Kitabı oku: «Once to Every Man», sayfa 11

“It didn’t take more than a half hour to spread the report that Conway was practically the only really famous man in the country today, and in a fair way to make his own home town just as celebrated. It may sound funny to you, for you don’t know the back-country as I do, but just that short article in the daily, coupled with a few helpful hints from me that I was looking for all the nice, touching incidents of his boyhood days, with the opinions of the oldest inhabitants, and maybe a few of their pictures to be used in a big Sunday feature, brought them all out: the old circle of regulars which always sits around the tavern stove nights, straightening out the country’s politics and attending strictly to everybody’s affairs but their own.

“Eager? Man, it was a stampede! I reckon that every male inhabitant within a radius of five miles was there when I opened the meeting with a few choice words–every man but one, and he comes in just a little later in this tale. They surely did turn out. It was as perfect a mass meeting as any I’ve ever seen, but the crowd itself didn’t get much of a chance to talk–not individually anyhow. They were simply the chorus of ‘ayes’ which the town’s big man paused now and then for them to voice.

“He did the talking, Flash. They called him ‘Judge’–they most always do in those towns. He most certainly monopolized the conversation, and while he gave his monologue, I sat and got the best of them down on paper. They thought I was taking notes. I’ll show you his picture some day. He’s the meanest man I ever met yet–and I’ve met a few! Puffy-faced and red, and too close between the eyes. Fat, too! Somehow I’m ashamed of being plump myself, since meeting him.

“He did all the talking, and from the very first time he opened his mouth I knew he was lying. You can always tell a professional liar; he lies too smoothly, somehow. Well, to judge from his story Conway was the only unspotted cherub child that had ever been born and bred in that section. Oh, yes, he’d seen the promise in Conway; he knew that Conway was to be the pride and joy of the community, right from the first. He’d always said so! Why, he was the very man who had given him his first pointers in the game, when he was cleaning up all the rest of the boys in town, just by way of recreation. If I’d never had a suspicion before I’d have known just from those slick sentences of his that Conway had never been anything in that village but a small-sized edition of the full-blown crook he is today.

“But I didn’t have any reason to contradict him, did I? He was doing all that I could ask, and more. For there wasn’t a man in that whole crowd who dared to sneeze until he got his cue from the Judge. But that fat man got his jolt finally, just the same, and got it good, too.

“He had just finished telling how Conway had cleaned up the village kids, irrespective of size, whenever he felt the need of exercise, and was looking around at the circle behind him to give them a chance to back him up, when it happened. I told you a minute ago that I wished you could have seen that boy, as I saw him that night, standing there in that tavern doorway. You see, he’d come in so quietly that nobody had heard him–come in just in time to hear the Judge’s last words. And when the Judge turned around he looked full into that boy’s eyes.

“Oh, he got his, good and plenty! I didn’t watch him very closely because it was hard for me to take my eyes off the white face of that boy at the door. But I did see that he went pretty nearly purple for a minute, and I heard him gurgle, too, he was that surprised, before he caught his breath. Then he stuck out one hand and tried to bluff it out.

“‘There’s one of ’em, right now,’ he sang out; but he should have known that a man who’s sure of his ground doesn’t have to shout to make his point. ‘There’s Young Denny Bolton,’ he said, ‘who went to school with him, right here in this town. Ask him if Jeddy Conway was pretty handy as a boy!’ And he laughed, Flash–commenced to chuckle! Oh, there was no misunderstanding what he meant to insinuate. ‘Ask him–but maybe he’s still a little mite too sensitive to talk about it yet–eh, Denny?’

“He thought he could bluff it–bluff me, with that boy standing there in the doorway calling him a liar as if I didn’t know it all, yet at that minute I couldn’t help but ask that boy a question. I think it was mostly because I wanted to hear what the voice of a man with a face like his would sound like, for he hadn’t opened his lips to answer that fat hypocrite’s insinuation.

“So I asked him if he had known Conway well–asked him if he had had a few set-to’s with him himself. I’m not going to forget how he looked when he turned toward me, either. I’m not going to forget the look on his face as he swung around. And I’m remembering his voice pretty fairly well, too, right now!

“‘Maybe,’ he answered me, and he almost drawled the words. ‘Maybe I did,’ he said.

“Why, Flash, he couldn’t have said more if he had talked for a week. He’d said all there was to say, now, hadn’t he? But it let the Judge out, just the same, for he just gave the circle behind him the the high sign and set the crowd to laughing for a minute or two, until the tension was relieved. I didn’t laugh myself. There didn’t seem to be much of a joke about it after seeing that boy’s eyes. It was Bolton–Young Denny, they called him–and I got his story, their side of it at least, after he shut the door behind him.

“It’s another thing I’d be more likely to understand than you would, Flash, because you’ve never lived in a village like that, and I have. Back a hundred years or so the first settlement had been named for his family–Boltonwood, they’d called it–but I guess the strain must have petered out. From all I could gather the Boltons had been drinking themselves to death with unfailing regularity and dispatch for several generations back, and I heard a choice detailed description, too, of the way the boy’s own father had made his final exit–heard it from that moon-faced leading citizen who did all the talking–that made me want to kick him in the face. I don’t know yet why I didn’t. I was sitting on the tavern desk with my feet on a level with his face. I should have bashed him a good one. It’s one of the lost opportunities which I’ll always regret, unless maybe I take a Saturday off some day and run up and beat him up proper!

“He gave me a nice little account of how the boy’s dad had gone over, screaming mad, with the town’s elite standing around saying, ‘I told you so,’ and that big scared kid kneeling beside his bed, trying to pray–trying to make it easier for him.

“Did you ever see a flock of buzzards circling, Flash, waiting for some wounded thing beneath them to die? No? Well, I have, and it isn’t a pretty sight either. That was what they made me think of that night. And I learned, too, how they’d been waiting ever since for that boy to go the way his father had traveled before him; they even told me that the same old jug still stood in the kitchen corner, and would have pointed out his tumble-down old place on the hill, where they had let him go on living alone, only it was too dark for any one to see.

“Odd, now wasn’t it? But it didn’t come to me at that moment. I never gave it a thought that there was a man who had licked Conway once and might do it again. But I didn’t forget him; I wanted to, that night, but I couldn’t. And I guess I was still thinking about him when some one touched my arm the next morning, while I was waiting for the train, and I turned around and found him standing there beside me.

“Flash, have you noticed how grave he is–kind of sober-quiet? Have you? That comes from living too much alone. And he’s only a kid, after all–that’s all, just a kid. He startled me for a moment, but the minute I looked at him that morning I knew he had something on his mind, and after I’d tried to make it a little easier for him I gave him a chance to talk.

“He had a big raw welt across one cheek–a wicked thing to look at! You’ve noticed it, I see. Well, he stood there fingering it a little, trying to think of a way to begin gracefully. Then he got out the paper with the account of Jed The Red’s last go in it and jumped right into the middle of all that was bothering him. He hunted out the statement of Conway’s share of the purse and asked me if it was true. I told him it was–that I’d written it myself. And then he asked me, point blank, how he could get a chance at Conway. He–he said Conway had never been able to whip him, Flash–said he didn’t believe he ever could!

“Now, I’m sentimental–I know that. But I manage to keep my feet on the ground now and then just the same. And so I want to say right here that it wasn’t his words that counted with me. Why, I’d have laughed in his face only for the way he said them! As it was, I said too much. But I thought of you then–I couldn’t help it, could I? It hit me smash between the eyes! His face had been reminding me of something–something I couldn’t place until that minute. Flash, do you know what he made me think of? Do you? Well, he looked like a halftone print of the Pilgrim Fathers–the kind that they hang on the walls in the district schools. And it got me–got me!–maybe you know why. I don’t. But I wrote it on this card, under your address, and gave it to him.

“I would have laughed at him only he was so mighty grave and quiet. One doesn’t make a practice of laughing at men who are as big as he is–not when they carry themselves like that. I kept my funny feelings to myself, if I had any, while I spent a minute or two sizing him up. And that brought me back to his chin–back to that big, oozing cut. I had been waiting for an opportunity to ask him about it, and didn’t know myself how to go about it. Just from that you can realize how he had me guessing, for it takes quite some jolt to make me coy. So I followed his own lead finally and blurted the question right out, without any fancy conversational trimmings, and he told me how it had happened.

“One of his horses had kicked him. You look as though you could have guessed it yourself! He didn’t tell you, did he, Flash? No-o-o? Well, that was it. He said he had gone blundering in on them the night before, to feed, without speaking to them in the darkness. It isn’t hard to guess what had made him absent-minded that night. You can’t know, just from seeing it now, how bad that fresh cut was, either. It looked bad enough to lay any man out, and I told him so. But he said he had managed to feed his horses just the same–he’d worked them pretty hard that week in the timber!

“It wasn’t merely what he said, you see; it was the way he said it. I’ve made more fuss before now over pounding my finger with a tack hammer. And I did a lot of talking myself in that next minute or two. A man can say a whole lot that is almost worth while when he talks strictly to himself. It wasn’t alone the fact that he had been able to get back on his feet and keep on traveling after a blow that would have caved in most men’s skulls that hit me so hard. The recollection of what his eyes had been like that night before, when he had handed the Judge the lie without even opening his lips, helped too–and the way he shut his mouth, there on the station platform, when I gave him an opening to say his little say concerning the village in general. He just smiled, Flash, a slow sort of a smile, and never said a word.

“Man, he knew how to take punishment! Oh, don’t doubt that! I realized right then that he had been taking it for years, ever since they had counted his father out, with the whole house yelling for the stuff to get him, too. He’d been hanging on, hoping for a fluke to save him. He’d been hanging on, and he didn’t squeal, either, while he was doing it. Not–one–yip–out–of–him!

“So I made him give me back the card and I wrote the rest of this stuff across the back of it. And again I’ll tell you, Flash, right now, I’m not sure why I did it. But I’ll tell you, too, just as I told myself a few mornings ago, back there on that village station platform, that if I were Jed The Red and I had my choice, I wouldn’t choose to go up against a man who had been waiting five years for an opening to swing. No–I would not! For he’s quite likely to do more or less damage. I never thought he’d turn up, and I don’t know whether I am sorry or not. But now that he’s here, what are you going to do about it?

“It’s my fault, but whatever you do I want to ask you not to do one thing. I want you to promise not to try to make a fool of the boy, Flash? You’re, well–a little bit merciless on some of ’em, you know. It’s not his fault, and I–why, damn it, I haven’t met a man in years I like as I do that big, quiet, lonesome kid! Now, there’s your story. It explains the whole thing, and my apologies go with it. What are you going to do?”

CHAPTER XV

Jesse Hogarty had been listening without moving a muscle–without once taking his two brilliant eyes from Morehouse’s warm face–even when Morehouse refused to look back at him as he talked.

“‘Introducing The Pilgrim,’” he murmured to himself, after a moment of silence, and the professor of English accent could not have been more perfect, “The Pilgrim! Hum-m-m, surely! And a really excellent name for publicity purposes, too. It–it fits the man.”

Then he threw back his head–he came suddenly to his feet, to pace twice the length of the room and back, before he remembered. When he reseated himself he was gnawing his lip as if vexed that he had showed even that much lack of self-control. And once more he buried the point of his chin in his hands.

“Do, Chub?” he picked up the other’s question silkily. “What am I going to do? Well, I believe I am going to pay my debts at last. I think I am going to settle a little score that has stood so long against me that it had nearly cost me my self-respect.”

That lightning-like change swept his face again, twisting his lips nastily, stamping all his features with something totally bad. The man who had never been whipped by any man, from the day he won his first brawl in the gutter, showed through the veneer that was no thicker than the funereal black and white garb he wore, no deeper than his superficially polished utterance which he had acquired from long contact with those who had been born to it.

“I’m going to pay my debts,” he slurred the words dangerously, “pay them with the same coin that Dennison slipped to me two years ago!”

Little by little Morehouse’s head came forward at the mention of that name. It was of Dennison that the plump newspaper man had been subconsciously thinking ever since he had entered Hogarty’s immaculate little office; it was of Dennison that he always thought whenever he saw that bad light kindling in the ex-lightweight’s eyes. Dennison was the promoter who had backed Jed The Red from the day when the latter had fought his first fight.

And, “You don’t mean,” he faltered, “Flash, you don’t mean that you think that boy can stop–”

Hogarty’s thin voice bit in and cut him short.

“Think?” he demanded. “Think? I don’t have to think any more! I know!”

For a second he seemed to be pondering something; then he threw up his head again. And his startlingly sudden burst of laughter made Morehouse wince a little.

“Don’t make a fool of him, Chub?” he croaked. “Be merciful with the boy! Man, you’re half an hour late! I did my best. Oh, I’m bad–I know just how bad I can be, when I try. But he called me! Yes, that’s what he did–he as much as told me that I wasn’t giving him a chance to get his cards on the table. So I ran him up against Sutton. And I did more than that. I told Boots to get him–told him to beat him to death–and I meant it, too! And do you know what happened? Could you guess? Well, I’ll tell you and save you time.

“He went in and took enough punishment from Boots in that first round to make any man stop and think. He put up the worst exhibition I ever saw, just because he was trying to fight the way Ogden had coached him, instead of his own style. That was the first round; but it didn’t take him very long to see where he had been wrong. There wasn’t any second round–that is, not so that you could really notice it.

“He was waiting for the bell, and the gong just seemed to pick him up and drop him in the middle of the ring. And Sutton went to him–and he caught Boots coming in! Why, he just snapped his right over and straightened him up, and then stepped in and whipped across his left, and Boots went back into the ropes. He went back–and he stayed back!”

Swiftly, almost gutturally, Hogarty sketched it all out: Young Denny’s calm statement of his errand, his own groundless burst of spleen, and the outcome of the try-out which had sent him hurrying back to Denny’s dressing-room with many questions on his tongue’s tip and a living hope in his brain which he hardly dared to nurse.

Hogarty even recalled and related the late delivery of the card of introduction which Morehouse was now nervously twisting into misshapen shreds and, word for word, repeated the boy’s grave explanation of his reason for that tardiness.

“He bothered you, did he?” he asked. “Well, he had me guessing, too, right from the first word he spoke. There was something about him that left me wondering–thinking a little. But I’m understanding a whole lot better since you finished talking. You’re right, too, Chub–you’re all of that! Five years is a long time to wait for a chance to swing. I ought to know–I’ve waited half that long myself. That was the way he started for Boots, that second round. Oh, it was deadly–it was mighty, mighty wicked. And now, to top it all, it’s The Red for whom he was looking, too. I wish it wasn’t so easy; I sure do! It’s so simple I almost don’t enjoy it. Almost–but not quite!”

Once more he shot to his feet and began pacing up and down the room. Morehouse sat following him to and fro with his eyes, trying to comprehend each step of this bewildering development which was furthest of all from what he had expected. He had listened with his face fairly glowing with appreciation to the ex-lightweight’s account of Denny’s coming. It was all so entirely in keeping with what he had already known of him. But the glint died out of his eyes after a time; even his nervously active fingers stopped worrying the bit of cardboard on the table.

“Granted that he could turn the trick, Flash,” he suggested at last, “even admitting that he might be able to stop Conway after a few months of training to help him out, do you suppose he’d be willing to hang around and fight his way up through the ranks, until he forced ’em to let him have his match? It’s usually a two year’s job, you know, at the very least.

“I don’t know why, Flash, but somehow the more I think of it, the surer I grow that there is something more behind his wanting that fight than we know anything about. It isn’t just a grudge; it isn’t just because of the dirty deal which that village has been giving him, either. I’ve been wondering–I’m wondering right now why he asked me if that account of the purse was true or not. Because men don’t fight the way you say he fought, Flash, just for money. They fight hard, I’ll admit, but not that way!”

There was a living menace in Hogarty’s steady tread up and down the room. He wheeled and crossed, turned and retraced his steps noiselessly, cat-footed in his low rubbed-shod shoes. And he turned a gaze that was almost pitying upon the plump man’s objection.

“Two years–to get ready?” he asked softly. “Chub, do you think I’d wait two years–now? Why, two months is too long, and that is the outside limit which I’m allowing myself in this affair. You’re a little slow, Chub–just a bit slow in grasping the possibilities, aren’t you? Think a minute! Put your mind upon it, man! I’ve told you I am going to pay Dennison off–and pay him with the same coin that he handed me. Doesn’t that mean anything at all?”

He stopped short, crossed to the table and stood with his fingertips bracketed upon its surface. Morehouse knew Hogarty–knew him as did few other men, unless, perhaps, it was those who, years before, had faced him in the ring. And at that moment Hogarty’s eyes were mere slits in his face as he stood and peered down into the newspaper man’s upturned features, his mouth like nothing so much as a livid scar above his chin. There was nothing of mirth in those eyes, nothing of merriment in that tight mouth, and yet as he sat and gazed back up at them, Morehouse’s own lips began to twitch. They began to relax. That wide grin spread to the very corners of his eyelids and half hid his delighted comprehension behind a thousand tiny wrinkles.

“I wonder,” he breathed, “I wonder now, Flash, if you are thinking about the same thing I am? For if you are–well, you’re too sober faced. You are that! It’s time to indulge in a little hysterics.”

And he began to chuckle; he sat and shook with muffled spasms of absolute joy as the thing became more and more vivid with each new thought. Even Hogarty’s answering smile, coming from reluctant lips, had in it something of sympathetic mirth.

“That’s just what I am thinking,” he said. “Just that! It’s what I meant when I said I was going to pay him–with his own coin. When a man plays another man crooked, he expects that other man to come back at him some day; he is looking for him to do that. But there is one thing he doesn’t expect–not usually. He isn’t looking for him to work the same old game. It is something new he’s looking to guard against.

“And that is where Dennison is weak–in that spot and one other. He doesn’t know even yet that when I fell for his game I fell hard enough to wake me up. He thinks I haven’t a suspicion but what it was just an accident that laid Sutton out, two years back–just a lucky punch of The Red’s that went across and spoiled our perfect frame-up. And he hasn’t a suspicion that I know he was sure The Red was going to clean up Sutton, just as surely as they went to the ring together.

“That is where he is weak. When a man is a crook he wants to be a real crook–and a real one is suspicious of everybody, even of himself.”

He lifted one hand and pounded gently upon the polished surface of the table.

“The old days are done–dead–when a man got his reputation, and a chance at the big ones simply by fighting his way up from the bottom. I can give a man a bigger reputation in a week, with five thousand dollars’ worth of real advertising, than he’d be able to get in a lifetime the old way. And training?–”

He jerked his head over one shoulder toward the dressing-rooms beyond the closed door.

“Right now he is just where I want him. Why, he looks like a pitiful dub if you hold him back. Order him to wait–and it’s heart-breaking to watch him suffer. In one month I can teach him all he’ll ever need to know about blocking and getting away. And the rest? Well, you’ll get a chance to see just what happens when he really goes into action. I tell you it makes you stop and think.

“And I don’t care what he is fighting for; I don’t care what he wants. Pleasure or profit, it’s all one to me. It’s you I need most right now, Chub. I know you have always been a little particular about soiling your hands. A shady deal never appealed to me so much, either, but I’m not exactly bashful about this one. That part of it will be my own private affair. You handle the publicity end–merely hail Bolton as a comer, when the time is ripe. Are you–are you in on it?”

Morehouse thoughtfully scratched his head.

“I have been a trifle fastidious, haven’t I?” he murmured, and unconsciously he mimicked Hogarty’s measured accents. “But I hardly believe that any sensitive scruples of mine would annoy me much in this matter. I don’t know but what I’d just as soon squash a snake with a brick, even if I knew it was somebody’s beloved performing pet.

“That, as you say, is your side of the question. As for me–well, every time I remember that popeyed unctuous fat party they called the ‘Judge’ chanting Conway’s innocent childhood, with that big, lonesome kid standing there in the doorway listening and trying to understand, I begin to sizzle. It is time that Conway was licked–and licked right!

“Oh, I’m in on it–I want to be there! But,” he stopped and made a painstaking effort to fit the torn card together again, “but I have an idea that Bolton may be the one to hold out. There are some honest people, you know, who are honest all the time. He might not understand the necessity of–er–a little professional fixing, so to speak.”

“Will he have to be in on it?” Hogarty countered instantly. “Will he? Not to any great extent, he won’t. According to my plan he fights straight. Don’t you suppose I know a straight man when I see one, just as well as you do?

“Here’s the whole thing–just as I’ll put it up to Dennison before it’s dark tonight. It’s Dennison’s own plan, too, in the first place, so he hasn’t any kick coming. We’ll match Bolton against one of the fairly good ones–Lancing, say–in about two weeks. Lancing gets his orders to open up in the sixth round and go down with the punch–and stay down! That’s plain enough, isn’t it? Well, Bolton is fighting under the name of ‘The Pilgrim,’ and you step up the next morning and give him two columns–you hail him as a real one, at last.

“We’ll match him with The Texan then. Conway whipped him back a week or two, but he had his hands full doing it. The Texan–and I ought to know–is open to reason if the figure is big enough to be persuasive. We’ll see to that.

“He gets his orders, too–just as if they were really necessary! About the twelfth he lies down to sleep. Why, it’s so simple it’s real art! I’ll just hold Bolton back until those rounds. I’ll make him take it slow–and then send him in to clean up! Dennison is shy a match right this minute for The Red; they’re all a little doubtful about him. The Pilgrim will be the only logical man in the world to send against him–that is, according to your sporting columns. And Dennison, of course, being on the inside, knows he is really nothing but a dub–knows it is simply a plain open and shut proposition. That is to say–he thinks he knows!”

Jesse Hogarty paused and the corners of his lips twitched back to show his teeth, but not in laughter.

“It’s the same little frame-up that he sent against Boots and me,” he finished. “He ought to be satisfied, hadn’t he? And I’ll have him on the street the next morning–I’ll put him where he’ll be glad to borrow a dollar to buy his breakfast with!”

For a long time they stared back into each other’s face: Hogarty taut at the table side, Morehouse slouched deep in his chair. The latter was the first to break that pregnant silence. He was nodding his head in thoughtful finality when he lifted himself to his feet.

“You’ve got me,” he stated. “You’ve got me snared! Not that I give two hoots about what happens to Dennison, mind! I don’t–although I must admit that the prospect of his starving to death is a lovely one to contemplate. And I’d die happy, I think, if I could see The Red trimmed, and trimmed with conscientious thoroughness. But those aren’t my reasons for going hands with you in this assassination.

“I know a hunch when I see one. I ought to, for I’ve spent the contents of my little yellow envelope often enough trying to make one come true. And I’m in with you, Flash, till the returns are all in from the last district, but it’s because I know that there is something more than either of us dream of behind that boy’s wanting to meet Conway. He has something on his mind; he wants something, and wants it real bad. And I like him–I liked him right from the beginning–so I’ll stick around and help. Maybe I’ll find out what it is that’s been bothering him, too, before I get through. But I wish I wasn’t of such an inquiring turn of mind. It keeps one too stirred up.”

He stopped to grin comically.

“Any objection, now that I’ve sworn allegiance, Flash, if I go out and present myself?”

Hogarty’s whole tense body began to relax, his lean face softened and his eyes lost much of their hardness and glitter as he shook his head in negation.

“That’s a little detail of the campaign which I had already assigned to you,” he replied, and the inflection of his voice was perfect. “Not that I have any fears of his going the way of his forefathers, however, because I haven’t. And if my assurance on that point perplexes you, you might ask him to have one drink and watch his eyes when he refuses you.

“But I would like to have you look out for him for a while. If you don’t Ogden will–Ogden likes him, too–and he is too frivolous to be trusted.”

Hogarty reached out one long arm and dropped a hand heavily upon Morehouse’s shoulder. He was smiling openly now–smiling with a barefaced enjoyment which the plump newspaper man had never before known him to exhibit. And he continued to smile, while he stood there in the open door and watched Morehouse mince on tiptoe across the polished floor to the corner where Ogden was officiously presenting each member of the Monday morning squad of regulars, as they returned from the dressing-rooms, to the big-shouldered boy in black, whose face was so very grave.

Hogarty smiled as he closed his office door, after he had seen Morehouse slip his hand through the crook of Young Denny’s arm, in spite of Bobby Ogden’s yelp of protest, and clear a way to the outer entrance with one haughty flip of his free hand.

Hours later that same day, when the tumult in the long main room of the gymnasium had hushed and the apathetic Legs and his helper had turned again to their endless task of grooming the waxed floor, Dennison, the manager of Jed The Red, sitting in that same chair which Morehouse had occupied, cuddling one knee in his hands, fairly basked in that same smile. The purring perfection of Hogarty’s discourse was enticing. The absurd simplicity of his plan, which he admitted must, after all, be credited to the astuteness of Dennison himself, was more than alluring. But that smile was the quintessence of hypnotic flattery.