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CHAPTER XIV
JERRY GOES INTO TRAINING

Outside the restaurant I changed my plans. I decided not to go to Flynn's that afternoon, for I wanted Jerry to understand how little I was in sympathy with his prize fight. And after the first day he no longer insisted on my going with him. But he came to Ballard's apartment and we had several talks in which, after one final and fruitless effort to dissuade him from his fight, I gave up and we talked of other things.

It was not necessary for me to tell Jerry that I had overheard his interview with Una Habberton. And when he spoke of the incident, I encouraged him to talk until I learned just how much—and how little—the meeting meant to him. The impression, the rather unique impression she had first made upon the clean, fair surface of his mind, remained indelibly printed: the first female creature he had seen and talked with, a youthful being, like himself, with whom he could talk as he talked with me, without care or restraint,—a creature of ideals, humor, and a fine feeling for human companionship which she did not hesitate to share; a friend like Skookums or me, but of an infinitely finer grain, with a gentler voice, a smoother skin and softer eyes, better to look at; in short, more agreeable, more surprising, more sympathetic, more appealing. This chance meeting, I think, merely confirmed the previous impression, reasserting an early conception of femininity with which the charms of Marcia Van Wyck could have nothing in common. He must have compared them, but with different standards of comparison, for each in Jerry's mind was sui generis. The glamour of Marcia, her perfumes, her artistry, the lure of her voice and eyes, her absorbing abstractions and sudden enthusiasms—how could Una's quaint transitions compare with such as these? And yet I am sure that he judged Una Habberton not unfavorably in Marcia's reflected glamour, for he spoke of the character in her hands (thinking of Marcia's rosy nails) and the radiancy of her smile (thinking of Marcia's red lips). And whatever he may have thought of her personal pulchritude or the quiet magnetism of her friendliness, there was no room in his mind just now for the merely spiritual. If Una had a place in his heart, it was where the ebb and flow were quiet, not in the mid-stream of hot blood. But Jerry kept his word. His check for Una's day nursery went forward on the day following their meeting and Jerry found time in the intervals between Marcia, business and the gymnasium to call upon Una and talk over in a general way the great project in which their interest was involved. I heard little of these few meetings, for after a short visit with Ballard, during which we discussed Jerry's plans in despair, I went back to the Manor to resume my much neglected work.

It was now March. I missed Jerry as I knew I should miss him always at this season when it had been our custom to fare forth in search of woodland adventure and the early signs of spring. I wondered if Jerry in the city could be feeling the call of the wanderlust as I did. I managed to work a few hours of each day, but my habit of concentration seemed to fail me, and my thoughts kept recurring unpleasantly to the ruin Jerry was courting both for his reputation and his spirit. Clean as he was, he couldn't play too long with pitch and not be defiled. I heard one day that Briar Hills had just been opened and I pricked up my ears. Aha! It couldn't be long now before the bird would come homing.

The notice of this home-coming reached me in the form of a wire.

"Will arrive with party tomorrow. Have six bedrooms prepared for guests. Will explain when I see you."

Six bedrooms! A house party—in the very midst of his training! I couldn't understand. A fine hope surged in me. A house party—guests! Could it be that something had happened to change his plans? Had he given up his bout with Clancy? I could hardly restrain my impatience and tried to get Jack Ballard on the telephone. He had left town. It was very curious; for somewhere in me vague misgivings stirred. What if—!

The morrow brought the painful solution of my uncertainties. For toward four o'clock of the afternoon there was a roaring of automobiles in the drive which brought me to the study window, from which vantage point I saw Jerry dismounting from the car in front with three other men, Flynn, Christopher and a large colored man, while from the other car, a hired machine, by the look of it, four other figures descended—all unloading suit-cases upon the terrace steps—a motley crowd in flannel shirts and sweaters, with cropped heads, thick necks and red hands, all talking loudly and staring up at the towers of the house as though they expected them to fall on them. This then was Jerry's house-party—! Thugs, cut-throats, apaches—his pugilist friends from Flynn's!

"This then was Jerry's house-party—!"

Jerry hurried along the terrace and met me at the hall door, where he burst into unseemly laughter. I suppose at the expression of dismay which must have been written upon my countenance. He seized me by both hands and led me indoors.

"There wasn't any use wiring you the truth, Roger. I didn't want to make you unhappy any sooner than I had to. Are you upset?"

"Nothing can ever upset me again," I said with dignity. "It's your house. I can move out."

"But you won't, Roger," he clapped an arm around my shoulders and walked me into the study. "We're not going to bother you. But we just had to get away from town for some road work—and it's devilish conspicuous anywhere near the city, people watching, reporters and all that sort of thing."

He turned, for the dismayed servants had come out and stood in a row in the hall aghast at the appearance of the visitors who stood awkwardly shifting their feet in the main doorway, their suit-cases and bundles in their arms, awaiting directions.

"Take those things upstairs—show 'em, Christopher," says Jerry. "You show 'em to their rooms, Poole. And when you're washed up, Flynn, come down here again."

Over his shoulder I watched the hulking devils go past in sheepish single file with furtive glances at me. When they had passed out of sight, Jerry explained rapidly.

"You see, Roger, we had to do it. There was no other way. I needed some running badly and there wasn't a chance for it—without the whole thing coming out in the papers."

I smiled ironically. "And you think you've chosen a way to avoid publicity by bringing these"—I restrained myself with difficulty—"these gentlemen here? Don't you know that every paper in New York will have a man here writing the thing up?"

"No, they won't. They can't get in. I stopped at the Lodge as I came by and gave my orders."

"But they'll know that Jim Robinson and Jerry Benham are the same."

Jerry winked an eye and laid a finger along his nose.

"No, they won't, old Dry-as-dust, for the very simple reason that he isn't."

"I don't understand."

"Well, you see, I'm Jim Robinson and you are Jerry Benham."

"I!" I gasped.

"Precisely. You are Jerry Benham, patron of the manly art—Mæcenas, friend and backer of Robinson aforesaid, whom you've invited to Horsham Manor to complete his training."

"Preposterous! These—these bruisers" (I let go now) "think I'm you?"

"No, dear Roger, not I, who am Robinson, but Jerry Benham, multi-millionaire and king of good fellows. Flynn knows the truth, of course, but he's shut as tight as a clam. He won't talk, for his own interests are involved."

"You expect me to play the part of good fellow," I broke out when I had sufficiently recovered from the shock of his information. "You expect me to entertain this motley aggregation of assorted criminals as Jerry Benham! Well, I won't, and that's flat."

"Now, Roger, don't be unreasonable," he said with a cajoling smile. "They're a pretty decent lot, really. Sagorski—the big chap with the fuzzy hair, he's not half bad when you know him; and Carty, the one with the cauliflower ear, his fight comes off inside of a week. We're helping him out, too, you see—good food, clean air—bully fellow—a little too finely drawn just now and a bit irritable—"

"I see. A bit irritable—so am I—"

"And then," he went on, "the other big fellow is Tim O'Halloran, my chopping block, has a nasty left—and is a demon for punishment. The little fellow is Kid Spatola, an Italian, one of my handlers, the bootblack champion. Oh, they're a fine lot, Roger—You'll get to like 'em. Nothing like being thrown with chaps a lot to know what they're like—inside of 'em, I mean."

"Quite true," I remarked with desperate calmness. "And who, if I may ask, is the colored gentleman in the yellow sweater?"

"Oh!" said Jerry pleasantly. "That's Danny Monroe, my rubber. He's the best masseur outside of Sweden, knows all the tricks; wait until you see him rubbing me down."

"I shall try to possess my soul in patience until then," I said. "Have you designated which of the spare rooms these gentlemen are to occupy?"

"Ah, don't be stodgy, Roger," he said. "They'll all be in the wing. They won't bother you. I'm counting on you to help. Just try, won't you? It will only be for about three weeks."

I gasped and sank into the nearest chair. Three weeks in which this gang of hoodlums must be fed, looked after and entertained. I was helpless. Radford, the superintendent, had gone for a lengthy visit to relatives in California.

"I hope you have their criminal records—also a private detective to watch the silver," I murmured weakly.

"No, I haven't," Jerry retorted. "I'm not afraid of any of them. It's rather narrow, Roger, to think, just because a chap goes into pugilism as a business, that he isn't straight. You've taught me that one man is as good as another and now you're—you're crawling. That's what you're doing—crawling."

I was indeed, crawling, groveling. I strove upward, but remained prostrate.

"How could you do such a thing, Jerry?" I remonstrated feebly.

He patted me on the back—much, I think, as he would have patted Skookums in encouragement.

"Oh, be a good sport, Roger. You can be when you want to, you know. We won't bother you. We'll be in the gym or on the road most of the day, and in bed at nine sharp."

"What do you—want me to do?" I stammered at last.

"Why nothing," he said, his face brightening. "Just to be Jerry Benham for awhile. It isn't such a lot to ask, is it? Just make believe you're pleased as punch to have 'em around—come and watch me work" (he had the jargon at his tongue's tip) "and show some interest in the proceedings. You are interested, Roger."

"I'm not."

"You don't want to see me licked, do you?"

I sighed. The affair was out of my hands.

"What shall you want to eat?" I asked meekly.

"Oh, beefsteak, lots of it—and other things. Flynn will tell you." He folded his arms and gazed down at me contentedly. "Thanks, old man," he said gratefully. "I knew you would. It's fine of you. I won't forget it."

"Nor will I," I said. Jerry only laughed. D—n the boy. It was rank tyranny.

Flynn and Sagorski were already down the stairs. I eyed them malevolently, but rose and went to the kitchen to give the necessary orders. There I found the force of servants in executive session and my appearance was the signal for immediate notice from the entire lot. I hadn't foreseen this difficulty which immediately assumed the proportions of a calamity. They stated their objections, which may well be imagined, most respectfully but in no uncertain terms. They could have endured Mr. Flynn, Mr. Carty and Mr. Sagorski, but they balked at Mr. Danny Monroe. I had balked at him, too, but I didn't tell them so. The upstairs maids (we had chambermaids now) absolutely refused to consider any of my arguments in rebuttal and were already pinning on their hats, when Jerry, who had gotten wind of the mutiny from Christopher (poor Christopher!), came running and planting himself in their very midst, demolished their objections with a laugh and an offer of double wages. They smiled at a joke he made, weakened, finally unpinned their hats and took up their aprons. I have never in my experience seen such an example of the blandishment of wealth.

Peace restored and the orders given, which included a pledge of secrecy as to Jerry's real identity and mine, I made my way to the gymnasium with Jerry in a valiant effort to "be a good sport" and to appear as "pleased as punch" at the invasion of my sanctuary by Jerry's Huns. Carty and Flynn were having a fast "go" of it on the floor, with Monroe, the Swedish negro, keeping time, while from beyond came sounds of howling where "Kid" Spatola and Tim O'Halloran were sporting like healthy grampuses in Jerry's—my—marble pool. Jerry made the introductions gayly and O'Halloran splashed a greeting, while Spatola eyed my rusty black serge critically (Spatola was the Beau Brummel of the party as I discovered later) nodded, and then did a back flip-flap from the diving board.

But unwelcome as they were to me, they were not nearly so unpleasant in a state of nature as they had been in their clothing, for when considered as sentient beings they left much to be desired; as healthy human animals, I had to admit that they were a success, and having conceded the fact that they were animals and Horsham Manor was for the present a zoo, the rest was merely a matter of mental adjustment. I played my part of host, I fear, with a bad grace, but as manners held no high place in their code of being, my deficiencies passed unnoticed.

Was this triumph of matter over mind nature's cynical reply to my years of care and study in bringing Jerry to perfect manhood? Had I erred in giving importance to the growth and development of Jerry's body? Or was it, as Jack Ballard had said, merely that the nice adjustment of mind and matter had been suddenly disarranged? How far was this muscular orgy to carry him? And where would it end? After Madison Square Garden—what?

Dinner found me no nearer a solution and I sighed as my glance passed the length of the table, along the row of villainous faces to where opposite me Jim Robinson grinned cheerfully over his plate. It was quite wonderful to see these Vandals eat—beefsteak, bread, vegetables, eggs, milk—everything put before them vanished as if by magic, while Poole and Christopher with set and scornful faces hurried to the pantry, bearing in their empty dishes the mute evidence of the gastronomic miracles that were being performed beneath their very eyes. For my part I confess that I was so fascinated in watching the way in which Sagorski used his knife and fork and the dexterous manner in which he dispatched his food in spite of such a handicap that I ate nothing. They talked in mono-syllables and grunts for the most part, and when really conversing used language which I found it most difficult to understand. Their dinner finished, they rose, stretching and eructating in true Rabelaisian fashion.

"A stroll in the Park, byes, now. And then—the feathers," said Flynn, passing the chewing gum.

"A fine lot, ain't they, Mr. Benham?" said Jerry to me as they filed out.

"Extraordinary," I replied, with a fictitious smile, "most extraordinary."

He grinned at me and followed them.

It was not until the next day in the hour between road and gym work that I managed to get Flynn aside. He had thus far succeeded in avoiding me, but I caught him by the arm as he was passing, dragged him into my study and shut the door.

"See here, Flynn," I said with some warmth, "it's not my affair to interfere with any of Mr. Benham's plans. He's his own master now and can do what he pleases, but you and I have always been good enough friends, and I should like to know just how much or how little you've had to do with getting the boy into this match at the Garden—"

He looked at me quizzically for a moment and then grinned.

"Ye've got a right to ask me that, Mr. Canby. An' I'll give ye a fair answer. I had nothin' to do wid it, sor—honor bright—" He paused and grinned again. "Mind ye, I'm not sayin' I'm sorry he's doin' it, for I won't lie to ye. I'd like to see him lick Sailor Clancy an' I'm doin' my best to help him to it. But for havin' a hand in puttin' Masther Jerry up to the game ye can count me out. 'Twas Masther Jerry himself, sor. He got it into his head someway an' there was no gettin' rid of it. I made the match for the bye because he wanted it—an' that's a fact—nothin' else."

He looked me in the eye and I knew that he told the truth.

"What chance has Jerry of winning, Flynn?" I asked.

"Ah, there ye've got me, sor. Jerry's a rare one, he is, and plucky—and quick as any man of his weight in the wor-rld—but Clancy is a good 'un, too—young, strong as a bull an' expayrienced. Fought steady for three years, an' winning, sor. He'll have the confidence—but Masther Jerry is a wonder. He'll have a chanct, sor, more than an even chanct, I'd say, if he don't waste nothin'."

"Waste nothing?"

"He's got to land, sor—every time and waste no whiffs on nothin'."

"I see."

Flynn was eyeing the door impatiently. He was a busy man and had no time to answer foolish questions.

"There's no chance of getting out of it?" I asked.

"None, sor. He couldn't quit now. Ye wouldn't want him to, would you, sor?" he finished in a reproachful tone, which just missed being disagreeable.

I opened the door and he lost no time in getting to the gymnasium.

That next afternoon in the midst of the work out, I had another surprise, for a wagon arrived from the station and in it were Marcia Van Wyck and Miss Gore, the latter dragged against her will to play a part she little cared for. I happened to meet them in the hall, where, since none of the pugilists were present, Marcia put aside subterfuge, nodded coolly and asked for Jerry. She wore the badly fitting suit her maid had procured for her and chewed gum incessantly. I looked anxiously at Miss Gore, but it seems that even her martyrdom stopped at that. I led the way to the gymnasium where Jerry and the irritable Carty were resting between rounds. The girl nodded to Jerry, who waved his glove, and took one of the chairs by the ring-side, the obedient Miss Gore next her.

"What round?" she asked masticating leisurely.

"Third," said Flynn with his gaze on his watch, "Time!"

And they went at it hammer and tongs. From my chair beside Miss Gore I watched the girl. Her hands were clasped over her knees as she leaned forward, her eyes glowing, watching the swift motions of the two men as they moved backward and forward. Miss Gore wore the fixed smile of the perpetually bored. She watched Jerry and Carty exchanging their blows, with a sphinxlike air as though inspecting half-naked men dancing around each other was her usual afternoon's employment. She was admirable, accepting her lot in life with a philosophy which had in it something of the stoic. Only when Carty landed on Jerry's lip and the blood showed did she wince.

"You—approve of this?" she whispered, then to me.

"No. I'm helpless," I returned.

"You know?"

"Yes. It's madness. She made him do—"

"Sh—" she warned, for the round had ended, and Marcia turned toward her. But I knew that she understood.

"You're a good sport, Mr. Benham," said Marcia to me, assuming her role with an air of enjoyment, "havin' the boys up here to train. Jim's comin' fast, ain't he?"

I nodded uncomfortably.

Her eyes twinkled mischievously. "You might of sent your honk-honk to the train for us though. Cost us a dollar from the station. What d'ye think of that? Don't like the ladies, do you, Mr. Benham?" she laughed.

"I'll be glad to send you back," I said quickly enough.

"Oh, there ain't a doubt of that, I'm sure. Nice house you've got—gym an' all. You might ask us to stay awhile. Won't you, Mr. Benham?"

She was very much amused at the awkwardness of the situation.

"I'm afraid I haven't any more room," I replied stiffly. How I hated that girl! The sight of blood had inflamed me. I believe I could have throttled her where she sat, but fortunately Flynn called "Time" and the bout went on.

It was to be war between us two from this moment. I knew what she meant. She had accepted my challenge and was defying me. Since I had not been able to dissuade Jerry from his fight, she was sure of her power. He was her creature now, to do with as she chose, I watched her furtively during the next round. She was silent, her gaze fixed upon Jerry, her eyes gleaming. There was something morbid in her suppressed excitement—something strange and unnatural in the fascination of her attention. She chewed gum constantly and was utterly absorbed, driven, it seemed to me, by some inner fire which she made no effort to control. She was primitive, savage. When Jerry's blows landed, her lips parted and she breathed hard. I think at this moment he was the only man for her, her mate in savagery, the finest human beast in the world. When the round ended I moved away. I had seen enough.

Later, while the men were being rubbed down, Miss Gore, leaving Marcia with Flynn, came out to me on the terrace, where I had gone alone for a breath of clean air. I was utterly absorbed in my misery and I did not hear her step. Her deep voice just at my ear startled me.

"Well, Mr. Canby," she said softly. "Your dream-castle totters."

I glanced up at her quickly, but she still smiled.

"It has fallen," I groaned.

"No—not yet," still cheerfully. She paused a moment, and, leaning her elbows on the balustrade, looked out down the valley.

"All will be well," she said at last slowly.

Our glances met. "I have that presentiment," she added.

"Based on what?" I said bitterly. "A man who can inspire such a passion as this is no more than a beast—"

"Or no less than a man," she muttered quickly. "You forget that Jerry is what you've made him—"

"Not this—the body the servant—not the mind—"

"The mind will survive," she put in evenly. "It must. The whole thing is hypnotic. He will pass out of it soon."

"And she—?"

She shrugged lightly. "I don't know. I've never seen her like this before. I think if Jerry were to seize her by force and carry her away today—now—she couldn't resist him."

"Ah—!"

"But he won't. He treats her as though she were a flower, caresses her with his eyes, touches her petals timidly—"

"Bah! I could crush her—"

She smiled indulgently.

"She is a strange creature. Love is an enigma to her. That's why she follows this mad whim for Jerry—she doesn't mistake it for love, she knows too much—but it's a fair imitation."

"It is morbid, unhealthy."

"Perhaps, but like other diseases, will pass."

"Leaving Jerry sick?"

"He will recover."

A calm fell upon me. Was she right after all? What reason had I to lose faith in Jerry when this woman, almost a stranger to me, believed in him? I turned and laid my hands quietly over hers.

"Thanks," I stammered. "You're very kind." And then realizing the silly impulsiveness of my action, straightened for fear that she might misunderstand. Without moving from her position, she turned her head and smiled at me quizzically. If her eyes hadn't been kind I would have thought she was laughing at me.