Spring Street | Page 5

swinging was aimed for his body. He started a counter-blow with his
right and the Battler's fist rose high and crashed against his jaw.
A white flash blinded him as he dropped. He was down for the count of
eight. He was "out on his feet" when he struggled up again. He smiled
feebly and pawed in front of him with his left. The Battler brushed it
aside and as John fell forward in a last desperate effort to clinch, his
right went over. The smack of the Mexican's fist as it landed the
knockout punch sounded like the slap of a paddle on water.

"Eight--nine--you're out!"
They carried him to his corner, the Battler on one side, the referee on
the other. As through a fog he saw the Mexican dance back to his
corner to be received joyously by his seconds. He saw Jack Dempsey
looking up at him, nodding his head and smiling. He saw a terribly
anxious look on a pale, strained face he slowly recognized as that of
Charlie Chaplin.
He closed his eyes. If they would only let him alone and stop throwing
water on him. He could not see out of one of his eyes. They tore the
gloves from his hands and the sharp odor of smelling salts bit into his
nostrils. His head ached, his lungs burned.
"Come on, kid, get back to da dressin' room," a husky voice said.
He pulled himself to his feet. He was whipped. His only chance to get
money to pay for his father's funeral was gone. So weak that his body
shook and his legs trembled, hysterical tears sprang to his eyes and he
sobbed--gasping sobs that choked him.
The hot tears smarted like salt in the cuts on his cheek as he stumbled
up the aisle toward the dressing rooms.
Someone came running up behind him. A hand grasped his arm and he
heard a voice say:
"Just a minute, my boy, I want to talk to you."
CHAPTER II
He looked up into the whimsically comic face of Charlie Murray,
famous in film farces--with funny features and gruff ways, but a heart
as soft as a mother's. With no idea to whom he was speaking, John
Gallant blurted:
"Please, not now--I can't."

"Just a word with you, son; come along, let's get back to your dressing
room," said the other without taking his arm from his shoulder.
As they left the arena they heard the gong sound for the opening round
of another bout. It brought back to John the bitterness of his loss in
defeat and his chagrin. He had made a mess of things. How could he go
back to his mother with his face battered and swollen and without the
$200 he had expected to take to her to pay for his father's funeral?
He flung himself on a bench in his dressing room and buried his face in
his hands. He sat for a time until he had choked back his hysterical
crying and when he looked up he saw the stranger who had stopped
him in the aisle gazing at him intently. He saw something in the mild
blue eyes of this man that overcame the momentary feeling of shame he
felt for having given way to his bitterness and despair.
"What's your trouble, son?" the stranger asked.
He sat silent.
"Out with it, son, something's wrong somewhere and I may be able to
help you."
"Who are you?" John asked.
"I'm Charlie Murray--if that means anything to you. And, believe me,
son, I know that something beside the licking you got out there is
worrying you. That's why I followed you here. Let's have it; come on,
tell me what's wrong. It'll make you feel better."
Before he really knew it, John was telling him his story.
"That's the reason I made a fool of myself," he said. "I couldn't help
crying like that. I guess I was too far gone. I don't know what to do now.
It will break my mother's heart when she sees me in this condition. It
would have helped if I could have handed her enough to pay the funeral
expenses.

"I don't know why I've told you all this. Making more of a fool of
myself, I suppose."
Murray listened to it all, silently. Then he rose and went to the door.
"Oh, Murphy," he called, putting his head out the dressing room door.
The youth with the twisted nose whom John remembered as his second
answered Murray's call.
"Fix this boy up, Murphy," said Murray. "Patch up his face the best you
can and keep him here until I get back. Understand, keep him here until
I get back. Don't let him out of your sight."
"I heardja, boss, I heardja,"