Spring Street | Page 3

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 stomach and another ripped into his face. He heard a wild shout from the crowd and the Mexican jumped back, smiling. A trickle of blood dropped to his cheek from a cut over his eye. He heard the Battler's seconds shout to their man to "tear into" him. He watched, his left extended, his right close to his body.
The Battler rushed again, swaying from the hips. John's left fist found its mark. He jabbed--once, twice, three times--and lashed out with his right. The blow glanced off the Mexican's shoulders and they clinched. He felt the Battler's strength in that clinch