gratis in the sticks.
In most of the big burgs the wise-crackin' newspaper
guys had the Bone Crusher pegged as a plant and
wouldn't give him a tumble. In Washington, however,
one of the sport writers fell for him and after a inter
view, printed under Kenney 's photo a two-column blah
of romantical hooch about him bein' a dashin' cowboy
from the ferocious West and the etc., and demandin'
that he be gave a crack at the title immediately.

Well, boys and girls, he got it !

The minute we blowed into the nation's capital, Kid
Roberts fled out to Senator Brewster's palace to pass
the time of day with his comin' bride, the delicious
Dolores. He cut his act down to twenty minutes that
night, leavin' the sparrin' out entirely, and I followed
him into the dressin' room to find his Jap valet layin'
out a dress suit and packin' a bathrobe, fightin' trunks,
and bandages into a grip. He grins at the expression
which must of been on my face.

"Just in time !" he says. "I was going to send Kogi
after you. I've got to be downtown by ten-fifteen —

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 235

see that the car's ready, will you, old man? I've prom
ised Dolores I'd box two rounds with some one at the
Red Cross benefit to-night. She's one of the patron
esses, you know, and it will be rather a feather in her
cap to have a world's champion there. They have a
big card of theatrical stars, movie people, and a lot of
prominent boxers. You know how these things are,
one has to help. I want you to handle me yourself —
this will be nothing, just an exhibition, and I'm afraid
Dynamite Jackson and Knockout Burns might scare
the ladies away !"

"Well — all right," I grumbled. "I guess they's no
harm in helpin' the Red Cross, Kid, but this here's kind
of sudden. I don't like these short-notice affairs. Who
you goin' to box and — "

Kid Roberts throws back his head and laughs.
"Hurricane Kenney, the Chickasha Bone Crusher !" he
chortles. "He's apparently impressed this sporting
writer who wrote that article about him, and I really
believe the pair of them think they're slipping one over
on me. Of course Kenney 's challenging me has smoked
the thing up so that — "

"Knock him dead the minute he puts up his hands,"
I butts in. "We'll get that baby all settled to
night!"

"I'm afraid I may have to stop him this time," says
the Kid grimly, shakin' his head. "The poor fool.
Well — come on !"

The last-minute announcement that Kid Roberts was
goin' to step two rounds with Hurricane Kenney, the
cowboy challenger for the championship, brought two-

236 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

thirds of Washington out to the big auditorium where
the Red Cross benefit was bein' had. By the time we
had shouldered our way through the mob down into the
basement where the men's dressin' room was, congress
men was out in the street fightin' with less known
millionaires for the privilege of payin' two hundred
bucks to stand up inside. We could plainly hear Ken-
ney's voice in the room opposite the one we took whilst
I was bandagin' the Kid's hands. I hadn't bothered to
lock the door, and suddenly it opens and closes gently
and when I glance quickly around at the Kid's startled
exclamation, I see no less than Mrs. Kenney is inside.
She's tremblin' like a shaken jelly and on the brinks of
weeps. Her cute little face is the color of cream, but
her eyes is feverish.

The Kid jumps up frownin'ly and throws a bath
robe around his shoulders.

"Forgive me — I — I — had to come !" pants Mrs.
Kenney in a chokin' whisper. "I — Joe has sold the
ranch and bet every penny we have in the world that
he will knock you out to-night!"

"Oh, the infernal ass!" gasps the Kid. "Good
Heavens, what a mess ! You poor girl !"

"Who did he bet with— quick !" I says. "Maybe I
can—"

"It's too late!" moans Mrs. Kenney, collapsin' into
a chair and hidin' her face in her hands. "I saw the
man — Big Bill Henderson, they call him — who's hold
ing the stakes. I told him everything, but it was no
use. He said he would not give Joe back the money
unless there wasn't any bout. There must not be a bout,
do you hear ?"

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 237

She jumps up off the chair and faces the Kid like
she was willin' to take him on herself !

"My dear girl," says the Kid, "I would do anything
in the world to help you, but if I refuse to meet your
husband now I — why — I'd be the laughing-stock of the
country ! The ridicule would prevent me from — "

"I don't want you to refuse to meet him !" interrupts
Mrs. Kenney, excitedly. "That wouldn't cure him.
Joe would still think he could whip you then and he'd
keep after you until you fought him ! You don't know
him like I do."

The Kid, pacin' up and down the room, has been
castin' nervous glances at the hall. Now he stops and
bends over her with a finger on his lip.

"Sssh !" he says in a low voice. "Mrs. Kenney, you
will have to leave my dressing room. I'll delay the bout
and try to think of some way out of this muddle for
you, but you must go immediately and be careful not
to be seen leaving here. You have been very indiscreet
in coming here at all ! Your husband is dressing in a
room across the corridor, and if he heard your voice —
found out you were in here — well, it is quite possible
with his quick temper that he might — eh — misinterpret
your visit. Please go at once."

Mrs. Kenney caught her breath in a half sob that
sent my Adam's apple bobbin' around like a cork in
the ocean, and the Kid's drawn face showed how
deeply he was moved. She looked so little and helpless
standin' there beside us two big stiffs that — oh, dammit,
you know ! I turned away, but out of the corner of my
eye I see her edgin' slowly for the door.

238 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

"If — if Joe couldn't appear — out there — the bets
would be off, wouldn't they?" she breathes.

I nodded.

Then — Sweet Mamma, listen !

The soft brown eyes turns hard and glitterin'. She
suddenly bangs the door shut, turns the key, and lets
out a ear-splittin' shriek! Almost on the instant it
seemed to me, a bull's beller boomed in the hall, the
door rattles, and — smash! Flounderin', sprawlin',
hysterically cursin', Joe Kenney crashed through the
crumbled door into the room.

Like the Kid, Kenney was in ring togs minus the
gloves, a roll of soft bandage still danglin' from one
hand. For a second he peered around the dressin'
room like a guy walkin' from the dark into a brilliantlly
lighted hall. His little, flamin' red eyes passed over
me on to his chalk-faced wife which stood silent against
the wall, her face turned away from the amazed stare
of the Kid.

I grabbed her arm and shook it, pointin' frantically
to Kenney — tryin' to show her by signs to say somethin',
explain the thing to her husband. For some reason, I
couldn't talk, though my lips worked enough! She
hung her head and said nothin'. With a roarin' curse,
the Bone Crusher got me by the waist and throwed me
the length of the room. I fell sprawlin' in a corner
and then, whilst the mob waited impatiently upstairs
for the world's champion and his cowboy challenger
to climb through the ropes for a two-round, gentle
manly sparrin' exhibition, they fought in the dressin'
room the bloodiest, most sensational battle that I, you,
or anybody else ever was privileged to see and they

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 239

went at it the way Kenney always wanted it — with bare
knuckles !

I can close my glims and see that scrap now as well
as if it come off last night. Boys and girls, it was sure
one for the book ! They was no ring, no padded mitts,
no referee to prevent foul fightin', no bell to call a brief
halt, no handlers to sponge off gore or close a ugly cut.

No yellin' crowd was poundin' their seats and eggin'
them babies on — they was nothin' but Kenney 's wife
sunk to her knees, her face buried in her arms at one
end of the room and me crouched half dazed in the
other, tryin' to keep cool and advise my battler, which
was absolutely fightin' for his life.

Over the busted door peered a half dozen scared
faces, but if they did or said anything, nobody noticed.

They was no stallin' this time, no pullin' wallops to
let Kenney stay. Kid Roberts was puttin' everything
he had into each punch, for the Chickasha Bone Crush
er had turned killer and twice had bent the Kid over
his giant's knee with both hands sunk in his white
throat. Each time the gaspin' Kid had wriggled free
and pounded Kenney 's face to a purple jelly before the
Bone Crusher bulled his way in close to grab the champ
around the body with one arm and pound his ribs with
the other. A wild swing caught Roberts fair on the
chin and he crashed against the opposite wall, his head
hittin' with a crack that wrung a scream from me. In
a flash, Kenney was on him, bangin' him back and forth
against the wall with little, sickenin' snarlin' grunts
like a wild animal over its kill.

Half cuckoo, I jumped to my feet and pawed at the

240 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

Bone Crusher's wet and strainin' back. "Fight fair —
you big yellah bum!" I shrieked, and it was the Kid,
with a tooth-barin' snarl that equaled Kenney's own,
which shoved me away with a free arm. Kenney,
havin' exhausted every foul means of fightin' — fair
enough to him, I guess, accordin' to the rules of what
brawls he'd been in — decided to butt the Kid and as he
lowered his head, Roberts straightened him up with a
terrific left and right, danced away from the wall and
broke the Bone Crusher's nose with a solid right smash.

The ensuin* gore covered them both, and I have no
doubt that by this time Kenney had went clean crazy,
for he grabbed at a chair and brung it down on the
Kid's shoulders, crashin' him to the floor. Had I a gat,
I would of cooked Monsieur Kenney then and there!
I done the best I could, by shovin' out a foot and trippin'
him as he rushed to give the prostrate Kid the boots.

They both got up at the same time and stood pantin',
facin' each other — a sight for a movie director. Ken
ney's face was a shapeless mass from which features
could only be picked by guess work.

The Kid, drenched with the Bone Crusher's gore,
looked almost as bad, and they was a expression on his
face I had seldom seen there when he was in a ring.
Forced into this mill, Roberts had took more punish
ment than he ever had before in his life, and his ability
to take it amazed even me. He'd been manhandled,
fouled and hurt, and, shakin' his blond head, he plunged
into Kenney like a lean, savage wolf against a ragin'
bear. For a full minute now they stood toe to toe
and slugged, and few wallops went wild, though none
had the steam behind them they had at first.

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 241

They'd both taken enough solid smashes to of licked
a dozen heavies !

A funny look of awed wonderment begin to spread
over Kenney's crimson map. Slowly he begin to give
ground, his one good eye blinkin' in fear and amaze
ment. Almost twice the size of the slender Kid, he
had give him everything he had — buried his fists to the
wrist in that corded steel body a dozen times and the
Kid was still there, givin' wallop for wallop. I for
got the fight almost in watchin' Kenney's face, and I
knew I read his thoughts correct, when without hardly
knowin' it, I bawled : "Now you know why he's champ
ion, you big tramp !"

I could of swore Kenney nodded. Anyhow, he begin
to back pedal desperately, and now the Kid was cool
and grinnin' for the first time since the murder started.
He feinted the Bone Crusher into a openin' and drove
through his right to the jaw. The groggy Kenney
swayed back and forth, both arms clumsily raised be
fore his battered face, and settin' himself, Kid Roberts
banged one of Kenney's own fists against his chin with
another torrid right. The man mountain toppled for
ward into a perfectly timed uppercut, seemed to hang
in the air a instant, and suddenly toppled over on his
back — knocked stiff!

Gaspin', the Kid stood over him glarin' down at the
lifeless hulk. He actually seemed sorry it was over !

Mrs. Kenney pulls the Bone Crusher's head into her
lap and, weepin' softly, is tryin' to wipe off the gore
with a one-inch handkerchief. The Kid bends down
to her, his own voice shakin'.

16

242 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

"Mrs. Kenney," he says, "this is a terrible thing —
but it had to be ! There was no way — "

"I'm glad he was whipped," butts in the remarkable
Mrs. Kenney, meetin' the Kid's eye. "Now maybe —
he'll — stay — home — with — me !"

Yet when Roberts reaches down to sponge Kenney's
face, she knocks his arm away.

"Let him alone!" she says fiercely and covers the
Bone Crusher's face with her arms. "Go away and
leave him with me. You've done enough !"

Girls is a bit odd, hey ?

A announcement is made to the mob that the Kid
Roberts-Hurricane Kenney bout is off — on account of
Kenney havin' hurt his arm in trainin'. So that was
that.

Being terrible tough, the Bone Crusher is in shape
to start back to dear old Chickasha with the Missus in
a hour. By usin' her nut, his charmin' wife has saved
him his dough, the humiliation of gettin' a proper
pastin' before the crowd, and likewise convinced him
that ranchin' is a better game than fightin'. The deep
est regret Kenney seemed to have when he come to
was that the only time his wife had ever seen him
fight was the holocaust just finished in which he run
second and he remarks half mournfully to Roberts :

"She must think I'm a hell of a fighter, now !"

The Kid shook his hand warmly and told him he
had gave him the hardest battle he'd had or ever
hoped to have in his life. Then he turns to Mrs.
Kenney.

"And now," he says, grimly, "perhaps you'll explain

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 243

to your husband just why you came to my dressing
room this evening — and screamed!"

At this the Bone Crusher, which seemed to have
forgot the cause of the muss, straightens up again and
growls, his grin freezin' into a scowl at the Kid.

"Why — of course," says Mrs. Kenney, brightly,
lookin' straight into the Kid's face and speakin' to her
husband. "I came down here looking for your dressing
room and — er — I — entered Mister Roberts's by mis
take. When I saw that I was in the wrong room it
gave me such a start that — / — I just — screamed from
— eh — fright — that was all! I would have explained
at once, but you began fighting and I had no
chance."

Woof!

"Oh — aheh — I see !" grins Kenney, with a sheepish
look at the Kid.

But the Kid ain't lookin' at him. Roberts is regardin'
Mrs. Kenney with open admiration. She gets a slow
crimson and turns her head. Kenney looks from one
to the other with a puzzled frown.

"Come on!" says the Kid to me. "I've got to do
some explaining myself. Throw my stuff in the grip
and we'll use Kenney's room to dress."

He went out and Kenney stands lookin' at his wife
for a minute. It struck me that he seemed half pleased
that she had drawed that glance from the champion,
though of course the poor boob didn't know what had
caused it.

"He's not a bad hombre," remarks the Bone Crusher,
"and he licked me fair enough — but he ain't fooled me
none with his slick talk. That feller was stuck on yuh,

244 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

Bess. I could see it in his eyes when he looked at yuh !
Guess I better get yuh home to the ranch, or I'll be
losin' yuh, eh? All the punchin' I'm goin' to do here
after, Bess, will be in connection with cows !"

Thus passed Joseph Kenney, the Chickasha Bone
Crusher. . . .

Some time very late that night Kid Roberts is tellin'
Miss Dolores Brewster, in a reception room off the ball
room at the Red Cross dance, that he got the bumps
on his face in a auto accident and that he don't feel
up to foxtrottin', but will call for her after the ball.

"Please let me explain, dear, why I didn't appear at
the benefit," he's sayin'. "The most sensational
thing—"

"I know all about it!" Dolores butts in, smilin'.
"Mrs. Kenney — that cowboy's wife, you know — found
out I was connected with the affair and came to me
this afternoon. Imagine the poor little thing coming
all the way from Oklahoma! She wanted to prevent
the bout — told me a most pathetic story. I'll tell you
about that later, but I gave her my word I would try
and stop you and her husband from entering the ring
to-night. I phoned all over town and couldn't find you
and I felt horrid. I wish you could have seen her,
Kane, she was so tragic! Well, I finally hit upon the
scheme of sending a wire to your dressing room warn
ing you not to enter the ring to-night, as the police
were going to stop the exhibition on the ground that
it was a prize fight. Wasn't I clever? That's what
prevented the bout, wasn't it ?"

"Yes!" I almost hollered, kickin' the Kid right in
the ankle.

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 245

The Kid is still chokin', when a page sticks his head
in the room.

"Telegram for Mister Roberts !" chants the boy.
"Telegram for Mister Roberts!"

Curtain !

ROUND TEN

WHEN KANE MET ABEL

THERE'S prob'ly no other competition in the world,
sportin' or otherwise, which draws a human gatherin'
as miscellaneous and interestin' as a prize-fight crowd.
Whilst waitin' for the gladiators to enter the bull pen
the next time you go to a mill, sit back and look around
at the customers, and you'll find every trade, art, gift,
science, business, profession, sex, and color represented
by one member at the least. Bankers and bricklayers,
doctors and dock hands, millionaires and mechanics,
accountants and actors, etc. and etc., jostle, kid, and
argue each other purple in the face over the merits of
their respective favorites.

To a guy which thinks the Human Race is easily as
excitin' as the one with the chariots in "Ben Hur,"
the crowd at a box fight is generally worth the price
of admission whether the bouts themselves is quiet
or riots. Taken as a mass, the fans is always with
the boy which is winnin' unless his charmin' vis and
vis is a large local favorite or a unusual glutton for
punishment. The bird which can hit like nitro
glycerine and the tough baby which adores chastise
ment is the twin gods of the mob. The remarkably
clever but light-tappin' boxer, flittin' about the ring

246

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 247

like one of them classical dancers to avoid the gruel,
and the faint-hearted or glass- jawed bimbo which
can't take it and dives into a clinch when shook up, is
the pair the gang wants assassinated, and them two
gets the raspberry from the minute they're introduced
to the attendance till they sneak or are carried from
the ring.

The quaint custom of givin' the raspberry to a un
popular boxer prob'ly originated at the ringside of
the One Round David-Knockout Goliath battle, which
terminated in Dave knockin' his heavier opponent's
head off and thereby becomin' one of the first world's
champion scrappers. For the benefit of them which
thinks of the raspberry merely as a fruit, I will ex
plain that in our set the term "raspberry" means a
continual uproar of violent, insultin', uncalled for,
vociferous vocal abuse. It's the nightmare of the
high-strung, inexperienced fighter, and, made nasty
and incessant enough, will shake the nerves of the
hardest boiled veteran. It's caused scores of green
kids to lose heart and go down to defeat before guys
they could of knocked stiff with the greatest of ease
on a vacant lot. When you have stopped a terrific
right cross with your features, and drag yourself up
off the canvas tryin' to peer through the crimson
cascade that's drenchin' 'em, it don't assist you a
particle to hear a few thousand maniacs callin' you a
big bum and implorin' the other guy to murder you !

With all its faults, however, the typical American
fight crowd is rarely anything more vicious than a gang
of noisy, overgrown kids out havin' some fun. As a
whole, it's extremely fair in its judgment. If it has

248 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

the human weakness of trailin' with the winner, it's
also quick to resent unfair tactics and will razz its local
favorite with as much enthusiasm as it will the visitin'
boxer at the first sign of foul fightin'. No matter how
slovenly a exhibition a novice may put up, or how
loudly the mob has jeered him whilst he was in there
tryin', he's sure of a warm and rousin' send-off when he
leaves the ring if he's showed heart enough to stand
up to his beatin' like a he-man. And with all its bed
lam of "Knock him kickin', kid!" "Go on, you big
dumb-bell, put him out !" etc., the gang is a soft-hearted
bunch underneath. A appeal for funds for any cause
in the wide, wide world made from the ring by the
hoarse- voiced announcer will bring a shower of dough
from all parts of the house without hesitation or ques
tion, as all our standard charities know.

You can make a inter estin' study of character by
lookin' over the different types around you durin' a
particularly excitin' scrap. There's the guys which
flinches mechanically with every thuddin' wallop that
lands on the battlers, and the ones which snarlin'ly
grits their teeth and shoves out their own jaw with
out hardly knowin' it when one of the fighters stops
one with his chin; the boys which goes cuckoo and
is hoarse for days afterward, and the cold-eyed babies
which don't bat a eye or let a peep out of 'em no
matter how thrillin' the thing gets. The blown-in-the-
flask fan, however, is the bird which gets as close to
the ring as his bank roll will take him, beams on one
and all, sits back with a sigh of undiluted joy and
bawls: "Go on, you tramps, git mad and knock each
other out. Less see somethin' fall!"

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 249

To this bozo anything short of a murder is a bum
fight. He craves blood and knockdowns, or his
money back. Cater in' to this type of guy's peculiar
and exactin' taste almost cost Kid Roberts the world's
heavyweight championship.

It seems to be a iron-bound rule in the modern
American prize ring that a new heavyweight champ
be allowed at least a year to stall in before defendin'
his title, durin' which time he can grab off slews of
sugar by appearin' on the stage and in the movies
without a single moan from the only guys in a position
to make him fight, to the i. e., the sport writers. Title
holders in every other class has got to go to the post
regularly every couple of months against a logical
contender, or be roasted a rich brown in the newspa
pers as "cheese champions," and the etc., but the
reignin' emperor of all the heavies is always apparently
typewriter proof.

In the case of Kid Roberts, how the so ever, they
was really no heavy in sight at the time he win the
the title which could of gave him as much as a brisk
workout. He'd flattened all the good ones on his way
to the top, and it was nearly a year later before we
signed to step twenty frames with Jack Enright, then
a sensational newcomer. This was the first of the
only two bouts the Kid ever fought as champion and
his next to final battle in the ring. Meanwhile, we
assassinated time by givin' exhibitions with the circus
I spoke of before and appearin' in a movie at Loose
Angeles, Califilmia, for more large gobs of jack. I'll
tell you about the Kid's last two brawls the next time

250 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

we get together — this evenin's talk will be devoted to
his one amazin' adventure as a movie hero.

Movie cameras shootin' at the ringside of a regu
lar prize fight, by the way, has never made no hit
with the battlers, though, of course, the sugar they
get therefrom has. The presence of the camera filtnin'
a man's every move has a tendency to make him want
to pose, and, caught off guard for a fatal second as a
result, he may be knocked stiff.

On the ways out to the State where all the good
little actors hope to go, the streets bein' paved with
gold and all the angels wavin' movie contracts, me
and the Kid is kept supplied with giggles by Knockout
Burns, a tough old war horse which I brung along to
keep the champion in condition. It was the first time
Knockout had ever rode in a Pullman where the
doors was on each end instead of the sides, and he
spent most of his time on the observation platform
markin' off the various slabs on his time-table as we
breezed through 'em, remarkin' that like as not the
engineer would hold a couple of these burgs out on
him if he didn't check them up. The first night he
crawled in to his upper berth he laid awake two hours
waitin' for a Chink to come along with the hop lay
out he figured went with it, and, not bein' able to
sleep, he spent the night heavin' the gallopin' domi
noes with the porters, winnin' $180 by daylight. In
the diner, when the waiter tells him his oysters is out
in the kitchen gettin' stewed, Knockout puts forty
grouches in good humor by askin' is they any objection
to him goin' out in the kitchen and gettin' stewed with
'em. Goin' through Arizona, the Kid remarks that

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 251

we're skirtin' the largest copper State, and Knockout
says he always thought the largest coppers come from
Ireland. And when we hissed through Yaggy, Kansas,
this dumb-bell claims that they ain't no place in the
world actually had a handle like that, but that's prob'ly
the name the town fights under.

This guy win the cement hairbrush, hey?

When we fin'ly docked at the Land of Flowers
and Sunshine, Sweet Mamma, how the rain was
comin' down ! We swum out to a taxi and Knockout
Burns points out the cloudburst to the guy at the
wheel, askin' him if this was a sample of the deli
cious climate which all the Calif ornians raves about
when they come East for a slummin' trip. The
chauffeur shakes six gallons of rain out of his hat
and looks up at the sky whilst the drops bounce off
his face. "Hump !" he remarks. "Darned if we ain't
havin' a high fog !"

Bloodshed was avoided by throwin' Knockout into
the back of the cab and slammin' the door.

But it was all different the followin' morn, and as
we rolled out to Hollywood in the beautiful warm sun
shine and the comely tourin' car the movie company
sent to the hotel after us, passin' through rows of shel-
terin' palms, bloomin' flowers, dumfounded tourists
which has never been nowheres, but which repeats over
and over : "I never seen nothin' like this in Europe !"
and dazzlin' movie queens which looks even better off
the screen — well, even the hard-boiled Knockout Burns
leans back in the cushions and gasps : "Say, this slab's
a dude of a burg, hey ?"

Fin'ly we get to the studio, and they is a good-sized

252 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

mob on hand to lamp the world's champion. As out
side the ring, Kid Roberts looked like anything in
the world but a prize fighter, half the witnesses pegged
Knockout Burns for the title holder, and this big bozo
stood up in the car and took eight bows before I
yanked him down in the seat. We hold a short re
ception, and then over comes a little guy entitled Cuth-
bert Van Dyke, whose name I hear is really Luther
O'Brien and who's knowed around the lot as "Joe."
He walks right up to Knockout Burns and grabs his
hand. "Well, well, well," he says. "This is certainly
a treat. So this is the famous Kid Roberts, eh ? Well,
well, well! How d'ye like California?"

"Fried !" says Knockout with a goofy grin. "What
time does Charlie Chaplin come to work?"

At this critical point, whilst the hysterics is at their
height and Van Dyke's face is redder than fifty cents'
worth of tomatoes, Kid Roberts steps into the breeches
and introduces us all around. Van Dyke turns out to
be the guy which is goin' to direct the Kid's movie,
and he seems dumfounded at the way the boy handles
the President's english, and likewise because the champ
looks and acts like he was more used to a dress suit
than fightin' trunks. Amongst the others which shares
our charmin' director's surprise is Nada Nice, which
is carded to be the Kid's leadin' lady in the forth-
comin' thriller. The fair Nada had evidently expected
to be at the loss how to put a world's champion prize
fighter at his ease, but before they talked ten minutes
Kid Roberts — late of Yale and Fifth Avenue — was
tryin' to make Nada feel comfortable.

They is not the slightest doubt that Nada Nice was

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 253

all her name suggested. Yes, boys and girls, Nada
was a pulse quickener of the first water, and it was
comical to watch Knockout Burns, lock jawed for once,
gazin' at her with his mouth as open as a Memphis
crap game and his eyes a foot from his head. The
beauteous damsel favored the battle-scarred Knockout
with a scornful quirk of a too red lip, and trained her
heavy guns on Kid Roberts, which never give her a
tumble, thereby allowin' Nada to enjoy a sensation she
prob'ly hadn't had since she was fourteen years old.
You see, the Kid was signed up for all of it with
Dolores, which could of spotted Venus five cans of
complexion cream and then made the noted model look
like a overworked dishwasher! If you owned the
Pacific Ocean, would you get a thrill out of gazin' upon
a glass of water? Well, that was the Kid's position
— get me?

How the so ever, in spite of the fact that Kid Rob
erts showed no indication of gettin' chills and fever
from watchin' Nada, I felt they was a bust comin'
before we got through elevatin' the deaf and dumb
drama. I knew Nada wouldn't be happy till the
handsome world's champion got lured into gettin'
personal so's she could bawl him out, and thus get
revenge for him askin' her what she thought of
Wagner's Rheingold and trappin' her into answerin'
that she had favored Budweiser before Keeley went
crazy and cured the entire country. Then again,
Knockout Burns was overboard over her and would
have to be disposed of, and I had caught Van Dyke
frownin' heartily at Nada every time she tried out a
grin on the Kid. On the top of all this, they was a

254 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

chance of Dolores Brewster herself comin' to Cali
fornia to spend the winter, and she was just broad-
minded enough to go up in the air sixty-four miles
the first time she seen the Kid and Nada clinched,
movie or no movie! So you can see that things was
set for a jam, and said jam was had, but it was a twist
which had never entered my dome which caused it.

Well, after we have decided to adjourn the mutual
admiration society, we trip over to Van Dyke's office
for the purposes of havin' the scenario of the Kid's
movie read at us. The picture is called "The Knock
out," and they is apparently everything in it but the
battle of Bunker Hill and the landin' of the Pilgrim
family. Action? You tell 'em, camera, I'm over
exposed ! Van Dyke and his merry men, includin' the
composer of the thing, seemed to think it a wow, but
Kid Roberts begin waggin' his head after the first few
seconds, and his lip begins to curl.

"What's the idea?" butts in the director on the
author's readin', speakin' to the Kid. "Don't it hit
you ?"

"A bit absurd, don't you think?" says the Kid
politely. "That — eh — throwing those fellows over the
cliff and—"

"Never mind, Kid," pipes up Knockout Burns, with
a wink at Nada, "what do you care ? It's all fun !"

"All fun!" howls Van Dyke, jumpin' up and glarin'
at him. "D'ye know that it's gonna set us back about
sixty thousand berries to shoot this? All fun, eh?
You try to clown this, you dumb-bell, and — "

"Burns, shut up !" orders Kid Roberts, smilin'. "Pay
no attention to him," he goes on, turnin' to the enraged

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 255

Van Dyke: "Go on and read the rest of this idiotic —
eh — this story. I'm anxious to hear the climax."

"Sure!" says Knockout Burns, waggin' a finger at
Van Dyke. "Quit holdin' out on us. I don't think
they's enough murders in it myself. In the, now,
Births of the Nation, they was — "

I clamped both hands over his mouth and, chokin'
back a howl, Van Dyke smoothes his hair, turns to the
Kid and continues.

"Now," he says, "here's the big wow! You're
fightin' the English champeen, and, as you remember
from what has gone before, your life, honor, and the
woman you love is at stake — see ? One of your seconds
has been bribed by the Secret Twelve to slip dope in
your water bottle — see? All right, now you come up
for the last round, suddenly dazed and groggy — see?
The crowd is goin' cuckoo — you get floored twice —
stagger around helplessly, about to be knocked cold —
see? Then Miss Nice appears in your corner — there's
a shot showin' her fightin' her way through the mob
down the aisle — see? As the Englishman is about to
knock you stiff, you see her — your face brightens up
— Warn! — you knock the Englishman through the
ropes — the Secret Twelve is beaten — the girl's father
is saved from the chair — you win her and the cham-
peenship of the world!"

Van Dyke stops, breathless, and Knockout Burns
stirs in his chair.

"And then what?" he says.

Four guys grabbed our charmin' director, but not
before he had throwed the telephone book at Knock
out's head. "Take 'at big stiff outa here, or I'll cook

256 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

him !" shrieks Van Dyke, reachin' for his back pocket
— and Knockout Burns breezed.

Bright and early the next mornin' — that is, the
mornin' was bright and we was early — we start shootin'
"Kid Roberts, Undisputed Champion Heavyweight
Boxer of the World, supported by a Super-Cast in the
Super-Production, THE KNOCKOUT. The Great
est Moving Picture Since Mona Lisa Disappeared!"

Both me and the fascinatin' Knockout Burns was
drafted for this frolic, prob'ly to keep us quiet. I
took off the exactin' role of a spectator in the big
fight scene. They hired a regular actor to play the
Kid's manager, on account of 'em havin' several im
portant scenes together. Can you imagine that, with
me right there in person? Knockout Burns was one
of the supers of the Super-Production. That day we
also had the pleasure of meetin' the assistant villain,
to the viz., the guy which the Kid was scheduled to
knock for a row of ash cans in the film brawl. Ac-
cordin' to the recipe for the movie, this bimbo was
merely a slight ingredient, but before we got through
he promoted himself to actin' chief scoundrel and
ruffian plenipotentiary.

Van Dyke comes over to us, plastered with grins.

"Well, we're certain lucky !" he says. "I got Young
Hamilton to play that fight scene with you, Kid. I
wanted a man who looks like a fighter — in fact, who
is a fighter — and yet has some intelligence — no offense,
Kid, no offense — and I got him!"

"If you wanted a guy which looks like a fighter and
is a fighter, what's the matter with me, hey?" says
Knockout Burns.

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 257

Van Dyke snorts.

"He's also got to look like a human bein' !" he
answers. Then he turns to us : "Of course you know
Young Hamilton?"

"I'm afraid not," says the Kid.

"I think I smacked a guy down in a round at
Butte last year by that name," remarks Knock
out.

"You never smacked this baby down!" says Van
Dyke. "Young Hamilton was amateur heavyweight
champ of the Coast for two years — up to last year,
in fact — when somebody picked him for a type in a
picture and since then he's done pretty well for him
self on the different lots. He's just finished a picture
with Stella Sweetish and I'm gonna sew him to a
contract when he gets through with yours. But the
point is Hamilton was never stopped as a amateur,
he's always in condition and he can give you a pretty
stiff argument for enough footage to make it look
good. And this here prize fight has got to look like
a fight, get me? Boxin' fans all over the country
are gonna flock to see this picture and you and me
knows that the rest of the filum will run for the end
book — what they're comin' to see is the heavyweight
champ action with gloves on in a ring! Unless this
fight knocks 'em off their seats right into the aisles,
they're gonna laugh me to death, and it won't do you
no good either, Kid. Well, I'm gonna drive them
cuckoo with this box fight you can bet your left lung
on that part of it! Fight scenes is my dish — I made
my reputation on 'em and I'm gonna goal 'em with this
one. Two weeks after I release this baby, they'll have

258 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

forgot whether Griffith makes movies or biscuits !
Now — wait a minute, here's Hamilton."

He calls across the lot and Monsieur Hamilton
steps away from some girls he was chattin' with and
strolls over.

I liked this bird at the go in and I know the Kid
did. Perhaps if it hadn't been for ravishin' Nada
Nice we might of all become pals. It only goes to
show how a good-looker can ball everything up, as
Adam was heard to mutter on the ways out of the
Garden of Eden.

Except for the telltale dent in his beak, Hamilton
looked no more like a pug than the Kid did — in fact,
they was much the same type. He was every bit as
big as Roberts, about the same age, and with all his
disarmin', white-toothed, kid grin he had a rugged
businesslike appearance. Hamilton looked genuinely
tickled to shake hands with the world's champion and
said so, and him and the Kid was gettin' along first-
class, with little Van Dyke rubbin' his hands together
and tellin' 'em to get used to each other, when along
come Nada. Without no preliminaries she hooks her
arm in Hamilton's, flashes him a dazzlin' smile, and,
completely ignorin' the rest of us, tells him to come
on and show her the breathin' exercises he was tellin'
her about. Hamilton gets a bit red, stammers a
apology, hesitates — and she drags him off, flickin'
a short, cold glance at the Kid. Van Dyke looks after
'em, frownin'.

"Eh — don't mind Nada, Kid, she's always that way,"
he says. "You know these stars — gotta humor 'em.

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 259

Eh — she's just like a baby — don't mean a thing wrong
by that — eh — maybe a bit peeved over — well, I gotta
run along. Be in callin' distance !"

And he beats it.

Right away I get a chill. I was wishin' Miss Dolores
Brewster was in Loose Angeles, believe me !

Knockout Burns clears his throat.

"This Hamilton guy," he snarls. "Where does he
rate that stuff? Amateur champ, hey? Well, there's
one bozo I can take and I'm tellin' North America
that me and that bird will go to the post before we
knock off work here! Where does he fit to grab off
that Jane, hey? "

Poor Knockout Burns. The only guy which didn't
figure at all !

Still lookin' after Hamilton and Nada, the Kid has
a odd, half smile on his face.

"It must be that this Nada person thinks you don't
like her, Kid, hey?" I remarks uneasily.

"No," says the Kid, suddenly showin' astonishin'
shrewdness. "It's because she thinks I do!" Then
he laughs and speaks kinda to himself : "This will
amuse Dolores — Lord, I'll have a book to write her
to-night !"

I guess he was safe, hey?

Well, boys and girls, I got to admit that, as a movie
star, Kid Roberts was a wonderful box fighter! The
boy screened as well as Mary Pickford's husband, but
he was no actor and that was that. This make-believe
stuff hit him as bein' the height of ridiculous, and he'd
come in for his rub-down after a tough day before

260 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

the camera, cussin' me for signin' him up as a
matinee idol and remarkin' that never before in his
life had he felt like such a darn fool. They
had a terrible time gettin' him to use make-up, and
when Nada Nice first throwed her soft arms around
his manly neck, as per the scenario, you could see the
glow from the Kid's face in Brazil. This brung a
sneer from Nada and a involuntary giggle from Hamil
ton — his first mistake.

But it was in the fight-scene rehearsals that Kid
Roberts showed he was not born for the movies. The
champ had never stalled in his life and he couldn't
stall now — that is, he couldn't pull the wallops he
sent at Hamilton or flop to the mat as if he'd been
floored with a punch and make either of 'em look like
the real thing. He was no faker, and of course he
was careful not to hurt Hamilton, with the result that
many's the foot of film was throwed away on bouts
which wouldn't of give a fight fan any more thrill
than you give a ex-manicurist when you ask her can
you hold her hand. Van Dyke tore his hair and raved
all over the lot, but they was nothin' stirrin'. The
Kid wouldn't take advantage of Hamilton and tear
into him for real and he wasn't enough of a actor to
fake the thing well, so, as the French remarks, what
would you ?

Right here I would like to say that this Monsieur
Hamilton was far from a set-up for any man. Big,
rugged, fast, in perfect condition, and a two-handed
puncher, he looked capable of extendin' the Kid in
any kind of a fight. As far as that part of it goes,
they's plenty of husky, clever guys, which never

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 261

fought for pennies in their lives but could make
things interestin' if they had to for any of our
champs from fly-weight to heavy — as many's the pro
fessional leather pusher has found out !

One mornin' Kid Roberts and Young Hamilton is
rehearsin' this fight scene with Van Dyke dancin'
around 'em bellerin' for action and screamin' that
they're mixin' it like a pair of room-mates, when sud
denly the little director stops in disgust and calls it
off for the day. / thought the boys was goin' un
usually good, but Van Dyke wanted a murder. As the
Kid passes me on the ways to the shower, I notice a
small lump on his right cheek bone and, in some sur
prise, I remarked on it.

"This fellow is tough!" grins the Kid, noddin' over
his shoulder at Hamilton. Van Dyke grabs his arm.

"Look here!" he says, lowerin' his voice. "There's
no use of us wastin' time and money rehearsin' this
thing any longer. I'm gonna shoot the fight scene
in a couple of days, and when I give you the office
/ want you to knock Hamilton stiff — get me? No
fakin' this time, understand; let him have it! It ain't
gonna kill him and he's gettin' well paid for it. I'll
get a coupla good shots out of the thing, anyways!"

The Kid shakes the hand off his arm and regards
him coldly.

"You're a poor judge of type, Van Dyke," he says.
"Of course, I will do nothing of the sort !"

Van Dyke give a short, nasty little laugh as the
Kid passes on.

"Nevertheless," he says, presentin' me with a funny
look. "Nevertheless, he's gonna knock Hamilton out !"

262 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

At this interestin' point Knockout Burns come
slouchin' up with a old sweater throwed over his
shoulders, ready for his daily workout with the Kid.
He sees Hamilton, also in ring togs, talkin' to Nada
Nice, which same is lookin' up into the big fellow's
face like it was the Garden of the Gods and she was
gettin' her first flash at it. Knockout growls and his
thick upper lip draws away from the snaggled teeth
underneath.

"Look at the big goof," he sneers, talkin' to me,
but purposely raisin' his voice. "Always posin' in
front of some skirt! I wisht they'd let me step a
couple of frames with that bozo — you can tell Russia
/ wouldn't hold him up like the Kid does. Maybe I
ain't no world's champion or the like, but I'm cham
pion of that guy, anyways !"

A couple of birds looked around curiously and a
camera man laughed. I seen Nada's eyes sparkle as
Hamilton stared at Knockout Burns and then back at
her. He forced a smile and just for a instant a look
flashed in Nada's eyes — the look that is a woman's way
of callin' you whatever particular name makes you
want to kill ! Hamilton walks over to Knockout Burns
and deliberately looks him up and down.

"Ah — like to — ah — warm up a bit, while you're
waitin' for your — ah — master ?" he says, coolly enough.

Knockout Burns tore the sweater off his shoulders
with one snatch, licked his lips, and says "Aaaaah!"
with the relish of a rummy downin' a suddenly dis
covered shot of bonded hooch.

Right then I went off Nada Nice for life! For
from that minute this Young Hamilton, which both me

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 263

and the Kid was beginnin' to like, was changed from
a good guy to a nasty, grand-stand play in', insultin'
fathead which wasn't cured till — but wait !

Into the ring where a little while before Kid Roberts
and Hamilton had been rehearsin' their phony fight
climbs Nada's boy friend and Knockout Burns. Car
penters, camera men, supers, electricians, and what not
dropped what ever they was doin', of course, and
crowded around 'em, and they was plenty more come
a runnin' from all parts of the lot. Nada, how the so
ever, took the air.

Well, I figured here was a good opportunity to see
what Hamilton really had and just how much of a
chance the Kid was takin' with him. Knockout Burns
was a tough old battle-scarred veteran of hundreds of
gory melees. He packed a wicked right and had
stopped a lot of good men before Kid Roberts cut
him short with a one-round knockout on the champ's
way to the top. I decided I'd stop the bout the first
time Hamilton looked in trouble, as I didn't want the
young man punished by anybody connected with us.
With that in mind, I hopped over the ropes and asked
'em both if they was any objection to me refereein'.
Knockout laughed, and Hamilton, after a glance at
me which was very brief but likewise very penetratin',
shrugs his shoulders and says it was O. K. with
him.

Van Dyke, chargin' into the ring with a gang of
huskies, stopped the fight in the second round whilst
I was tollin' off the fatal seconds over a dazed and
battered heavyweight, which, restin' on one knee,

264 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

was waitin' to hear "nine" before resumin' a hope
less argument. The heavy's name was Knockout
Burns.

Boys and girls, you ain't no more surprised than I
was. Any doubts I had with the regard to Young
Hamilton's ability as a box fighter vanished in the
first round of that short brawl. The ex-amateur champ
made a monkey out of Burns — made this tough bird
look absolutely silly. He glided around the enraged
Knockout, pepperin' him with stingin' rights and lefts,
bringin' him up gaspin' with vicious smashes to the
heart and wind, feintin' him into futile knots, pickin'
off his well-meant returns whilst they was still in the
air, and then, goin' out to finish his man in the second
round, he floored him twice before Van Dyke stopped
it. Half a dozen guys was required to hold Burns,
which raved, cussed, and begged to have the bout go
on. He bellered that he wasn't hurt, that he was just
gettin' warmed up, and that he always looked bad in
the first couple of rounds on account of not bein' a
boxer, but a slugger — all of which was true. But Van
Dyke waved him away, threatenin' to bar him from
the lot if he didn't get off the scene. However, when
I caught the little director's eye, he looked to me to be
tickled silly.

Kid Roberts was very sore when he heard about
this muss and bawled out Knockout Burns to a fare-
thee-well, promisin' to can him if he started anything
with anybody else whilst we was there. Then the Kid
apologized to Hamilton for Knockout's runnin' amuck,
and Hamilton, no longer the laughin', good-natured
kid, smiled faintly, murmured somethin' about bein'

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 265

able to take care of himself, and walked away. Kid
Roberts raised his eyebrows, but says nothin'.

As the time drawed near for the filmin' of the large
fight scene, the indications was that a excitin' time
would be had by all. The Kid's nerves had been
about shot to pieces by the constant abuse of little
Van Dyke regardin' his actin' and the deliberate, silent
contempt with which Nada Nice treated him when
they wasn't workin' together. Young Hamilton had
got so upstage you couldn't talk to him at all, and it
was plain and also amusin' to everybody on the lot
that he had went cuckoo over Nada, which seemed
to take that fact for granted — bein' the type of Jane
which cannot understand why every guy she meets
don't go out and commit suicide at the thoughts of
havin' to live without her.

Knockout Burns kept after Hamilton every time
they got within speakin' distance on the lot and the Kid
wasn't around. He rode that boy from mornin' till
night, darin' him to slip out somewheres and go to the
post with him again, callin' him a quitter and a big
false alarm which he would murder if he ever got him
in a ring for a finish fight. Lookin' back, I often won
der how Hamilton stood it, but stand it he did, con-
tentin' himself with merely smilin' sarcastically at the
blah-blahin' Knockout and never a word of a come
back. Frequently the Knockout's remarks got so raw
that I shut him up myself, but beyond a tightenin' of
jaw and a glintin' of eye once or twice, Hamilton never
give him a tumble.

The day they're goin' to shoot the fight between
the Kid and Hamilton, which winds up the picture, I'm

266 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

stumblin' around through the scenes on one of the
stages wishin' it was all over, when I hear the voices
of Hamilton and Nada Nice. I am not no keyhole
listener, but they was talkin' about Kid Roberts, and
without no apologies I will tell you that I stopped for
a earful.

" — It would be too crooked !" Hamilton's sayin'. "I
don't want to even think about it, Nada. The way
to do that would be to challenge Roberts openly and
meet him in a fair fight, where he'd know I was doing
my best to win. This way it's — Oh, it's all wrong !
He'll be unprepared, unsuspecting — no, I don't want
to do anything like that. If it wasn't for the fact that
I've got to play my part in this thing to-day, pretend
he has knocked me out, I'd — well, Nada, I'd whip
him — a thing that I'm as sure I can do as I am that
my name is Hamilton!"

"And be heavyweight champion of the world — with
all the fame and fortune that goes with it!" breathes
this vamp, and I can imagine the eye work she's doin'
on friend Hamilton. "Well, do as you like," she goes
on, in a voice that was like a kiss. "I don't want you
to think I would suggest anything — er — wrong. But
if I were a man and had this opportunity — "

Her voice trails off suddenly and I hear a new one —
Van Dyke's.

"Hello, folks !" he greets 'em. "Nada — over on that
drawin' room set for yours. I want a close-up of
you and Kid Roberts before he starts for the ring.
Hurry up, I'll be right over — got somethin' to tell
Hamilton."

I hear Nada trippin' away and then Van Dyke again.

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 267

"Hamilton," he says, almost in a whisper, "look out
for yourself in this fight with Kid Roberts. I got this
straight from headquarters and it's no josh. This
big stiff is sore at the way you trimmed his sparrin'
partner, and, well — you know how Nada's acted — and
he's gonna try and deliberately cut you to pieces to
give the gang a laugh! Watch your step and — "

Hamilton cuts in.

"All right — thanks !" he says. "I'll watch out and —
you watch me! This is better than I hoped for and
I'm going to give this fellow the surprise of his life!"

On top of Hamilton's retreatin' footsteps come Van
Dyke's short laugh, and then I stepped from behind
the scenery, right into him. He changed colors like a
lizard and greatly reminded me of one, for that matter.

"What's the big idea?" I snarls. "Come on, make
it snappy and don't stall — I heard the whole layout!
Are you tryin' to frame Kid Roberts, you little rat?
You know the Kid's got no idea of knockin' Hamil
ton's head off. Why, he'd no more hurt that guy than
he'd—"

"That's what's the matter!" butts in Van Dyke ex
citedly. "That's exactly the trouble! But if Hamil
ton comes at him doin' his best, why, the Kid will
have to knock his head off, won't he?"

"He might have to stop him — yes," I admits.
"But—"

"But nothin' !" says Van Dyke. "You got some
brains, ain't you? You know what depends on this
fight scene bein' a riot — why, it's the kick to the whole
picture! If it flops, good-bye money, my reputation,
yes, and a good part of your champ's rep, too. Fight

268 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

fans out in the sticks which never seen Roberts start,
and never will, are gonna see him in this movie, and
if he looks bad, you know what they'll say. Another
thing, what happens to your percentage of the picture's
earnin's if the thing's a bust ? And a bust it will be if
the Kid and Young Hamilton don't put up a rip-roarin',
two-fisted, he-man battle! You seen them rehearse
time after time and you also seen how terrible they
both was in the scene — each scared to death he'd muss
the other one's hair. D'ye think I'd release a bust like
that with my name on it? Not on your life! I'm
gonna shoot a fight to-day that will put a permanent
marcel in their hair ! What d'ye suppose Nada's been
cuttin' Roberts and eggin' Hamilton on for? What
d'ye suppose I told him the Kid was out to take him
for, heh? What d'ye— "

"Wait a minute!" I says. "D'ye mean to tell me
that Nada Nice' has upstaged the Kid and lured this
poor boob Hamilton on at your orders?"

"Nada knows the situation," he stalls. "Why
shouldn't she do what she can to help me? I made
that girl ! I'm her director, ain't I ?"

"Well," I says, after a bit, "you certainly win the
tissue-paper nail file! In order to make your movie
a success, you take a chance on Kid Roberts gettin'
his head — " and then I stopped.

"The Kid ain't takin' no chance at all!" he sneers,
readin' my thoughts. "Why, he should dispose of
this guy with ease — he's champion of the world, ain't
he?"

"Yes, but — " I begins, but get no chance.

"And another thing you wanna remember, fellah,"

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 269

goes on Van Dyke, " is that this ain't only my movie,
it's yours and his also ! Of course, if you think your
champ will get mussed up and you wanna crab this
thing, go to it. If you tell Kid Roberts, it's all off,
because the big — because he'll refuse to knock Hamil
ton dead. This Roberts is a hot sketch for a fighter,

anyways

"But look here, Stupid," I says. "If I don't wise the
Kid up, how d'ye expect him to put up a sure enough
battle?"

"Hamilton will take care of that part of it," grins
Van Dyke. "When this baby steps into that ring, Kid
Roberts will have to fight!"

What was I gonna do? If I crabbed the thing, the
story that Kid Roberts had refused to box Young
Hamilton, the ex-amateur champ, etc., would travel
from California to Florida overnight. I shut up and
walked back with Van to the others, through with the
movies — jack or no jack!

We breezed over to where the Kid, Nada, Hamilton,
and the rest of the gang is waitin' and after some
close-ups of Nada in the Kid's arms have been shot,
Van Dyke gives Roberts and Hamilton their final
directions for the battle. With a wink at Hamilton
which the Kid don't see, Van Dyke remarks that he
hopes the champion won't lose his temper and knock
Hamilton for a goal. Kid Roberts innocently grins
and turns to the scowlin' ex-amateur champ.

"Don't mind him, old man," he says, "I'll be as
careful as — "

Hamilton cuts him off with a snarl.

"Oh, never mind that stuff," he says sneerin'ly.

270 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

"You do your best, Roberts — for / certainly shall!"
This was too much for Knockout Burns.
"Why, you big goof !" he yells, "Kid Roberts'll bust
you in half ! You're gonna try, eh? Well, if you want
action I got a thousand bucks which says I can knock
you stiff inside ten rounds. C'mon, less go, you four-
flusher !"

"Shut up, Burns !" says the Kid, his quiet gaze never
leavin' Hamilton's flushed face. "I'm very sorry you
feel that way, Hamilton. Perhaps we had better post
pone this scene until you're in better humor. It's
rather dangerous for two big men to — "

Nada shot a meanin' glance at Hamilton, and her
nasty laugh shut the Kid off right in the middle as
Van Dyke butts in with :

"We don't postpone nothin' ! I got a fight club
leased for this scene and a mob of extry people gettin'
five bucks the each — seven for the ones with dress
suits — waitin'. C'mon, pile into them autos outside
and forget it!"

Suddenly Hamilton pulls a mechanical smile, mum
bles a apology, and offers the Kid his hand. They
shake, but the ex-amateur champ was lookin' away
when he done it — lookin' over the Kid's shoulder at
Nada Nice.

A hour or so later Kid Roberts and Young Hamil
ton is climbin' through the ropes in a regulation ring
at the old West Coast A. C. whilst a battery of movie
cameras is grindin' out their every move and every
move of a crowd which packed the joint to the roof.
On a high stool beside the ring, and out of range of

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 271

the cameras, Van Dyke is perched, directin' through
a megaphone. Near by sits Nada Nice, chattin' with
friends, ready to appear in the Kid's corner for the
climax. She looked like she hadn't a care in the
world — and prob'ly hadn't. All around the edge of
the ring is the newspaper guys, tickled silly to come
and get a real line on the champion's present condi
tion ; back of them the supers in dress suits and evenin'
gowns, and behind them a bunch of society guys and
their girl friends, invited with engraved cards by Van
Dyke, and there out of curiosity to see a movie made.
The supers is tryin' to act like society leaders, and
the society leaders is tryin' to act like supers. Kid
Roberts is grinnin' and chattin' with the newspaper
guys, answerin' a fire of questions about his next fight
and the like, but across the ring Hamilton is drawn
and nervous, his eyes on the floor.

"Lights !" bellers Van Dyke, and a distinct hush
fell over the mob. "Ready, camera — all right, Roberts,
Hamilton — shoot !"

Clang! — the bell just like the real thing, and they're
off.

Both men come to the center of the ring, touched
gloves lightly, and begin sparrin', as they'd rehearsed
over and over. Hamilton suddenly chopped his right
to the head and then hooked the same glove to the jaw
as the Kid started to back away. The champ boxed
cautiously for a few seconds, landin' lightly with both
hands, and Hamilton drove him against the ropes with
a torrid left to the body. Lookin' surprised, Roberts
clinched, and the wise newspaper guys begin to sit up

272 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

straight in their seats. I can't remember when my
throat was ever so dry before! They slid along the
ropes, Hamilton fightin' with one arm free, diggin'
his glove into the kidneys and short ribs. The referee,
a assistant director, broke them on orders from Van
Dyke, and the Kid put a slow left to the head, apolo-
gizin' when the heel of the glove scraped skin from
Hamilton's ear. The ex-amateur champ's reply was a
volley of lefts and rights that gave the Kid all he
could do for a minute, and then Van Dyke shouts
through the megaphone:

"Now, Roberts, you drop your hands and stagger
away — you been doped, and here's where you get
knocked down — that's good — that's fine ! Hamilton,
get ready to swing your right — don't watch the camera
— you think you're on the verge of knockin' the cham
pion out — that's right, try and look it ! Now, Hamil
ton — cop him — on the chest will do; it'll look like a
punch from here — ready now — all right drop your
hands, Roberts, drop your — "

Kid Roberts obediently lowers his guard, and, quick
as a flash, Hamilton pastes him — not on the chest, but
square on the point of the jaw, and the Kid goes down
like a log!

"Cut!" hollers Van Dyke. "That's great— wonder
ful ! /'// give these birds a movie !"

Mutterin' apologies, Hamilton bends down and helps
the Kid to his feet, whilst twelve assistants of Van
Dyke grabs me arid shoves me back out of the ring,
which I had reached in one frenzied jump, hollerin' that
nobody's allowed on the set whilst Van Dyke's shootin'.
The crowd gives Hamilton a big hand as he walks to

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 273

his stool, and Nada waves her hand to him. Van Dyke
is grinnin' happily. Whilst Knockout Burns and the
other handlers is workin' over Kid Roberts, I lashed
out with both hands, clearin' a space and managed to
crawl through the ropes to the Kid's side.

"Kid — this is a frame-up!" I panted in his ear.
"I ain't got time to tell you all of it now, but knock
this guy dead and knock him quick! He's tryin' to
put you away, and — "

"Nonsense!" smiles the Kid. "The boy lost his
head, that's all. I'm not hurt ; the punch was too high,
and I was falling when I got it, you know. Hamilton's
probably sorrier than I am that he landed. The thing
was an unavoidable accident. Forget it!"

Van Dyke comes over and shoves past me. "Every
thing's goin' fine!" he tells the Kid, slappin' his
shoulder. "Now this is the last round. Remember,
you get floored twice, then Nada appears at the foot of
the ropes — you see her — get up, rush Hamilton, and
knock the big bu — that is, he'll fall through the ropes
like he was cracked — see?"

The Kid nods and Van Dyke calls Hamilton over.
They's a mattress on the floor outside the ropes so's he
won't get hurt when he goes through 'em, and Van
Dyke makes him and the Kid rehearse the thing once
more without the cameras. I thought they did it
pretty well, and the society bunch clapped their hands
off. Then Van Dyke calls for lights and cameras, the
bell rings, and they begin the thrillin' climax.

Thrillin' was right!

The minute they met in the middle of the ring
Hamilton throws all pretenses to the breeze and give

274 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

himself up to the job of knockin' Kid Roberts for a
row of silos. Van Dyke called out the rehearsed blows
to him, but the ex-amateur champ, with murder in his
eyes, paid no attention, and before the round was a
minute old he had the Kid doin' his best, and everybody
in the place knowed they was seein' a finish fight and
not no movie ! The Kid missed a left jab, and Hamil
ton opened a old cut over his eye with a vicious right,
puttin' a straight left to the same place before the
amazed Roberts could block. I had to admire this
Hamilton's speed, even though I would of liked to
cooked him then and there! Roberts brought him
up standin' with a right to the heart, but a instant
later Hamilton made the champ open his mouth and
gasp with two hard smashes to the wind. Van Dyke
now yelled hysterically for the Kid to take his first
fall, and, backin' away from the rushin' Hamilton,
Roberts slid clumsily to the floor. At once the house
rocked with the boos of the excited mob, society bunch
and all. The only way I can explain the thing that
happened next is that Hamilton went cuckoo at the
chance to knock out the world's champion — for he
swung a wicked right to the Kid's head as he was
gettin' up off the floor, sprawlin' the champ flat on his
back. The assistant director, which was "referee,"
was nuts himself with the thrill of the thing and forgot
to count, but the newspaper guys willin'ly obliged. The
Kid took "nine," and when he come up they was every
thing but mercy in his hard, glitterin' gray eyes.

I hadn't watched Hamilton work for nothin', an4
when the Kid's anxious gaze searched and found mine
in the mob I screamed over the din : "Make him lead

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 275

to you, Kid !" and Roberts immediately feinted Hamil
ton into swingin' his right. As the punch started, the
champ slid in under it and hooked both hands to the
jaw, folio win' that with a left to the body that all
but doubled Hamilton in two. The ex-amateur star
now begin back-pedalin' all over the ring with the
Kid on top of him, jabbin' his head back and forth
with his beautiful straight left and play in' for a openin'
for his deadly right.

As per the scenario, Nada appears at the edge of
the ring, wavin' her arms and shoutin' to attract the
Kid's attention, but the Kid was terrible busy just
then! Van Dyke swings his megaphone around and
bawls somethin' in her ear. Nada smiles and at once
begins yellin' — ycllin' for Hamilton to knock the Kid
out! Roberts stops dead, turns slowly and looks at
her with a most peculiar expression on his face. The
watchin' Hamilton plunges in with a right uppercut
that buckled the Kid's knees under him and sent the
mob insane. Likewise me! They mixed it furiously
near Hamilton's corner and Van Dyke bellers for the
ex-amateur champ to fall through the ropes. Hamil
ton sneers at him and hooked his left hard to the Kid's
mouth, bringin' the blood. The place was now in a
wild uproar and neither of 'em paid any attention to
the bell, but stood toe to toe, sluggin' with both hands.
Hamilton was the first to break ground and the Kid
raised a lump on his jaw with a overhand right swing
that sent him spinnin' to the ropes. He rebounded into
a right that tore his ear and dove into a clinch, but
the Kid jerked himself free and split the ex-amateur
champ's nose with a left chop. Both then missed

276 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

rights to the head and Roberts again put his left to
the sore nose. Hamilton looked very tired and tried
to make the Kid box with him, but Roberts was im
patient to end matters and peppered his man with
short, joltin' lefts and rights to the wind, wearin' him
down so's to get a fair crack at the jaw. The chance
come fin'ly when a smash over the heart doubled
Hamilton up. The Kid coolly jabbed a openin' with
his left, measured the punch-drunk ex-amateur champ
and with a right uppercut to the button sent him
crashin' through the ropes as advertised — and it wasn't
on the side of the ring where the mattress was, either !

The mob is millin' out through the doors, havin'
been furnished with somethin' to talk about for months,
and we're all gathered about Hamilton which is sittin'
on his stool, just comin' to life. Knockout Burns
pushes through the jam to his side.

"Well, you big double-crossin' tramp!" he snarls
at the beaten Hamilton. "Are you satisfied now, eh?
Woof — what a proper pastin' you drawed for your
self ! It takes a lickin' like that to show you false
alarms where you git off. I bet you won't look at a
boxin' glove again till the day you die. It's a good
thing I wasn't in there with you, I'd of cut you to rib
bons, just to be nasty!"

Hamilton looks up at Burns, starin' him steadily
in the eye like he's tryin' to remember where he seen
him before. Then his teeth comes together with a
dick, he gets up slowly and pushes away the guys
which wants to help him.

"Put up your hands !" he says huskily.

"Why, you — " begins the astonished Burns — and

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 277

never finished, for Hamilton shot straight out with
his bandaged right hand and Knockout Burns sagged
a second and then toppled in a heap at my feet !

So that was all settled.

"Roberts," says Hamilton, unsteadily, facin' the
cold-eyed Kid, "I — I — was a fool ! However, I guess
I've paid for it. I — I — lost my head — No, damn it,
I'll be square with you! I went in there determined
to knock you out and I deserve all I got, but — I have
never done anything like this in my life before — never
tried to double-cross anyone and — and I feel rotten
about it ! Will you accept my sincere apology —
please f"

The Kid looks him over and grins. "Why of
course!" he says, shakin' his hand warmly. "It's for
gotten, old boy. I don't blame you in a way — it was
a big chance and then there was — " He looks around
meanin'ly to where Nada Nice and Van Dyke is in
earnest conversation. Van Dyke waves his hand and
calls over : "A wonderful picture — wonderful ! This
thing will make you, Hamilton!" and goes right on
talkin' to Nada again.

"By the way," says Hamilton, "I — ah — pardon my
curiosity, but what is your real real name? I mean, I
know it isn't Kid Roberts ; all fighters adopt a ring — "

"I'm Kane Halliday, out of the ring," says the
Kid.

"Cain?" hollers Hamilton, in a voice that made
everybody look around at us. "By gad, no wonder you
licked me!"

"Why?" asks the Kid.

278 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

"Don't you know?" roars Hamilton. "My name is
Abel—Abd Hamilton!"

No, boys and girls, Hamilton didn't wed the charmin'
Nada Nice. You see, she happened to be Van Dyke's
wife.

And, as J. Caesar remarked as he waded the Rubi
con, there's that!

ROUND ELEVEN
STRIKE FATHER, STRIKE SON !

No matter how nifty he is with his hands, a box
fighter without absolute confidence in his ability to
weather whatever unexpected hurricane of smashin'
wallops he may run into durin' the course of a muss
is a box fighter without no good reason for remainin'
in a tough game. He may outpoint the clumsy, slow-
thinkin' dumb-bells, but the hard-boiled baby which
can take it and grimly wait till the openin' comes for
one solid smash has the edge on this guy every time.
The faint-hearted bird is no good when he's hurt; the
real fighter is no good till he's hurt ! In other words,
the clever but weak-spirited boxer is usually a world
beater among the tramps and a tramp among the world
beaters.

But confidence, boys and girls, is a heady drink —
too much is as dangerous to success as too little. You
want to dilute it a bit, reduce its high proof with a
little respect for the other guy's chances. Instead
of thinkin' that every cuckoo and every situation you're
called upon to face in this game called life is a set-up
for you, allow leeway for the unreckoned break, the
bolt from the blue, the chance that you might slip on
the banana peel Fate or be flattened by the thunder-

279

280 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

bolt Chance. Give plenty of play for the unnervin'
unexpected and — it won't be!

Like the forbidden hooch, confidence has its deadly,
high-powered bootleg imitation in Conceit. This often
looks like the original, 100-proof bonded stuff — the
difference is in the effect. Confidence steadies the lad
der of Fame for you and makes the long climb easier.
Conceit hides the holes between the rungs, with the
results that you fall through.

And now, girls and boys, havin' got all that off my
chest, here's a incident in the sensational career of
Kid Roberts, which I would like to place before the
jury as a good example of all the above.

Within a month after Kid Roberts has finished
elevatin' the deaf-and-dumb drama by makin' that
movie in which he knocked everybody cold includin'
the exhibitors, we have signed for two bouts under the
personal direction of Jimmy McManus, the Tex Rick-
ard of his day. We are to get $150,000 for the first
muss no matter what happens, and the same amount for
the second — provided the Kid is still heavyweight cham
pion. In other words, if we lose our first start, that's
all there is, there isn't any more, as Ethel Barrymore
was once heard to remark.

Jack Enright, a two-hundred-pounder from New
Orleans, which had flashed to the front by the diffi
cult process of winnin' all his brawls in a couple of
rounds, and Marty McCabe, another tough bird, hailin'
from Seattle, was the Kid's most persistent challengers.
It has been almost a year since the Kid win the title,
and in that time he hadn't defended it once. So either
Enright or McCabe, both goin' great guns and fightin'

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 281

two or three times a month, looked worth a bet against
the champ to all the wise crackers. All but me. /
figured the Kid could climb into a ring with the two of
'em and knock 'em both dead !

Folio win' several weeks of felonious assault on each
other in the newspapers, Enright and McCabe is
matched to mingle for twenty frames, the winner to
get first crack at Kid Roberts and the world's heavy
weight championship. This melee attracted no more
attention than the invasion of Belgium, and by the time
the brawny young men clambered into the ring to toss
gloves at each other you couldn't of bought your way
inside the clubhouse had your name been Jack Rocke
feller.

Me and Kid Roberts was among the important
guests, jammed right up against the lower ropes with
the workin' sport writers, and after the announcer
has lashed the customers into a murderous rage by
introducin' everybody but Christopher Columbus, his
eyes falls on Kid Roberts. In another minute the Kid
is bein' helped through the ropes in his dazzlin dress
suit, without which he wouldn't even go to the corner
for a newspaper after six p. m.

The announcer got as far as "We have with us to
night — " when the roar killed him off and he quit. The
mob had been sittin' for hours waitin' for Enright and
McCabe to start in killin' each other. It was on edge
and didn't want to meet nobody. Again, Kid Roberts
hadn't defended his title for a year, and no champion
can hold his popularity which don't fight early and
often. The Kid's dress suit hit 'em all wrong, too.
They wanted to see him in a business suit — fightin'

282 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

trunks and four-ounce gloves. So that Kid Roberts,
standin' there white and hard-faced, heard the thing
that every champ from Jem Mace to Jack Dempsey
has heard sooner or later from the fickle mob — the
long-drawn-out, vicious "Booooo!" drownin' out the
cheers of the hysterical.

And, listen — don't think that stuff don't hurt!

This was all new and very painful to the Kid. He'd
been used to a thunder of cheers wherever he showed
his face. The raspberry was a fruit he had never
tasted before, and the darn thing went to his head.
Anyways, he stood lookin' out at the roarin' Atlantic
of faces for a minute, curled his lip like he was sayin'
"You poor fatheads!" and then, walkin' to Enright's
corner, picked up his bandaged hand and shook it,
politely wishin' him luck. He done the same thing to
McCabe. Neither of 'em give him a tumble.

Back beside me, the Kid sneers : "Did you hear those
fools jeering me?"

I hunched my shoulders and settled in the seat.
"What do you care?" I says. "Now — "

"I'll win my next fight with a punch!" he goes on,
smilin' nastily. "Just to show them the difference
between a champion and" — he nods at Enright and
McCabe — "and those thick-skulled bruisers there!"

"Well, les' forget it now and watch this one," I
says, as the handlers begin scramblin' out of the
ring. But I was bothered! The Kid had never done
no braggin' before. Just the opposite — he'd concede
a cripple a chance with him till the thing was over.
This stuff was all new. I gazed at him sidewise,
and he was lollin' back in his seat watchin' Enright

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 283

and McCabe, one of which he'd have to battle within
the next six months, like they was a couple of ama
teurs in a gym. When he taps a yawn back into his
mouth, I got a chill. Before we filed out of that club
house I was chilled to the bone!

With a sigh of pure joy, the crowd has leaned
forward at the bell, breathin' hard and set for a
long, tough battle, with the result a toss-up. A man-
killin' slugger against a master boxer. Scheduled for
twenty frames, seven or eight rounds of bloodcurdlin'
millin' before one of 'em hit the mat seemed a cinch.
As they came to the center, McCabe was short with a
straight left, and Enright put a wicked right to the
head, scrapin' the lace of his glove on the skin as he
flicked it away.

"This guy's a dirty scrapper, Kid," I whispers.

"I'll make him clean!" scowls the Kid. "It won't
even be a contest when / get him. Look, he's as
open as a novice — I'll stop this fellow with the first
one I try!"

Again I felt a nervous shiver, but I got no chance
for a comeback because the gladiators was goin' to
it with a right good will, as the sayin' is. Stung by
the mob's yells, McCabe shook himself and begin
dancin' around the clumsy Enright, stabbin' him in
the face with a long, punishin' left. A few seconds
of this and Enright 's features is gory and purplin',
and one eye has observed the early-closin' law. He
missed a couple of vicious right swings, and then,
followin' the shriekin' advice of his handlers, he begins
to bull his way in to close quarters. This early and
prob'ly unlooked-for success made McCabe a bit too

284 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

confident. He let Enright come in and, shiftin' his
attack to the body, grinned jovially and pounded the
wind with one arm free, the other protectin' himself.
As the referee run over to break 'em, Enright's ter
rible right come up in a half circle, smashed through a
openin' and clipped McCabe on the chin. McCabe's
knees sagged, and a goofy look spread over his face.
The mob's yell rocked the buildin'. Quick as a flash,
Enright's left flicked up around McCabe's neck, the
glove droppin' with a thud just as the pantin' referee
shoved 'em apart. McCabe fell with a crash, his face
hittin' first.

He was still there at "ten." He was still there
half a hour later when the disgusted, grumblin' crowd
had milled out of the clubhouse. He was still there
two hours after that, when another kind of a boxer —
the undertaker — come to take him and his broken neck
away from the perspirin' medicos and the dumfounded,
white-faced club officials.

"Well," I says to the Kid as we climb into his car
on the en route to the hotel, "d'ye still think Enright's
a set-up?"

"Why not ?" he says. "This tragedy to-night doesn't
change my opinion a particle! I grant you Enright
can hit — that short right uppercut that literally tore
poor McCabe's head off would have felled an ox —
but he isn't going to hit me with it, that's all. I've
stopped a dozen men who could hit as hard as Enright,
haven't I ?"

"As hard — yes," I agrees, noddin' my head and gazin'
out at the town generally. Then I looked back at him.

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 285

"Kid," I says, "since we first hooked up three years
ago till we win the heavyweight title, we have took
'em all on regardless of color, weight, religion, or rep.
We have ducked nobody. The only reason we ain't
gone to the post with the Rock of Gibraltar is because
they is no way to get boxin' gloves on it ! I know you
can take Enright, and I think you can stop any heavy
which ever rubbed a foot in rosin and stop 'em the best
day they ever seen. Nevertheless and but, we ain't
goin' to fight Enright, and the newspapers can howl
their heads off!"

Kid Roberts laughs good-naturedly. "Why — be
cause he killed McCabe?" he asks, like he's humorin'
a child.

"Exactly!" I says. "Because he killed McCabe,
he likewise murdered his chance at the heavyweight
title."

"Why, you fool !" says the Kid, becomin' excited,
"do you think a thing like that would ever happen
to Enright again — that he'd kill a man with a punch?
It was an accident — an unfortunate accident, pure and
simple. He — "

"The same kind of a accident as sunrise is!" 1
butts in. "Look here, just what do you think happened
in that ring to-night? Just tell me how you got
the knockout punch figured."

"There's nothing difficult about that," says the Kid.
"You saw it. They were clinched when Enright landed
a right uppercut, McCabe going down as the referee
broke them. In falling, the poor devil's head hit a
poorly padded bit of ring planking and, as the news
paper boys figure it, his head struck with sufficient

286 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

force to break his neck. Same thing that killed Luther
McCarthy, you know. I'll never forget Enright's ex
pression — he was thunderstruck!"

"Thunderstruck, your great-grand-aunt!" I snorts.
"He was scared stiff — he thought somebody was wise.
The rat!"

"Say, what are you gettin' at?" says the Kid, in
terested at last.

"This," I says. "Marty McCabe wasn't killed by
hittin' his bean on nothin'. He was dead when he
started to fall!"

The Kid's face is a movie. "I suppose," he says,
with a sarcastical smile — "I suppose that Enright had
a revolver concealed in his right glove and shot him —
that it?"

"No," I says, "Enright had a rabbit punch concealed
in his left glove and cracked his neck!"

That removed the sarcastical smile.

"Now," I continues, watchin' the amused sparkle
in this big, handsome kid's gray eyes turn to a mur
derous steel glint, "if you'll gimme your undivided at
tention, I'll tell you what come to pass in that ring to
night. In the first place, let us take the rabbit punch.
You've seen 'em kill rabbits by holdin' the intelligent
animal up by the ears with one hand and hittin' him
sharply on the back with the edge of the other, result —
one dead rabbit. Now, it ain't a million years ago
since this was a perfectly legal way of endin' a box
fight, but the rabbit punch has been barred by law in
most places and by public opinion in all. Next we
have that clinch to-night which ends with the decease
of Marty McCabe. Enright, a wild swinger, throws

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 287

that right uppercut into the air without a idea in the
wide, wide world where it's goin' to land. Of course,
he has hopes. As it happened, it caught McCabe on
the chin and dazed him, but Enright, with his head
buried under this guy's arm, didn't know where it went.
All he knows is that he's licked if he don't get away
from the terrific body punishment he was gettin', so
he flicks up his left and drops the edge of it sharply
on McCabe's neck. That's what finished McCabe —
the rabbit punch, Kid, not the right uppercut ! You
and the newspaper guys is watchin' the fight. Me, I'm
watchin' Enright, because you're goin' to fight him and
I want to see everything he's got. And that's why
we don't box that murderin' yellah dog."

We was at the hotel by this time, but the Kid don't
make a crack till we get up to our rooms — just keeps
shakin' his head.

"My God," he says to me fin'ly, "when I get out of
this game I'll be the happiest man in the world!"

"I'll be the unhappiest," I says, "because I will then
have to drive a truck !"

He throws over my shoulder a arm which in three
years has turned him in close to a quarter of a million.
"You'll quit the ring when I do," he grins, "and come
in as an equal partner with father and me in whatever
we undertake."

"I'd make a wonderful pillar of Wall Street," I
says. "Nope, Kid, your intentions is great, but your
judgment is terrible! When you step down I'll get
me a battler or two and continue on."

"When I step down," he repeats. "That brings us
back to Enright. We have a fifty-thousand-dollar for-

288 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

feit up to meet the winner of the Enright-McCabe fight,
and Enright won — don't forget that."

"That's out, now," I says. "Enright will be on his
way up the river in another month and — '

"Look here," he butts in. "I've thought this all
over. How can you prove that he deliberately killed
McCabe? Apparently nobody saw that rabbit punch
but yourself."

That was it — how could I prove it?

"Listen to me," says the Kid after a minute. "There's
nothing we can do about this but to keep quiet. We'll
go down to-morrow and sign articles with Enright.
They say I'm a moving-picture champion, eh? Well,
you get me Enright, and I'll make him wish he'd never
laid eyes on a boxing glove !"

"Hey, look here," I says, pretendin' to frown. "D'ye
know you're gettin' terrible tough lately? I never
heard you do no ballyhooin' about yourself before.
What's the idea?"

Instantly he's embarrassed as a chorus girl without
a telephone.

"Forgive me, old man," he says. "I can imagine
how that must sound. I'll need two years in a fin
ishing school after I quit this game before I'll dare
attempt a drawing room!" Then he grins: "Say —
it woul:1 be rich if Enright knocked me out, wouldn't
it?"

You see what a kid he was.

Well, of course they didn't hold Enright for Mc-
Cabe's death. Unavoidable accident and the like, and
columns was wrote showin' they is eighty-six times

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 289

as many guys killed playin' football each year as they
is in the box-fight game. What that proves I don't
know. Anyways, in a week we sign to fight twenty
frames with Enright for the world's heavyweight cham
pionship, and when we're comin' down in the elevator
from the newspaper office, Red Samuels, Enright's
pilot, says to me: "That was a tough break we got
with McCabe — him dyin', eh?"

"Terrible tough," I says. "And if that bum of
yours tries to rabbit-punch the champion, you'll get
a tougher one. They'll all be watchin' him this
time !"

He gets as white as cream, and I whispers somethin'
to a newspaper guy. As I'm leavin' the elevator, the
sport writer turns to Enright and says : "What's
this I hear about you not enterin' a ring without a
rabbit for a mascot ?"

Sweet Mamma — you should of seen Enright's face!

They is nothin' like givin' the other guy somethin'
to worry about. It all helps.

We are due to go in trainin' for Enright within a
few weeks, and durin' that time the Kid got no peace
from his father and the beautiful Dolores Brewster.
Both of 'em seemed to have the idea that Kid Roberts
was goin' to his grave if he climbed into a ring with
the man-killin' Enright, and they begged him to call
it a day and retire a undefeated and still livin' cham
pion. The newspapers helped their arguments a whole
lot. They was daily pictures of Enright, now the
"sensational young challenger for the world's heavy
weight championship." Kid Roberts would be lucky
to go three rounds with this baby. He'd been away

290 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

from the ring too long, and bein' in the movies had
softened him up. Anybody which could get past the
first couple of rounds with him would take him. They
never come back, etc.

All this stuff might of got my goat, only I had seen
every word of it printed before about the guy Kid
Roberts had took the title away from. You've seen
it too. It never changes. The only difference is in
the names.

The night before we're leavin' town for the long
trainin' grind, we have a farewell dinner at Senator
Brewster's home on Fifth Avenue. The Sen's igloo
would make Buckin'ham Palace look like a stable. The
Kid's father is there, lookin' like the king of the world
with his fine big handsome head of steel-gray hair and
class engraved on him from toe to forehead. Here's a
guy which used to make 'em sit up and beg on Ticker
Boulevard, and now he's just dubbin' along here and
there — and waitin'. Across the long table is Kid
Roberts and Dolores Brewster — the collar-ad guy come
to life and talkin' to the magazine-cover girl! Every
time I look at Dolores the room begins to wiggle and
wobble, so I gaze down at my ballroom armor and
wonder how in the Hades I ever come to be sittin' in
with a swell mob like this.

"It isn't often I try to advise you, Kane," says old
man Halliday, "but I do wish you would drop this —
eh — this boxing business now. You've done about
all you set out to do, and to say that we're all proud of
you, boy, is rather weakly expressing it. It isn't neces
sary for you to continue longer in this beastly — "

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 291

"Yes, Kane, do give it up now !" chimes in Dolores,
presentin' the Kid with a glance for which I would of
give up a leg. "Please don't fight this — oh, this ter
rible brute who killed a man ! I — "

The Kid grins and holds up his hand. "Just a
moment, both of you," he says. "I am to receive three
hundred thousand dollars — pardon the vulgar mention
of money, but in my case it is obviously the incentive
— for engaging in two bouts, the first of which is with
this Enright fellow. I am taking no more risk — per
haps less — with him than I have in the other bouts
I've engaged in. The three hundred thousand means
a fair start back for father and" — he smiles at Dolores
— "and at least that you may have a maid, a modest
shopping account, a — "

"Look here, son," interrupts old man Halliday, "I
appreciate the force of your argument, but I do not
want my son killed to make a — well, to make a Roman
Halliday, one might say !"

"Good heavens, dad, what an atrocious pun!" says
the Kid. "Consider your case lost!"

"You know it will not make any difference to me
whether or not we have — I mean, / have servants or
a shopping account, or — or anything," says Dolores,
whose old man has six dollars for every salmon in the
Columbia River, "I'd love to make my own gowns and
cook and — and everything !"

"Ha, ha, ha, ha!" remarks her father, old Senator
Brewster. "And yet they say prohibition has removed
all the humor from dinner parties!"

Old man Halliday tries his luck again.

"At least, Kane," he says — "at least you might hold

292 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

off for a bit — postpone this bout with Enright. If the
break comes in Mexicali Oil — you recall that stock
I spoke to you about the other day? — if, as I say, the
break comes, we may not need your three hundred
thousand so imperatively."

"Dad," says the Kid, still grinnin', "just how much
money have you put in Mexicali Oil?"

"About every penny I possess," says the old man,
calmly knockin' the ash off his cigar.

The Kid throws up both hands and makes a face.
"You're incurable, dad," he says, pretendin' to be sore —
and then he turns and laughs to the others. "Now do
you see how necessary it is for me to earn that three
hundred thousand ? Dad will have us both broke again
in a couple of days !" We've all got up from the table
by this time and the Kid throws his arm affectionately
around his father's shoulders. "Father," he says with
a wink, "I'm going to invest my end of the purse for
this fight in a stock that in the matter of returns will
make your wildest plunges of the old days seem tame.
I expect at least three to one for my original invest
ment !"

"What is the stock called?" asks the old man. "I'll
look it—"

"You won't find this listed anywhere !" the Kid shuts
him off. "Now, dad, don't ask questions. Wall Street
is your game, mine is boxing — temporarily at least.
You stick to your operations and I'll stick to mine, and
after I've fought Enright we'll see who's ahead !"

The old man nods. "Very well, Kane," he says, "I
won't interfere again."

But he did.

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 293

Well, all this stock business and the like was Russian
to me, and I was glad when Senator Brewster made
the crack that all us strong men go into the library for
coffee and a smoke, leavin' the Kid and Dolores to play
tiddledywinks or the etc., as the Kid was blowin' for
his trainin' quarters the next day and they might not
get a chance for another game for some time. As the
hour come to leave, I am greatly surprised to see that
the lovely Dolores's face shows signs of the weeps as
she comes to the door with me and Kid Roberts,
sendin' the butler away. She's still pleadin' with the
Kid to pass up Enright.

"Now, dear, you must stop worrying," says the Kid,
pattin' a ivory and satin shoulder. "I never felt more
confident of victory in my life than I do regarding this
bout! You've heard your father and mine talk until
you have the idea that this Enright is some sort of
superbrute — a human gorilla who will tear me to
pieces. Nonsense! I'll tell you something, Dolores,
to set your fears at rest. I meant to keep this
as a surprise, and I don't want you to tell father
or the Senator. I'm so sure that I will defeat
Enright without extending myself that I am going to
wager every penny of my end of the purse — $150,000
— that I will win inside of six rounds! I expect to
get odds of three or four to one. That's the invest
ment I had in mind when I told father I was plunging
in a stock that would make his Mexicali Oil seem tame.
Would I do that — risk everything — if I had the
slightest doubt as to the outcome ?"

I'm sorry, boys and girls, but I can't tell you what
Dolores said, because I nearly broke my neck staggerin'

294 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

down the steps in a swoon! Bettin' on the round
with a tough nut like Enright, hey? Woof !

The minute old man Halliday has said good night.
After we get to the hotel, I dragged the Kid in my
room and shut the door.

"I ain't no keyhole hound," I says, "but bein' on
the steps up at the house like I was just now, I heard
you tell Miss Brewster you was goin' to bet your end
of the Enright purse that you'll stop this guy in six
rounds."

"Well, keep it quiet," he says after lookin' at me
for a minute. "I don't want my father to know any
thing about it — yet."

"You don't want — you don't mean to tell me you
actually intend makin' a sucker bet like that, do you?"
I gasps.

"I was never more in earnest !" he says, bangin' his
fist down on the bureau. "The minute you collect our
money, three days or whatever it is before the fight,
you get it down — you'll know where — on me to win
by a knockout inside of six rounds. I want every
cent of it covered when I step into the ring !"

"A hundred and fifty grands !" I breathed. "You're
cuckoo !"

"Not at all," he says impatiently. "Good Lord, I
never was surrounded by so many crape hangers in my
life! After this fight I expect to have something like
half a million dollars, for I'll stop Enright in a couple
of rounds as sure as my name is Halliday ! Or maybe,"
he adds, suddenly turnin' a hard stare on me — "maybe
you think I won't ?"

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 295

"Look here," I says. "You'll win on the bit, but,
Kid, don't try to call the round on this guy; don't do
it ! For one thing, he'll be in there to stay, and they's
nothin' in the world harder to stop than a tough tramp
which won't try — won't open up, but just dogs it to
keep on his feet for a certain number of frames. He'll
curl up in a knot and you'll break your hands on his
head — you'll never see his jaw from the first bell!
If you got to bet at all, bet ten grands — ten thousand
bucks, that's—"

"I'll bet it all — minus yours if you want your share
taken out first!" he interrupts coldly. "Your con
fidence in me is certainly encouraging. Just figure
how much you have coming, and — "

"Oh, shoot the piece as far as I'm concerned," I
says. "You know I'm with you whether school keeps
or not. But, look here, we both know you'll murder
this goof, but suppose you can't knock him stiff for
seven rounds, even — why, you're broke, ain't you?
Ain't you slipped your old man the rest of your roll ?"

"Yes," he says. "I have at this minute about five
thousand dollars. The rest I've given father, and he
has it tied up in that oil stock — which means that's
gone! It's all or nothing this time. I'll show them
whether or not I'm through as a fighter — I'll step out
of that ring still champion and worth half a million, or
just a heavyweight boxer without a penny, one or
the other. Eh — good night!"

With that he slams out of the room.

The next afternoon we have two callers before train
time. One is Jimmy McManus, the promoter. After

296 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

hemmin' and hawin' all over the place, he comes out
flat with a offer of a $25,000 bonus for us if we let
Enright stay fifteen rounds so's the movin pictures of
the muss will be worth somethin'. The newspaper
guff about the Kid bein' through hadn't fooled Jimmy.
Kid Roberts escorts James to the door politely and
tells him to give his twenty-five thousand fish to the
Red Cross, because he is goin' to do his best to stop
Enright with a punch, and to Hades with the pictures.

The second caller made James McManus and his
$25,000 bribe look like a piker. It was no less than
Senator Brewster himself. The Kid apologizes for
goin' right on with his packin', explainin' that we got
but a scant forty minutes to catch a train. The Sen
clears his throat a couple of times, gives me a four-dol
lar cigar, and says maybe we ain't goin' to catch a
train.

"I'm afraid I don't understand, Senator," says the
Kid, lookin' up quickly from his suit case. "There's
nothing wrong, is there? Dolores — "

"Nothing wrong, no," grunts the Senator, puffin'
smoke heavy. "Look here, Kane — according to your
own statement, the only reason you're going through
with this Enright fight, and the one after that, is be
cause of the $300,000 involved so that you can quit the
ring with a competence, that right?"

"Exactly !" says the Kid, slammin' shut the suit
case.

"Well, Kane," says the Senator. "Eh— I've had a
conference with Dolores, and as you probably know
she's all cut up over this thing of you going on fighting
— eh — especially this Enright bout. You know, my

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 297

boy, all champions must go down to defeat sooner
or—"

"Mr. Brewster — please — we've gone all into that,
and my train — " The Kid breaks off, f rownin'.

"Oh, damn the train!" bursts out the Sen. "See
here, Kane, step out now — retire from the ring as you
are, an undefeated champion, cancel this Enright bout
and — and I'll make you and Dolores a wedding present
of $300,000, the exact amount you—"

Somethin' in the Kid's face must of stopped him be
cause he broke off short. The Kid's eyebrows has
come together in a hard, straight line, but in a instant
he's grinnin'.

"Senator," he says, "I know you wouldn't deliber
ately insult me for anything in the world. Eh — I can
see you're a trifle wrought up and — oh, get thee behind
me, Satan !" he winds up, gives the Sen's hand a warm
shake, grabs his suit case and rushes for the door.
"Come on!" he calls to me (I'm in a trance). "Good-
by, Senator, and good luck — back in a month !"

Passin' up a total of $325,000 in less than a hour
without turnin' a hair ! Deliberately passin' it up and
takin' a chance of gettin' his head beat off — for
nothin if he loses his bet, instead.

Woof — tie these college guys !

Accordin' to our contracts, both us and Enright
has got to wind up trainin' near the scene of the battle.
Me and Kid Roberts come down from the Maine
woods and took our stand at Long Branch, N. J.,
where we'd trained for many's the brawl. The next
day the sport writers and camera guys swoops down
on us in droves, fresh from Enright's camp. They

298 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

stuck around and watched the Kid work out with
Dynamite Jackson and a couple other handlers, shook
their heads, breezed back to New York, and predicted
a new heavyweight champion when Kid Roberts and
Jack Enright went to the post. The Kid was slow,
fat, and wind-broke. Enright, in wonderful condition,
was murderin' his sparrin' partners, etc., and so forth.

I don't know nothin' about how Enright was. I
never visit no rival camps before a fight, but I do
know that Kid Roberts was far from the young man
which win the world's heavyweight championship in
three rounds, just one year before ! For the first time
since I'd been his pilot I couldn't do nothin' with him.
He went to bed and got up when he felt like it, eat
what he wanted, clowned his gym workouts, and did his
road work in a automobile. To all of my threats and
pleadin's he answered that he wasn't goin' through no
weary trainin' grind for a scrap which wouldn't last
over a couple of rounds.

About a week before the quarrel I suddenly got
word from no less than Dolores Brewster that she's
got to see me at once on a matter of life and death
connected with the fight. Also, I am not to let the Kid
know about her message.

The most beautiful representative of the adjoinin'
sex that I, you, or anybody else ever seen is much ex
cited. The first thing she wants to know is whether
or not the Kid is still goin' to bet his end of the purse
that he'll flatten Enright in six rounds. "When does he
get this money?" she wants to know.

"I collect it," I says, "three days before we step into
the ring.

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 299

"Splendid," says Dolores, lookin' greatly relieved
about somethin'. Then she puts everything she's got
on a smile, curls a wicked eyelash at me, pulls her chair
closer, and whispers: "Will you do something for
me if it — if it means the happiness of Kane and my
self?"

"Lady," I says, a bit dizzy, "I will start by pushin'
over the Woolworth Buildin', if that will be of any
help!"

"You can do more than that, if you will," she says,
thrillin'ly and throws the smile into high. "Listen!"

I listened. I listened for half a hour, argued for
twenty minutes of the other half, and spent the last ten
minutes of that hour half promisin' to do the slight
favor she asked, knowin' full well that the best I could
hope to get out of it was the worst of it.

Dolores had doped out that if Kid Roberts failed
to stop Enright within six rounds he would lose his
hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar bet and be broke.
I f he went broke, he would be forced to keep on fightin'
for another bank roll instead of quittin' the ring and
settlin' down with her as advertised. Therefore she
wanted me to bring her our end of the purse instead
of bettin' it for the Kid when I collected it. If the
Kid stopped Enright in a round or two and then looked
to me for his winnin's, Dolores would take all the re
sponsibility and blame, figurin' that the Kid loved her
enough for her to get away with murder — which he
undoubtedly did. If, on the other hand, the Kid failed
to knock Enright dead in the stipulated time, why, he'd
still have his $150,000, which would certainly be a
pleasant surprise.

300 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

I says I would think it over, and that's what I did,
with the results that a couple of days afterward I
called upon the charmin' Dolores with a mysterious-
lookin' and bulgin' little black satchel in my hand, like
the kind usually wore by bank messengers. I laid it
on the table in front of her without a word and,
hearin' footsteps approachin' the room, Dolores shoves
the bag into a little wall safe, swiftly spins the com
bination, and writes me a receipt for $150,000. That
windin' up the business of the meetin', I took the
air.

At the risk of losin' my lady readers, I have got to
say that they was nothin' in that satchel I give Dolores
but newspapers. I had figured the thing about like
this— if I failed to bet the $150,000 and the Kid did
stop Enright in six rounds, he would look to me to
hand him back his winnin's at three to one or better.
Then would come the heavy crash! And whilst
he'd prob'ly forgive Dolores, he would never under
no circumstances forgive me. On the other hand,
if I bet it and he lost, we'd still be friends be
cause I'd only be carry in' out his orders. On top
of all this, they was always the chance that Kid Roberts
would stop Enright in a round and by not bettin' his
dough for him I'd be gippin' out of a fortune the
whitest guy which ever lived.

To absolutely refuse to give Dolores the jack might
bring her to the camp to upset the Kid on the eve
of the fight, so I played safe and took the hundred and
fifty thousand fish down to Wall Street — the best place
to handle a bet of that size on anything.

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 301

I stopped in old man Halliday's office to leave the
dough with him whilst I scouted around for the sportin'
men.

"Well," he says, suddenly, "perhaps I may be of
service. There appears to be a great deal of interest
in the fight down here — I've heard talk of large wagers
in several offices. Maybe / could place the money with
less difficulty than yourself and — "

"Say— that would be great!" I butts in. "If you'll
take the thing off my hands, I'll be tickled silly. Be
sides, it'll look better — you layin' the jack instead of
me. If / go around bettin' any such money as this
that the fight won't go six rounds, the wisenheimers is
liable to think the thing's framed."

He nods and, puttin' the sugar into his safe, wrote
me a receipt for it. I sure had plenty of receipts that
day for $150,000!

When I got back to the camp, the Kid is stretched
out on a sofa readin' a newspaper. The first thing
he says is did I get his money down. I says I have
gave it to a Wall Street bettin' commissioner to place
the way he told me, and he says that's fine. Then he
calls me over and shows me the paper.

"As I expected," he says grimly, "the bottom has
fallen out of Mexicali Oil — remember, that's the stock
my father has all his capital in? — so he's whipped
again! Poor dad," he goes on pityin'ly, "he's too old
now to match his wits against those wolves. The steel-
trap brain is rusted ! I wish I had made him sell out
and bet his money with mine." He jumps up. "Well,"
he laughs, "we'll have plenty of money after this fight !
But I'm sorry for dad. This thing must have been an

302 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

awful shock to his pride." He nods to the paper.
"Poor old pater — they never come back!"

Well, fin'ly the night comes when we shoulder our
ways down a aisle of close-packed, yellin', fight-mad
fans and climb through the ropes opposite Monsieur
Jack Enright (which the sport writers has now
christened "Killer" Enright). We continued right on
over to his corner and examined his bandages, and
Enright kept his eyes on the floor, scowlin' and very
serious.

"Cheer up, it's all fun!" I says to him, after his
goat. The sport writers laughed, and the telegraph
instruments ticked that down into history.

"We come here to fight — not talk !" snarls Enright's
manager.

"You'll get what you come for, guy !" I says. "And
I have also told the sport writers all about that rabbit
punch of yours, Enright, so watch your step for the
few minutes you'll be in here!"

And then we left him.

They was little time wasted in fussin' around. The
champ got a fair hand when he was introduced — when
it come Enright's turn they rocked the buildin' with
cheers. The men posed for a couple of flashlights,
and then — the bell.

The first round wasn't a minute old before the
thickest dumb-bell in the abattoir knew that Kid Rob
erts had gone back eighty-seven miles and that En-
right had the chance of his lifetime if he kept his head.
The crowd was with the "Killer" almost to a man;
they wanted to see a new champion made. They booed

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 303

and razzed every miss of the Kid's and cheered them
selves hoarse at Enright's every lead. They shrieked
and howled for Enright to muss the Kid up, murder
him, knock him dead, goal the big stiff!

Now, all of this was new to the highly sensitive and
proud-spirited Kid Roberts. It got under his skin,
murdered his usual cool judgment and perfect timin'.
He was carryin' at least twelve pounds excess bag
gage around his waist line, he was slow, and his anxiety
to finish Enright swiftly and cop the heavy bet, added
to the hostile attitude of the mob, made him careless
and wild. The results of all this was that Enright took
the first three rounds by a wide margin, usin' a wicked
right hook to the face and poundin' the body with both
hands at close quarters with deadly effect.

The Kid rushed out to end matters in the fourth
round and unluckily run into a right smash to the head
that drove him against the ropes, goofy. The mob
went crazy, yellin' for Enright to finish him and, still
dazed, the Kid begin tradin' wallops with one of the
hardest hitters that ever stepped into a ring. It was
easy to see that Enright carried the heaviest guns ; and
after he drove two murderous smashes to the heart, I
yelled for the Kid to clinch and hang on till the bell.
But Kid Roberts was champion, and with the idiotical
pride that's licked many's the champ before him, he
shook his head and stood toe to toe with Enright, givin'
swing for swing and hook for hook. Again I bellered
for the Kid to box Enright, which knew nothin', and
not to slug with him, and this time he took my advice
as his head grew clearer. He began stabbin' Enright's

304 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

face with his long, snappy left and crossin' his right
to the head. Enright had enough of this inside a min
ute, and was hangin' on at the bell, lookin' wildly to
his corner for advice. Nevertheless, the crowd cheered
him to the echo when he floundered to his corner and
booed the Kid as heartily when he sunk down wearily
on his stool.

Four rounds and Enright still on his feet and a
hundred and fifty thousand berries gone if he stays
two more!

Round Five was tame compared to the others. Actin'
on my advice, Kid Roberts saved his strength for the
final effort in the sixth round and made no attempt
to carry the battle to Enright. Payin' no attention to
the frantic howls of the mob to open up and take a
chance, the champ danced lightly around the clumsy
Enright, pepperin' him with left jabs and occasionally
sinkin' a torrid right to the wind, clinchin' when the
goin' got rough. They was wrapped in a fond em
brace on the ropes at the bell.

The sixth round was one that will be recalled by
anybody which was there when they have forgot their
first names ! The sound of the gong hadn't quite died
out when the Kid was on Enright like a famished
tiger. He ripped a left and right to the face, drawin'
the blood in a stream and, as Enright vainly tried to
dive into a clinch, the champ switched his attack to
the body and soon had Enright's side a large blotch of
crimson. Enright begin swingin' wildly, when a left
hook caught him square on the button and he fell in
a heap. He was so badly dazed he never waited for
no count but come springin' up mechanically, both arms

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 305

curled protectin'ly around his jaw. It would of
been a easy matter for the Kid to step aside and
measure him, but he lost his head and wasted a dozen
haymakers on Enright's neck and shoulders.

The crowd was now all composed of lunatics, and
I died a million deaths as the seconds slipped by with
Enright still on his feet and the entire bank roll de-
pendin' on a knockout in this round.

Enright, seemin'ly gettin' stronger on punishment,
followed the advice from his corner and stepped into
the Kid, workin' both hands fast. Again the Kid
dropped him, with a glancin' right this time, and again
Enright bounced up, after a count of four. Tough?
They didn't make 'em any tougher than this baby!
Both landed hard rights to the head and then the Kid
was short with a left to the jaw. Enright put a wicked
right to the body and brought a fresh roar from the
crowd when he doubled the Kid up with a left smash
to the same place. I had a watch in my hand and I
yelled to the Kid that they's less than a minute to go
and to knock Enright dead or we're broke. He shook
himself desperately and slammed Enright all over the
ring, but this guy curls up, bends almost to the floor,
leaves nothin' uncovered and takes it. His idea now
was to weather the storm and stick out the round —
nothin' more. Crazy with the thoughts of what he
was losin', the Kid deliberately stepped away, droppin'
his hands to lead Enright on. Enright's head peeped
over his bent arm and like a flash the Kid shot a ter
rific right to the jaw, droppin' him like a poled ox.
And the very instant that big tramp hit the floor for a
sure knockout, the bell rung, endin' the sixth round

306 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

and endin' Kid Roberts's hundred and fifty thousand
bucks! The gong had saved Enright — he'd stayed the
six rounds.

Well, it was a funeral in our corner as the Kid slowly
slumped down on his stool and bent his battered head in
his hands. They was nothin' for me to say — nothin' to
do but pat the Kid on his quiverin' back and whisper
to him like you do to a baby or your girl, as the
handlers frantically worked over him. After all his
struggles to pile up a roll, he ain't got a nickel. Havin'
bet and lost his end of the purse, he's fightin' Enright
for nothin' from now on. His old man has evidently
been cleaned out by the bust "id Dolores Brewster
is now out of reach till he can climb back again.

"Listen, Kid!" I pants in his ear. "Stall it out
with this guy till the fifteenth anyways, and maybe
I can bull McManus into thinkin' we deliberately let
Enright stay for the pictures — see ? Maybe I can make
him give us that twenty-five grand bonus he offered,
and we'll have that anyways! Hang on to him till
you're stronger and — "

The Kid looks up for the first time, like a guy just
comin' out of ether. His glassy eyes swings around
on the mob which is still poundin' their seats and
howlin' for Enright to knock him dead.

"I'm not thinking how long I can stay," he says in a
husky snarl, "I'm thinking how quick I can win! I was
a fool and, like all fools, I've paid the price — lost every
thing — may lose my championship too. Stay fifteen
rounds? I can't go two more rounds! I've punched
myself out on this fellow — no condition — should have
trained — knew it all — " His head swings up, and he

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 307

glares over at Enright's corner with his one good eye.
"Mister Enright," he mutters, "you represent Fate!
I've knocked you down a couple of times and you're
still there — grinning at me. Well, here goes for my last
try against you — there will only be one of us when the
bell rings for the end of this — "

The gong cut him off.

Sensin' the end, the mob is standin' on their seats
when the men come together. Enright missed a left
swing, but connected with a right that bent the Kid's
already tremblin' knees and laid his cheek open a good
four inches — the ensuin' gore makin' it look much
worse. This would of v—und it up for a guy with less
heart than the Kid, but it acted on the champ like a
tonic. He was hurt, busted, and, for the first time
durin' the muss — mad. Before, he'd only been anxious
to end it quick to win his bet, now he wanted Enright's
heart ! He knew he only had one flurry, one flash
left in his tired, achin' body, and he sailed in to kill
or get killed. He rushed Enright to the ropes and,
pinnin' him there, drove a smashin' left to the wind
with a "plunk" that was heard in the last row.

A minute before the mob had been callin' the Kid
a bum, now they are with him to a man because he's
out in front. Such is life in the prize ring and — any
thing else! On the break, Enright swung a wild
haymaker that landed high on the Kid's head, but that
was the Killer's last effort. As he rushed in, both hands
swingin' wildly, the Kid stepped to one side and hooked
his right flush to the jaw, tumblin' Enright to the can
vas. Enright's handlers yelled for him to stay down,
but he shook his head and staggered to his feet. The

308 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

fast weakenin' Kid measured him with a left and then
crashed him to the mat with another right hook.
Enright never moved a muscle whilst he was counted
out, the Kid standin' over him lookin' at the hysterical
crowd, which is now tellin' each other at the top of
their voices that he's the greatest champion that ever
lived.

We are still world's heavyweight champion — but we
ain't got a nickel !

Dolores and Senator Brewster is at the hotel when
we get back, and when I seen her with the satchel I had
give her in her hand I turned pale. The Kid shakes
the Senator's hand, kisses Dolores, apologizes for his
battered appearance, like that was of any importance,
and then he begins to tell her he ain't got a dime in
the world.

"Yes, you have, Kane dear," butts in Dolores, her
s shinin'. "I saved it for you — your hundred and
i..;y thousand is right here!" And she puts the satchel
on a table.

Woof ! Can you imagine my sensations right then ?
I am wonderin' which window I'll leap out of when
Dolores opens that bag and sees nothin' but newspa
pers. The Kid looks kind of bewildered as Dolores
begins strugglin' with the catch on the satchel.

"Just a minute, Miss Brewster," I says in a kind of
muffled voice, steppin' forward. "Don't open that
bag — it — eh — they ain't a nickel in it!"

And then, whilst the Kid looked from Dolores to
me, his suddenly hardened features gradually softenin'
and her usually soft eyes gradually hardenin', I told

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 309

'em how I had fooled Dolores and bet the Kid's money
like he told me. How I'd met his old man in his office
by chance and gave him the entire roll to bet that the
Kid would stop Enright in six rounds. I wave old
man Halliday's receipt for the jack at the busted Kid.

Nobody said nothin' for a minute — the toughest
sixty seconds I ever spent in my life! Then Dolores
spoke, her eyes scorchin' me. "Oh !" she kind of flung
at me. "And I trusted you!"

Never in her life will that girl believe I'm not
crooked !

"No !" says the Kid suddenly, throwin' an arm
around me. "You must not misjudge him, Dolores,
you must not be angry. I'd stake my life on this man's
honesty — frequently have — and he did right! He
followed my instructions to the letter — "

A knock on the door interrupted him, and old man
Halliday walks in, grabs the Kid and they hug each
other. "Still champion !" says the old man, his chest
out a extry foot.

"Still champion, dad !" smiles the Kid. "But we're
back about four years. I'm penniless, as you probably
know. Of course, you placed the money?"

"Yes," says the old man, "I placed it — / placed it
in Mexicali Oil and, as for being penniless — " He
laughs, kinda hysterically. "You're rather hard to
please, Kane. I should say, roughly, that at this
minute you're worth half a million!"

"Holy mackerel!" I yells and fell into a chair.
This stuff is tough on the heart! The rest seemed
speechless.

310 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

"But — but — " stammers the whitefaced Kid, "the
bottom fell out of Mexicali Oil — I saw it in the news
papers — "

"Some days ago, of course/' beams the old man. "I
— ah — we attended to that, and that's when I
bought — with your heaven-sent hundred and fifty
thousand ! The money was brought to me to wager
for you and, taking your advice, I stuck to my own
game. The long-promised gusher was brought in this
morning and when I ceased operations this afternoon
I held certified checks to the tune of some four hun
dred and eighty thousand dollars and — well, have you
seen this?"

He hauls a extry from his pocket, and on the front
page in large type it says :

J. A. HALLIDAY COMES BACK!

Ex- Wizard of Wall Street

Wins Fortune in Oil.

Wild Scenes on Curb !

In a adjoining column is :
ROBERTS STOPS ENRIGHT IN SEVENTH.

"Well," says the Kid, kinda dazed, "all this is too
much for me — I'm — I'm bewildered!" He grabs his
father's hands and his eyes is very damp. "Dad." he
says, "I — you make me feel — eh — futile! The old
master, eh?" He straightens up and looks from one
to the other of us. "You must excuse me," he
apologizes, "I'm a bit used up. I've just come through

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 311

the hardest battle of my career, and I took a lot of
punishment — but — I'm still champion!"

The old man nods and picks up the paper, gazin' at
the glarin' headlines.

"Now that" he says, with the grin of a kid, "that
is exactly the way / feel !"

The bell.

ROUND TWELVE
JOAN OF NEWARK

THE idea that he was invincible took Napoleon from
the island of Corsica to the throne of the world. The
same belief took him from the throne of the world to
the island of St. Helena.

As soon as the average guy gets to be champion of
anything, whether it's pitchin' quoits or runnin' empires,
his regard for himself reaches a point that's hard for
the rest of us to understand. When he was battle-axin'
his way up, the attempts of the other bird to beat him
made him sore and in settin' out to take this one baby
he incidentally shoved himself ahead of the entire field.
But once he arrives at the top and some other guy
announces he's out to shove him off, your champ don't
get mad, he just laughs — laughs so hard he loses his
balance and you don't have to shove him, he tumbles
off!

Let us take the case of Kid Roberts, for the example.

After the Kid smashed Jack Enright down and out
in seven rounds, Jimmie McManus was busier than a
three-headed elephant in a peanut factory, scourin' the
country for the second victim. Meanwhile, this En-
right ducked up to Buffalo to gather what looked like
some terrible soft jack. He made a overnight match

312

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 313

with Knockout Pierce, a guy which nobody but Pierce's
father and mother had ever heard of up to then, and
which looked like a push over.

This brawl cost Monsieur Jacques Enright exactly
$40,000, which was what McManus was goin' to tip
him for his second quarrel with Kid Roberts. Knock
out Pierce ended the fight a minute and a half before
the bell in the first round with a terrific right hook to
the jaw. Enright was out so long that when he come
to the first thing he asked was whether or not the draft
law had passed Congress.

Well, of course, that was the curtain for Enright
and the fortunate young Mr. Knockout Pierce become
the boy wonder of fistiana. Always a cold-eyed
gambler, Jimmy McManus hesitated, however, about
signin' him to meet Kid Roberts. The punch that
knocked Enright dead might of been a fluke and James
didn't want to hire nobody which the Kid would stop
with his first feint. Immediately the typewriters opened
up on us from all over the ex-Land of the Spree. We
was accused of pickin' boloneys and bein' scared stiff
of Pierce which had flattened the tough Enright in less
than a round, whereas the champion had required seven
frames for the same job. Nine out every ten of them
sport writers knew in their hearts that it was the beatin'
Enright had got from the Kid which softened him up
and made him a mark for Pierce. How the so ever,
McManus quit to the newspapers and signed Knockout
Pierce to meet Kid Roberts in a twenty-round melee for
the heavyweight championship of the wide, wide world.

A lot of weeks was throwed away like they always
is before a championship fight, in selectin' the time,

314 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

the place, and the referee for this quarrel. This
wasn't our fault. Kid Roberts bad about the same
interest in who. where, and when he was groin' to box
as I have in tbe price of putty at Budapest. Like all
champions, he figured himself invincible. Understand,
the boy didn't brag about it ; Kid Roberts and conceit
was as far apart as 6 and 6.000. He looked on him
self as bein' unbeatable as calmly as he regarded the
risin' son — but also, with the same belief that it was
a fact. From the time I bought his contract from
Dummy Carney for a hundred fish when he was a
nervous, g"*1", preliminary boloney till the day he quit
the ring, the Kid ducked nobody, drawed no color lines,
or argued over weights, distance, or referees. He left
everything to my judgment and the tougher they come
the better.

So. bein' around New York, and havin' no more
iotaest in Knockout Pierce than he ever did in any
of his comin' opponents, this delay in rinchin' the fight
tickled the Kid silly.

For one thing, it give him some time to devote to
Dolores Brewster — which would of caused Geopatra
to jump in the handiest lake — and for another thing,
it give him a chance to do some campaignin' for her
father, which at that time was runnin' for reelection
to the U. S. Senate. Dolores headed a committee of
Janes, whilst the Kid had organized a bunch of his
ex-playmates from sweet old Yale and went hithers
and yon about the State makin' speeches for Senator
Brewster. By a strange coincidence, as we remark on
the campus, the Senator was a former New Haven
cut-up himself.

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 315

Now I had no objections to Kid Roberts helpin'
Senator Brewster to breeze home in front, because be
sides bein' a forty-six carat fight fan, as familiar a
figure as the referee at all the big bouts, the Sen of
course, was the Kid's comin' father-in-law and a all-
around regular guy. But I did holler murder about the
Kid neglectin' his trainin', stayin' up to all hours of
the night campaignin' for the Senator, fillin' himself
up with this fancy and fattenin' chow at these dinner
parties Dolores was always givin', and chasin' back and
forth to Long Island superintendin' the buildin' of the
palace him and her was goin' to live happy ever after
in. The long, tough years of the strict and monoto
nous trainin' grind, the early-to-bed and early-to-rise
thing, duckin' the jazz and practically livin' like a monk.
had all come to a end now accordin' to the Kid's way
of thinkin'. He was enjoyin' himself with this polit
ical campaignin', seein' Dolores every day. and loungin'
around in a dress suit after 6 p. m. where they was
soft lights and music and good-lookin', blue-blooded
Janes, instead of the reekin' din of a smoke filled fight
club and the smell of blood and arnica. He didn't
want to be bothered, and when Knockout Pierce come
to New York to box Gunner Macy, Kid Roberts re
fused to go with me for the purpose of gettin' a line
on Pierce's wares.

"Well. 7 went — and I seen enough to keep me awake
many's the night in the next few months! Knockout
Pierce, a cold-eyed, snarlin'. six-foot, 220-pound
fightin' machine of bone and muscle, let Gunner Macy
stay two rounds so's to give his first metropolitan
audience somethin' to talk about. He presented the be-

316 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

wildered Macy with a sparrin' lesson, let the Gunner
crack him to show the sharps he could take it, and
flitted about the ring like a startled ghost till twice the
Gunner fell on his ear from throwin' wallops at Pierce
that missed by fractions of a inch. Why, this baby
was clever enough to of boxed ten rounds under a
needle shower and never get hit by a drop of water,
and oh, how he could sock! A curvin' round-armed
right swing twenty seconds after the start of the third
round sent Gunner Macy to dreamland and the cus
tomers went home swearin' they'd see the Kid Roberts-
Knockout Pierce quarrel if it was staged on Mars.
Well, at that, it would of been well worth the trip !

A week or so after this a big show is put on at a
theatre in the land of Newark, N. J., for the benefit
of Thirsty Timbuctoo, Starvin' Siberia, Hungry Hun
gary, or Sufferin' Sebastopol. I forget now which one
of our League of Poor Relations was goin' to get this
jack. Anyways the Kid dropped everything, as he
always did to help any charity, and appeared on the bill
in a exhibition with a sparrin' partner.

I was sittin' in his dressin' room waitin' for him to
come off, when the guy which keeps the yokels away
from the stage door comes in and hands me a card. It
says like this:

JOAN STILLWELL
The Newark Evening Yell

A woman sport writer is a bit new, I thinks. Still
and all, I have never been no ladies' man — in fact I

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 317

have ducked the adjoinin' sex all my life, thereby missin'
a lot of fun and a equal amount of trouble. Whilst
I am hesitatin', the doorkeeper butts in with the in
formation that since he has been holdin' down his pres
ent portfolio he has seen more breath-takin' young
women than Flo Ziegfeld ever did, but the girl which
was waitin' to see Kid Roberts would of made Colum
bus forget what he sailed from Spain for. After
hearin' this sensational piece of news, I figured it was
no more than polite to see what the young lady wished.

I barely got time to smooth my hair when into the
dressin' room steps what all the poets thinks Eve
looked like, except, of course, she was dressed differ
ent. They is no more use of me attemptin' to describe
Joan Stillwell than they is of me tryin' to cross the
Pacific on a motorcycle. I may give you a faint idea
of her when I say that, hard-boiled as I am, she looked
as good to my startled eyes as Venus, $5,000 a week,
a California sunset, all the peaches and cream in the
world, the Prince of Wales's future, Rockefeller's
bank roll, and Mary Pickf ord ! A set of classy scenery
in no ways concealed a — eh — figure which would of
drove Helen from Troy to suicide, and I suppose when
Joan reads this she'll laugh herself sick.

Anyways, boys and girls, by the time she had raised
a pair of blue eyes which give me more kick than I
ever got over a bar before the plague, I am as short
of breath as I am of degrees from Oxford.

"Oh — pardon me, is Mister Roberts here?" she
asks, gettin' a bit red under my dumfounded stare.

"He is for all / know," I says, with a goofy grin.
"Look around — I'm dizzy!"

318 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

She gazes at me closely for a second, and then she
smiles. She knew she had goaled me all right — she'd
probably watched 'em swoon away like that since her
fifteenth birthday. Still out on my feet, I got her a
chair and asked her what she wished, prepared to see
that she got it if it was Niagara Falls.

"Why, I wanted to interview the champion for the
'Evening Yell,' " she tells me. "I intend doing some
articles on him from a woman's viewpoint for the
sporting page. I — I won't keep him long — just so I
can get a few interesting facts about his rise to the
top of his profession and that sort of thing, you know.
You are his manager, aren't you ?"

I am still in a trance, but manage to say yes.

"Perhaps you can tell me a few things while I'm
waiting for him, then," she says, tryin' not to giggle,
I suppose. "For instance, is it really true that he is
a Yale man?"

Well, I was gettin' kind of used to this dazzlin'
beauty then, and I cut loose with well-oiled and free-
swingin' tongue on my favorite subject, to the viz.,
Kid Roberts. Whilst Joan of Newark listened with
glistenin' eyes, I told her all the stuff you know about,
and she seemed to be eatin' it up, only interruptin' now
and then to ask a question about a date or the like
and mark it down in her notebook. She seemed to
think it marvelous that the Kid was due to marry into
the family of a U. S. Senator and that his father had
made such a wonderful comeback, and she asked me
a lot about that. Well, I aimed to satisfy the girl, and
I was as full of details as a income-tax blank.

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 319

Whilst she's still cross-examinin' me, in comes no
less than Kid Roberts himself. I was watchin' close,
and I seen the deep breath he took before he gazed at
me and then back to her with a sudden smile. Joan
has stood up the minute he come in, and them sapphire
eyes of hers showed that the Kid had registered heavy
with our fair young visitor. Kid Roberts was a natural
lady assassin, if they ever was one. Lookin' from one
to the other of 'em give me the blues — not that I had
my fears about the Kid forgettin' Dolores. It just
happened to bring to my mind what a fat chance /
had of ever grabbin' off for myself anyone like either
Dolores or Joan, and right then and there I knew that
nothin' less than a duplicate of 'em would do.

In talkin' about his future plans, the Kid tells Joan
how tickled he'll be when he has fought Knockout
Pierce and retired, as whilst he liked boxin', he hated
the prize ring and its "sordid, bestial atmosphere!" as
he called it.

"Oh, I'm so glad to hear you say that, Mister Halli-
day !" says Joan, callin' him by his real name like he
asked her. "I wish my little brother could hear those
sentiments coming from you, the world's champion
boxer. You know" — she smiles cutely — "you're a god
to him ; his room is literally covered with your pictures
from the sporting magazines !"

"He is a boxing enthusiast?" asks the Kid politely.

"He's a little imp!" laughs Joan. "But the best-
hearted, cleanest, and manliest little fellow in the
world," she adds proudly, lookin' from me to the Kid
like she would love to see somebody try and deny it.
"Jimmy has designs on the lightweight championship,"

320 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

she explains. "He's a shipping clerk by day and "One-
Round Stillwell/ or some such horrible person, by night
at those awful clubs. Jimmy loves me, and ordinarily
I can do anything with him — there's just the two of
us, you know — but he is determined to be a prize
fighter. Oh, I wish I could ask you — to — to — see him,
Mister Halliday, and speak to him as you did to me,"
she winds up earnestly. "He's such a young boy
and—"

"We'll both talk with him, Miss Stillwell," butts in
the Kid, as she hesitates. "And I think I know of a
perfectly harmless way of showing your brother what
a little chump he is to throw away his best years in
the prize ring. I'll be glad to help." He turns to me.
"Find out where the boy is fighting, old man," he says,
"and bring him over to see me. If arguments fail, I
think he would be glad of a chance to make himself
useful around the gym. We can even intimate to him
that he's part of my — er — camp, and I think," he
winds up, turnin' back to Joan, "I think that about a
week of the hard and thankless work will cure him
quicker than anything any of us might tell him. Want
to try it ?"

"I think you are perfectly splendid — thanks awfully !"
says Joan, throwin' her smile into high. "You can
find him at nights around the Aldine Athletic Club
here. Most any of the men can point him out to you —
in fact, he already has quite a swarm of admirers.
And now I won't bother you any longer; good-bye
and thanks, both of you, for everything!"

Gee, but that room looked empty after she'd went !

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 321

"Kid," I says to Roberts, still sniffin' the perfume she
left in the air, "for a damsel like that I would cut off
both arms with my face wreathed in smiles !"

"You'd find yourself at a disadvantage, then, if you
won her," he grins, gettin' into his citizen's clothes.
"She certainly appears to be a charming girl, and I
wish you luck!"

"Wish me luck?" I sighs — ain't love tough, hey?
"Why, I got the same identical chance of makin' Miss
Stillwell as I have of bein* elected the next king of
England by acclamation !"

"Look here," says the Kid, stoppin' in the midst of
combin' his hair and comin' over to lay his hands on
my shoulders. "Don't ever let me hear you talk in
that strain again ! I've known you now for almost four
years — we've been together, fair weather and foul. My
success has rested more than once upon your honesty,
judgment, and courage. You assume a hard-boiled
cynicism, but you're a darn big fraud, old fellow, and
the finer things of life have as strong an appeal to you
as they do to the 'drawing-room set' that you pretend
to ridicule. You're a he-man, with the heart of, no
doubt, your mother, and if you had a single funda
mental weakness of character you never could have
hidden it from me, during what we've been through
since I got into this infernal game ! I know you better
than you do yourself — far better — and if you were my
brother I'm sure I'd boast of the relationship. So
don't patronize yourself old boy; you're as good as the
next one and better than most. If Joan Stillwell is to
be the one, she is a very fortunate young woman !"
Even though I knew they was none of the above true,

322 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

I found more difficulty with my Adam's apple for the
space of a second than I have had in years. Likewise,
I seemed to have got somethin' in my eyes.

"Kid," I says, fin'ly, "I— I— you big stiff !"

And grabbin' one of his shoes from the floor, I
heaved it at him for the purposes of changin' the sub
ject and — eh — gettin' control. . . .

Well, a couple of days after, me and the Kid is sittin'
in the rooms at the hotel, when the desk phones up to
find out will we see some reporters. As counterfeiters,
yeggs, murderers, and the like is about the only human
bein's in this wide, wide world which is tellin' the truth
when they claim they don't like publicity, I says to send
the boys right up. When I opened the door to let 'em
in a few minutes later, I couldn't blame the Kid for
givin' vent to a gasp of surprise. It looked more like
we was going to be raided instead of interviewed!
They was about fifteen young men filed into the room,
and although I knew all the sport writers of the New
York papers, these babies was strangers to me. A tall
thin one coughs and says to me :

"Eh — I'm with the 'Post' — eh — did you give an inter
view to the Newark 'Evening Yell' the other day ?"

"Sure !" I grins. "I told the story of the Kid's life
to a young lady by the name of Miss Stillwell, which
wanted the same for the sportin' page."

"For the sporting page, eh?" says the reporter,
lookin' around at the other guys, some of which laughs
out loud. "Clever girl !" he goes on, facin' me again.
"She's losing time in Newark — that's a cinch!"

The Kid frowns, and I took a step toward this guy.

"Mister Roberts — eh — pardon me, Mister Halliday

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 323

— " says the reporter, "how long has Senator Brewster
been a business partner of your father's, and is it true
that the senator — eh — bought your father's seat on the
Stock Exchange?"

Wow!

"What the devil are you talking about?" busts out
the Kid, his face gettin' red. "You had better put
your questions in less offensive language, young man,
or — I say, what's the idea of all this, anyhow?"

The reporter grins and takes a folded newspaper
from his pocket and hands it to the Kid. "Of course,"
he says smoothly, "you know that the Newark 'Evening
Yell' is a party organ in this neck of the woods, and,
naturally, your — eh — this rather amazing disclosure re
garding Senator Brewster that you made to a member
of its staff was a wonderful political weapon for them."

But the Kid, glancin' nervously over the newspaper,
has suddenly let out a muttered, gaspin' cuss, and spread
the paper out so's I could see it. Right smack on page
1 is a headline as big as Chicago :

SAYS BREWSTER BACKS WALL STREET WIZARD

Evening Yell Gets Exclusive Story of New York
Senator's Connection with J. A. Halliday.

Speculator's Son, "Kid Roberts," Heavyweight

Champion, Admits Facts — To Wed

Senator's Daughter !

Well I just flopped in a chair and watched the room
go round and round. So Joan had doubled-crossed us !

324 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

She'd pumped me dry — took everything I told her and
twisted it around till it meant a darn sight more than
was actually true. And here this other reporter had
just tricked me into admittin' this was all facts! Can
you picture what that article was goin' to do to the old
senator, practically on the eve of election ? I knew then
how Samson felt when Delilah give him that haircut!

"I have nothing to say regarding this article," the
Kid is tellin' the reporters, edgin' them over to the
door, "except that it is a vicious mass of distorted
facts and lying insinuations! I have no doubt that
both my father and Senator Brewster will have a state
ment to make later. Good morning, gentlemen !"

"Fair enough!" says the thin guy, steppin' to the
door.

"Is it true that you're engaged to Miss Brewster?"
pipes up another one.

"None of your damned business !" barks the Kid,
now on edge.

Nobody was slow gettin' through the door.

At that minute the phone rings, and the Kid, bein'
nearest, answered. It was no less than Senator Brew
ster himself, and from the Kid's face and his chokiri'
interruptions, I could see the boy was takin' punish
ment ! At last he hangs up and turns to me, f rownin'
and bitin' his lip. I am all set for the bawlin' out of
my life.

"Well, go ahead and tie into me, Kid," I says gloom
ily. "I'm the dumb-bell which spilled the limas, and — "

"No," says the Kid, his face clearin'. "It wasn't
your fault at all. You didn't fathom the girl's
shrewdness, and I wouldn't have either. We've both

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 325

already talked too much to a very clever reporter!
Cloaking her real purpose under the request for an
interview for the sporting page, our friend Joan Still-
well scored a notable victory for the senator's enemies.
According to her rather peculiar lights, I suppose she
did a good job !" He pats my shoulder. "Cheer up,"
he adds ; "it can't be helped now. For your sake as well
as the senator's, I'm sorry she bilked us — you were
rather hard hit, weren't you?"

"I fell— sure !" I admits. "But that's all over now.
I guess that stuff about her kid brother bein' a scrapper
was the bunk too — hey ?"

"Probably," says the Kid with a hard, short laugh.
"Though that was a touch that approached art ! We'll
never see her again, at any rate. I'll wager she's
laughing herself sick right now at the way she took
us in !"

But we did see her again, and she wasn't laughin'
either.

We was gettin' ready to go down and put on the
feed bag, when once again the phone makes good and
again the Kid answers it. This time he says : "Come
right up!" in a funny voice, hangs up, and turns to
me with a smile. "Stand a slight shock?" he says.

"Now what the — eh — what's the matter?" I hollers,
jumpin' up. "Who was that ?"

"Miss Joan Stillwell," answers the Kid.

Then there's a knock at the door, and I flung it
wide open with a snarl. Joan was there all right and.
sore as I was — I was more hurt than mad, anyways —
I noticed she was as bewilderin' as ever! She's been

326 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

doin' a piece of weepin' also, as I seen when she raised
her veil and stepped kind of hesitatin'ly inside. Kid
Roberts pulls over a chair for her with a stiff bow —
mad or otherwise, the boy was always a gent.

"Well," I sneers, standin' beside her chair, "what
are you figurin' on puttin' over now, hey?"

With that she buries her billion-dollar face in her
hands and busts right out cryin'!

This was all different, and me and the Kid looks at
each other in the greatest of surprise. The first thing
I know I am pattin' a silk-clad shoulder and whisperin'
sweet nothin's at where I guessed her ear was, and on
the other side Kid Roberts is doin' ditto. A couple
of fine, strong men, hey?

"I suppose you — you loathe me!" says Joan to me
with quiverin' lips.

"Do I look it ?" I says kind of sadly. The Kid smiles
sarcastically, and this seems to get her goat.

"Won't both of you at least listen to an explanation?"
she asks. "You don't have to believe it, you know."

"No," says the Kid, still smilin' politely but coldly,
"we don't have to believe it. Eh — proceed, Miss Still-
well; I'm sure you will be interesting."

Her face floods with red at that, but she was game !
Me — I'm completely gone again! I even managed to
slip her a encouragin' look, and got a glance in ex
change for it that repaid me with usurious interest.

"I want you to know that I was innocent of any
malicious intent when I got that interview from you,"
she says, the words just tumblin' out. "I was not
trying to be cunning or clever or — or — anything! I
wrote that interview as a straight sporting story, putting

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 327

no value on the — the — political weapons you acciden
tally placed in my hands, beyond the fact that they lent
color and romance to my yarn. But the sporting edi
tor, with his horrid trained nose for news, sniffed out
my story's news value and gave it to the city editor.
With the aid of a rewrite man and the staff political
writers, he did the rest ! They showed me the proofs
of my rehashed copy, and I stormed and pleaded to
have it kept out of the paper, without avail. Why,
that man actually patted me on the back and promised
me a bonus for what he said was a shrewd piece of
work on my part. I am not shrewd! I didn't mean
to be — I — I hate that word — I — well, I immediately
resigned, that's all ! And now — "

The Kid reaches for his hat. "And now," he repeats
after her, "will you come with me and tell all that to
Senator Brewster, Miss Stillwell? It will help every
one of us immensely if you will, and I, for one, believe
your story without question."

"Why, I'll be only too glad to explain to the Senator,"
says Joan. "Of course I'll go."

"Just a minute, Miss Stillwell. Was that stuff about
your brother bein' a box fighter — eh — was that level
too?" I butts in.

"He's going to box at the Aldine Athletic Club to
night," she says. "But I suppose now you won't bother
to—"

"You suppose wrong," I says. "I'll go over and see
him, as advertised. And don't you let Senator Brew
ster bawl you out either. We're all apt to make mis
takes, as Eve remarked."

Well, that night, as they say in the movies, I eased

328 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

into a ringside seat at the Aldine A. C. in Newark at
exactly 9.30, and at exactly 9.33 Joan's brother, "Young
Stillwell," climbed through the ropes to earn the fifty
bucks he was guaranteed for a six-round preliminary
with another boloney. At exactly 9.50 I had what I
firmly believed to be the next lightweight champion
signed to a contract puttin' him under my management
for a term of three years, subject to sister Joan's
approval. There is nothin' I like so much as speed !

The "lightweight" in the opposite corner from Young
Stillwell must of tipped the beam at 150 if he weighed
a gram, whilst Joan's kid brother looked well under
135. He was far from handsome, accordin' to collar
advertisement standards, but he sure looked beautiful to
me! This baby had a pair of shoulders on him like a
heavyweight, the short, thick neck, square jaw, high
cheek bones, thin lips, and beetlin', rugged brow of the
natural-born fighter which craves no other weapons but
his hands. His legs was the muscular limbs of the
distance runner and as he flexed himself against the
ropes whilst awaitin' the bell, his powerful arms showed
a wonderful reach. That the mob was with him was
displayed when he first jumped into the ring and shed
his bath robe. The first time he looked at the guy he
was goin' to fight was when they shook hands in mid
ring and went to work.

It was a wow of a brawl whilst it lasted, but a minute
ain't very long. Never in your life have you seen such
a change as come over Young Stillwell with the sound
of the bell. The grin left his thin lips like magic, and
he licked 'em hungrily with the snarl of a short-
tempered panther. The heavy brows drawed together,

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 329

almost meetin' in a curvin', shaggy line as he shot off
that stool like he'd been released with a spring. The
other guy was tough and willin', but that wasn't enough.
Stillwell hit him with everything but the club's license
and the timekeeper, floorin' his man three times before
the referee declared a armistice. His handlers dragged
him to his corner, still lookin' back at what he left on
the floor and still snarlin'. Joan's bloodcurdlin' brother
wasn't satisfied with just a win — he wanted to finish
his man. That baby was a fightin' fool !

Well, Young Stillwell liked to passed away when
the club matchmaker banged on his dressin'-room door
and told him that the manager of the world's heavy
weight champion wished a word with him. This
man-eatin' tiger was so timid that he couldn't
speak.

I was already plannin' how I'd ease him along, teach
him to hit from the shoulder, and knock 'em stiff with
one wallop, instead of beatin' 'em down slowly with a
hundred pulled from the ankle.

He nearly went cuckoo with joy when I told him he
would get a chance to help condition Kid Roberts for
his comin' championship battle with Knockout Pierce,
as part of his own trainin', and I could of signed him
to a agreement right then and there givin' me 90 per
cent of his earnin's. But I give Young Stillwell a fair
contract — in fact, what many's the pilot would call .1
sucker contract, with me the sucker.

Within the week Jimmy McManus, the fight pro
moter, called me and Knockout Pierce's manager into
a conference, with the results that the date for the big
quarrel was fin'ly set for two months later. Knock-

330 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

out Pierce wanted to make it the same day, but ten
years from then would of hit me better !

I rounded up Kid Roberts and told him to cancel all
games he had scheduled with Dolores and Senator
Brewster, because he was goin' to hit for the Maine
woods immediately to ready up for Knockout Pierce.
Before I was half ways through he shut me off and be
gin to rave about the palace he had built on Long Island
for him and Dolores. The last brick had just been
laid a few days before, and nothin' would do but I must
come right down with him and look it over. He was
like a baby with a new toy, and bubbled away about
the "blue room" and the "red room" and the gardens
and this and that. He was less interested in the date
of his fight with Knockout Pierce than a shark is inter
ested in the price of ice skates. Before I realize it I
am huddled beside him in his racin' car, burnin' the
roads to Long Island.

Well, there is no use of me describin' the Kid's
domicile, because that would make a serial itself.
They seemed to be upward of a million rooms in it —
rooms full of rugs which you sunk in up to your knees,
and furniture which would of brought a pleased grin
from Midas. They was a large, private swimmin'
pool lookin' like pictures of the old Roman baths, a
fully equipped gymnasium with a regulation ring and
the etc., a ballroom that — exercise your own imagina
tion, boys and girls, on the rest of the layout, and the
wilder you guess the nearer you'll come !

Fin'ly we come to two big rooms joined together and
openin' into a bathroom as big as the average flat.

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 331

There was a elegant view of the Sound from the win
dows, and it looked to me like there was every modern
convenience in it with the exception of a airplane and
maybe a private theater.

"A dude of a cave, Kid," I says admirin'ly.
"Why—"

"I'm glad you like it," he butts in, throwin' his arm
around my shoulders, "because — it's yours!"

Sweet Mamma! Can you imagine that?

Well, I don't know when I got the kick out of life
like I did when Kid Roberts made that simple remark.
In spite of the difference in our pedigrees and that it
was only a accident which ever throwed us together at
all, he was with me right to the end ! He wanted me
to come and live in his house with him, just like one
of the family, and he must of knowed as 7 did that
Dolores, which would be havin' the place filled with
her society friends, would holler murder at the idea of
a roughneck like me bein' a permanent ornament about
the house. Yet for me the Kid was willin' to risk a
jam with her. But I wasn't willin' to let him. I didn't
want nothin' to come up which would start the faintest
argument on my account, so after I thanked the Kid
all over the place I explained to him that I'd be out
of order there, or, at least, that I'd feel that way, and
besides, I couldn't get out ef the fight game with the
ease that he was goin' to, because box fightin' is the
only game I know. He broke in on me many times,
tellin' me he'd take me in partnership with him and his
dad, but I couldn't see that part of it either. Where
in the Hades would I fit in Wall Street and society?
Even whilst the Kid argued with me, my mind was

332 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

wanderin'. Wanderin' back to Young Stillwell, which
I was goin' to make lightweight champion of the world
as sure as the ocean is damp and just as I made Kid
Roberts king of the heavies. Kid Roberts was through
after his fight with Knockout Pierce, but I had to con
tinue on at the trade I was born to — and king maker
ain't so bad a trade at that ! You see, the story of Kid
Roberts represents practically his whole career, but it's
just a chapter in my life. Just a chapter !

I told the Kid about Young Stillwell and what I
hoped to do with him, and when he seen it was no use
to argue further he grinned and wished me luck, partic
ularly in convincin' Joan that a box fighter ain't
necessarily a bum. Well, on that point I had hopes,
because I had managed to make the girl agree to see
her brother box once, and I promised to tear up my
contract with the boy if she asked me to after that.
This come about in a odd way. There was what the
Kid would call a incident happened which give me the
delightful sensations of bein' a hero for a spell.

Havin' convinced Senator Brewster that she hadn't
double-crossed us with that article in the Newark
"Evenin' Yell," Joan was on one of Dolores' commit
tees, campaignin' with her for the female vote. The sen
ator's campaignin' manager, Mike Henderson, a wise
old bird and a veteran at political tricks, took the angle
that Joan's story in the Newark paper, which had been
reprinted in New York, would do the senator more
good than harm. He claimed the broadcast publication
of the fact that his daughter was goin' to marry a box
fighter would make a unqualified hit with the rough

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 333

and readys, whilst the hint of his Wall Street connec
tions, even though exaggerated, would do him no harm
with that type of vote. Altogether, Big Mike was well
pleased and had congratulated Joan in the Senator's
office, prob'ly fallin' under the spell of them eyes him
self. Joan would of gave a mummy a thrill! Senator
Brewster, whilst not as enthusiastic as Henderson, had
forgave Joan and was undoubtlessly interested in her.

But, anyways, Joan was speakin' from the back of
a auto down on Tenth Avenue one night, with me and
her brother along as bodyguards. We was right in the
middle of the guy's territory which was runnin' against
Senator Brewster, and there was some tough-lookin'
babies gathered around the bus. The whole thing
didn't take fifteen minutes, but that was long enough
to close my right eye tighter than a drum and loosen
a few odd teeth. Somebody made a insultin' crack,
and Young Stillwell goes over the side of the car in
one leap, both hands pumpin' fast. Joan let forth a
shriek, and a guy jumpin' on the runnin' board copped
the chauffeur on the jaw.

I flattened that baby with a chop on the side of the
head, and then I figured that if Young Stillwell got
badly hurt I would be out one comin' champion,
whereas if I got beat up it wouldn't mean nothin'.
Havin' got that settled I jumped into the strugglin'
mass around the car, layin' about me right merrily, as
the sayin' is. I ain't much of a gymnasium boxer my
self, but if I do say it I fight a mean street brawl !
There was two guys workin' on Stillwell, and I yanked
him in back of me, pushin' him into the car whilst I
buried my knee in the stomach of one of 'em and, with-

334 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

out losin' position, socked the other one stiff with a
right uppercut that not even Kid Roberts would of had
to apologize for. The chauffeur had come to life by
this time and started the motor, and after I have dis
tributed a few more clouts where they would do the
most good and — eh — stopped a few myself, I managed
to jump back into the car again and we shot away, and
that's all there was to that.

Joan wiped my face off with her handerchief and
made a heavy fuss over me for "rescuin" her, as she
put it, whereas, to be frank with you, the main thing
I was thinkin' of when I went over the top of that
auto was that under no circumstances did I want my
comin' champ beat up!

Well, I couldn't get Kid Roberts to come away
from New York and Dolores, although four times we
split up for good as a result of arguments over his
ideas of trainin' for a championship fight. The best
he would do was some mechanical boxin' and weight
pullin' a few hours a day. There was times when I
didn't even see him for days, and that's the way the
two months went by till the day of the battle with
Knockout Pierce and the last appearance in the ring
of Kid Roberts.

I had Joan's brother set for one of the prelimin
aries. He was to go six rounds with "Shifty" Mullen
— a tough boy — and I demanded and got $500 for
him, more money than Young Stillwell had ever seen
before in his life. As she promised, Joan was there
beside me at the ringside, white- faced and tremblin',
braced to see a bloody slaughter. The absence of his
usual reception from the bigger, noisier, and nastier

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 335

mob, the presence of his sister seein' him start for
the first time, and the sullen glare across the ring of
the rugged, experienced Shifty Mullen, all bothered
this young wildcat the same way they are bothered in
Iceland over the price of electric fans. Fightin'
was Young Stillwell's gift — his trick! He touched
gloves with Mullen, danced back till he felt the ropes
against his skin, and then bounded off 'em like a
maniac — nothin' else. The hard-boiled Mullen clipped
him on the chin with a terrible right as he was comin' in,
and then stepped away to let him fall. Young Still well
grinned over to Joan and went to work on the body with
both hands. Mullen tried everything he knew, but it
was a waste of time. In two and a half minutes Young
Stillwell had battered him to the canvas, where he was
only too glad to stay — all through.

The boy got a big hand leavin' the ring, and Joan,
her eyes sparklin', led the cheering. Her brother was
back from the dressin' room in no time, unmarked, un
ruffled, and grinnin' his head off. I pulled him aside
and slipped him the whole five hundred berries. I didn't
take a nickel from the boy — the purse was too small,
and then, again, I knowed I'd get mine later. He
dumps the bills into Joan's lap and shouts that I've
guaranteed him twenty thousand the next year. They
was still excitedly chatterin' away to each other as
Young Stillwell led her down the aisle and out, and a
blind man could see Joan was a convert.

But Kid Roberts's fight — his last battle — was all dif
ferent, and I was mighty glad that Joan had left the
abattoir and that Dolores had kept away. Up against
a remarkably clever, two-handed hitter, which had the

336 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

priceless advantage of youth, perfect condition, reach,
and about twelve pounds in weight, the champion fought
a losin' fight almost from the first bell. The old
stamina wasn't there, the old perfect timin' of punches
was gone, the once terrible right hook had lost its
kick.

Too much confidence, too much easy livin', chasin'
around at all hours of the day and night makin'
speeches for Senator Brewster, and the most fatal —
holdin' Knockout Pierce too cheaply — told the story.
With everything missin' but his heart, Kid Roberts
fought eleven bloody, desperate rounds on that alone
before goin' out like the champ of champs he was ! He
didn't need to make no apologies as he staggered down
the aisle to his dressin' room after it was all over, be
tween rows of guys which had gone crazy cheerin' him,
and still kept on cheerin' him, ignorin' the flushed and
pantin' new champion till they had give the Kid his
due. That must of helped a little, hey?

Nobody amongst the odd 30,000 screamin' maniacs
which seen Kid Roberts go down before Knockout
Pierce sat on a chair from the first round to the finish —
nobody could speak above a whisper for days after
ward. At the very beginnin' there was enough sensa
tion to satisfy Nero! After some light sparrin', the
Kid led with his left, but was short and got a crack on
the nose in return that brought the blood and a yell from
Pierce's friends of "How d'ye like him, Roberts?"
Again the Kid tried his left, and this time landed solidly
on the mouth, but Pierce shook his head and drove a
wicked right to the wind and a left to the heart, showin'
he had been tipped on the Kid's poor condition, and was

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 337

instructed to work on the body. They exchanged light
jabs in Pierce's corner, and, in dancin' away, Pierce
slipped to the floor. Kid Roberts instantly stooped
and helped him up, gettin' a big hand from the crowd
and a shake from Pierce, who then suddenly ripped
another right to the heart. The Kid's face paled and
down come his guard. Warn ! Like a flash Pierce had
hooked his left to the jaw, and the champ sprawled on
his back whilst the house was in a wild uproar.

Roberts was up at "seven," groggy but full of fight.
He tried to rush Pierce, but this guy stepped coolly
aside and floored the Kid again with a right chop to
the side of the head. The Kid got to his hands and
knees, pulled himself erect by the ropes, and, only
waitin' till he straightened up with his arms danglin'
helplessly, Pierce shot over two more hard rights,
crashin' him again to the mat.

By this time the mob was tearin' up the seats, and I
had bit entirely through my lower lip. The champion
just beat the count by a eyelash, got up reelin', but had
generalship enough left to fold his arms over his head
and dive into a clinch. Pierce, strong as a young bull,
shook him off, however, and was measurin' him for the
finisher when the bell rang. Knockout Pierce run to his
corner, wavin' his gloves at the crazy mob. The Kid
sagged over against the ropes and would of fell through
'em if I hadn't grabbed him. His eyes was starin'
vacantly at nothin'.

Well, a round-by-round account of this battle would
not be pretty, and it brings back no fond memories to
me, except to remind me of a exhibition of courage
which has been seldom equaled and never surpassed in

338 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

the history of a game where courage is the first require
ment. From that heartbreakin' first round on, the
Kid was on Queer Street, battlin' without a chance
and battlin' on the pure fightin' instinct which must
of been bred into him by centuries of thoroughbred
stock.

In the fourth round Knockout Pierce devoted all his
attention to the Kid's reddened body, and one of the
champion's ribs, busted a year before by Dynamite Jack
son, cracked again under the bombardment, changin'
the Kid's complexion to a sickly gray with pain from
then on. In Round Seven, Pierce closed the Kid's
right eye tight, and in the ninth shut the other. Blinded,
unable even to see where his punches was goin', the
Kid wouldn't let me throw in the sponge, but stood up
to his beatin' like somethin' even higher than a cham
pion — if there is any such thing! Even the guys which
had bet on Pierce was tearin' the air now with their
cheers for Kid Roberts — or maybe their cheers was
not so much for the battered, grimly pawin' Kid as they
was for the fightin' heart which kept his tremblin'
body erect. Man, pan the fight game all you want —
call it brutal, disgustin', crooked, sordid, anything
you please, but don't say you can't get a kick out
of it!

In the tenth round Kid Roberts made a dyin' rally
that panicked the already hysterical mob. Findin'
Pierce, by instinct alone it must of been, he split his
nose with a straight left and drove him to cover against
the ropes with a desperate flurry of hooks and swings.
But that was the last. Nature was beginnin' to reach
for the sponge now! Yet this big stiff Pierce, his

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 339

own heart broke by the Kid's superhuman exhibition
of gameness, seemed unable to land the finishin' blow —
the clean knockout which would of wound it up merci
fully. I cursed that guy for a tramp till the referee
warned me, as he cut and slashed wildly at the swayin',
blinded champ, every blow that socked against that boy
bein' a knife in my own poundin' heart.

Then, in the middle of the eleventh round, I couldn't
stand it no longer! Kid Roberts, holdin' himself up
with one arm on the ropes was feebly tryin' to protect
himself with the other from a hurricane of rights and
lefts to the head. Pierce was too excited at the pros
pects of a knockout to stand off and measure him, but
was batterin' him to pieces with short, choppy blows.
With tears that I ain't ashamed of streamin' down my
face, I jumped through the ropes, pushed past the
referee in between 'em and caught the Kid in my arms,
shovin' my face into Pierce's and yellin' in a voice that
I didn't recognize: "Leave him alone, you big stiff.
You'll make a fine champ, you will ! You're a hell of a
finisher — you can't knock a dyin' man stiff!"

Then half the crowd was in the ring with me, and
Knockout Pierce stood alone, whilst the mob fought
to shake the hand of the loser.

For many's the week afterward the sport writers
panned me to a fare-thee-well, arguin' that I lost Kid
Roberts the title by committin' the foul of jumpin' into
the ring. They claimed the Kid might of come back —
that with his heart he always had a chance while he was
in there. Well, boys and girls, that's what I jumped
in for. I wanted them babies to think just that! It
was about the last thing I could do for Kid Roberts,

340 THE LEATHER PUSHERS

anyways. The boy was licked, as they all have to be
some time. Why should I let that big stiff cut him to
pieces? I made him lose on a foul and saved him at
least the disgrace a champ never forgets — bein' knocked
stiff!

Well, that's about all. Senator Brewster was re-
elected; I don't remember by how much majority, but
if it was one it was enough, hey? He presented Joan
with a job as his private secretary and Dolores with a
check for $250,000 when she married Kid Roberts, or
Kane Halliday again now, a month after the fight. !
had the exactin' portfolio of best man at the weddin' and
Joan was a bridesmaid. It was a very quiet affair, no
hullabaloo what the so ever, and they sailed for Europe
right afterward, leavin' the loneliest guy in the world
on the dock, meanin' me. I went back to the hotel,
looked in the Kid's room which he would never occupy
again, cussed a bit, and begin linin' up a campaign
amongst the set-ups for Young Stillwell. Not bein'
able to keep my mind on the subject, what with all the
excitement and the etc., I called up Joan and, usin' nerve
which I never thought was in me, I asked her could I
take her to dinner and then maybe to a show. She said
she'd be tickled silly, which made it two people which
felt that way. I asked about Jimmy, her brother, and
she says he's fine and is now goin' to bed at nine and
gettin' up at six to do his road work.

"I hear nothing day and night but what a wonder f jl
person you are," she says. "Jimmy already looks upon
you as his big brother !"

"Eh— oh, he'll get over that," I says, kind of thrilled.

THE LEATHER PUSHERS 341

"Maybe he will," says Joan, very soft, "but / won't!"
A couple of months later we sent the Kid a cable to

Monte Carlo. I would liked to of seen his face when

he read it.

THE END

A Selection from the
Catalogue of

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS

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The Elephant God

By
Gordon Casserly

" There is no elephant in fiction like Badshah."

The Sunday Express,

" A thrilling story of adventure and terror in the
primeval forest." — The Times,

" Badshah is most lovable."

The Times Supplement,

" A yarn without a yawn in it."

The Sunday Express,

" A wild orgy of jungle thrills." — The Chronicle,

" A wild romance of extraordinary accounts of
elephants and jungle." — The Weekly Dispatch,

" It is a great and glorious yarn, and I mean to
read it all over again." — MR. JAMES DOUGLAS in The
Sunday Express,

" The whole book is delightful. Major Dermot,
the hero, is a splendid man. He is a creation
worthy of Kipling." — The Church Family News,

" It is difficult to imagine anything more f ascina-
ting."— John o' London's Weekly,

Prairie Flowers

By

James B. Hendryx

Author of "The Texan"

When Tex Ben ton said he'd do a thing, he
did it, as readers of " The Texan " will affirm.
So when, after a year of drought, he an
nounced his purpose of going to town to get
thoroughly " lickered up," unsuspecting Tim
ber City was elected as the stage for a most
thorough and sensational orgy.

But neither Tex nor Timber City could
foresee the turbulent chain of events which
were to result from his high, if indecorous,
resolve, here set down — the wild tale of an
untamed West.

A well-known writer, who has served his
apprenticeship in the cow country, said the
other day, " I like Hendryx's stories — they're
real. His boys are the boys I used to work
with and know. His West is the West I
learned to love."

G. P. Putnam's Sons

New York London

THE BIG YEAR

By Meade Minnigerode

Author of "Laughing House," etc.

You'll find "The Big Year" a
corking college story — and then
some! The breath of youth ripples
through it. It's genuinely alive and
real.

You'll love Jimmie, the very
human little newsboy, and Curly
Corliss, his football-playing hero.
The echoes of Angel Benson's
songs will linger long. And as for
Doris Ramsdell — well, the Senior
Table crowd who called her "the
free-stone peach" were right! And
then there's Dandy Baxter and
Sparrow, and Champ, the bull pup,
who grew up and drank beer.
Also, of course, the Girl in the
Car who ran over Jimmie and —
well, you'll like her best of all.

New York G. P. Putnam's Sons London

Beany, Gangle=Shanks,
and the Tub

By
Edward Streeter

This is a Tarkingtonian sort of a book,
full of humor and the joy of life, about
boys and for grown-ups. It is un
necessary to introduce the author,
Edward Streeter, whose "Dere Mable"
and other books that relieved the ten
sion of wartime literature sold upwards
of a million copies.

G. P. Putnam's Sons

New York London

Universny of California

A 000034414 3