Spring Street | Page 3

Vernon?"
"What's the big idea?" asked Blake with a smile.
"I need the money."
"How soon?"
"As soon as I can get it."
"I'll see Wad Wadhams, tonight," Blake said. "If there's a place on the
bill I'll get it for you."
The next day Blake called him to the gymnasium.
"You'll go on in the preliminaries," he said. "Two hundred if you win, a
hundred if you draw and fifty if you lose. How's that?"
"That means I must win," John said.
In his pocket as he spoke was the funeral director's bill for $200.
"You'd better get to work right now, then," cautioned Blake. "You're
matched with a tough boy, but if you're in any sort of shape at all you
should come out on top."
They went to work. As he roughed it with the young fellows Blake sent
against him he thought of his mother. Perhaps, after it was all over and
their debt had been paid, he would tell her how he got the money. He
couldn't tell her now. She had even tried to persuade him to stop boxing
for exercise and if she thought for a moment that he had arranged to
fight for money----

A fist thudded against his jaw. Absorbed in his thoughts he had left an
opening and the boy in the ring with him was quick to take advantage
of it. Instinctively he "covered," bending over with his arms wrapped
around his head and body for protection until his brain cleared.
Then, savagely, he tore into the boy before him, jabbing him swiftly
with his left glove and suddenly sending over his right with a snap. The
boy sank to the floor.
"That's enough, Gallant," admonished Blake. "Take it easy."
He lifted the boy to his feet.
As he pounded at the punching bag a few minutes later he promised
himself that this would be his one and only fight in a ring, for his
mother's sake.
That night, when he left for Vernon, he told her his first deliberate lie.
* * * * *
He was in his corner. A scrawny youth with a twisted nose, a jersey
sweater and a husky voice was tying on his gloves.
"Wot's your name, kid?"
The announcer was bending over him.
"Gallant," he answered, after hesitating. The announcer turned and
crossed to the opposite corner of the ring and John's eyes followed him.
He saw his opponent, a thick-shouldered Mexican, with flashing black
eyes, gleaming white teeth, a broad, deep chest tapering to a slender
waist.
The Mexican returned his appraising look, and sneered.
Arc lamps threw a heated white light down to the canvas floor of the
ring. The chatter and rumble of voices came up from the crowd. He
looked out past the ropes and saw faces--hundreds of them--dimly

through clouds of tobacco smoke. He could only distinguish those at
the ringside. He saw Charlie Chaplin, the famous film comedian,
looking at him. There was Jack Dempsey, the world's ring champion,
towering up in his seat. There was----
"Come on, kid," the announcer was calling to him from the center of
the ring.
John dropped his bathrobe from his shoulders and went forward.
"On my right--the Gallant kid," shouted the announcer, pausing for the
laugh that came up from the crowd.
"The what?" a voice asked.
"The Gallant kid, he calls himself," shouted back the announcer. "On
my left--Battling Rodriguez. One hundred and thirty-five pounds."
John went back to his corner. He rested his gloved hands on the ropes
and scraped the soles of his shoes into a box of rosin shoved beneath
his feet by the twisted nose youth, who had a towel thrown over his
shoulder and a pail of water near him.
Blake pulled himself up beside him.
"Remember, John, keep cool and keep jabbing that left in his face," he
said.
John looked out at the crowd. A thought of his mother flashed into his
head and he seemed to see her face in the blue haze of smoke.
"He'll try rushing you--he thinks he's another Joe Rivers," said Blake.
"Wait for a chance to soak him."
The gong sounded and, whirling around, he went to the center of the
ring. The Battler came dancing out to meet him. They touched gloves
for a handshake and each took a step back. The Battler moved his
gloves in quick little circles and the noise from the crowd stopped. John
forgot everything else, the fight was on.

The Battler feinted, swaying his body from side to side, and came at
him. He shot out his left hand, jabbing at the swarthy face of the
Mexican. His fist struck only the air and the Battler, his lips drawn
back, his eyes blazing, crashed into him.
A fist pounded into his