The Iron Puddler | Page 6

the man who sells peanuts in which a lot of the
shells haven't any goodies." I made up my mind then that if I ever
wrote a book I would have a fight in the first chapter.
So I will tell right here how I whipped the town bully in Sharon,
Pennsylvania. I'll call him Babe Durgon. I've forgotten his real name,
and it might be better not to mention it anyhow. For though I whipped
him thirty years ago, he might come back now in a return match and
reverse the verdict, so that my first chapter would serve better as my

last one. Babe was older than I, and had pestered me from the time I
was ten. Now I was eighteen and a man. I was a master puddler in the
mill and a musician in the town band (I always went with men older
than myself). Two stove molders from a neighboring factory were
visiting me that day, and, as it was dry and hot, I offered to treat them
to a cool drink. There were no soda fountains in those days and the
only place to take a friend was to the tavern. We went in and my
companions ordered beer. Babe, the bully, was standing by the bar. He
had just come of age, and wanted to bulldoze me with that fact.
"Don't serve Jimmy Davis a beer," Babe commanded. "He's a minor.
He can't buy beer."
"I didn't want a beer," I said. "I was going to order a soft drink."
"Yes, you was. Like hell you was," Babe taunted. "You came in here to
get a beer like them fellers. You think you're a man, but I know you
ain't. And I'm here to see that nobody sells liquor to a child."
I was humiliated. The bully knew that I wanted to be a man, and his
shot stung me. My friends looked at me as if to ask: "Are you going to
take that?" And so the fight was arranged, although I had no skill at
boxing, and was too short-legged, like most Welshmen, for a fast foot
race. Babe had me up against a real problem.
"Come on over the line," he said.
Sharon was near the Ohio border and it was customary to go across the
state line to fight, so that on returning the local peace officers would
have no jurisdiction. We started for the battle ground. Babe had never
been whipped; he always chose younger opponents. He was a good
gouger, and had marked up most of the boys on the "flats" as we called
the lowlands where the poorer working people lived. A gouger is one
who stabs with his thumb. When he gets his sharp thumb-nail into the
victim's eye, the fight is over. Biting and kicking were his second lines
of attack.
As we walked along I was depressed by the thought that I was badly

outclassed. There was only one thing in my favor. I hated Babe Durgon
with a bitter loathing that I had been suppressing for years. It all went
back to the summer of 1884 when I was eleven years old. Times were
hard, and the mill was "down." Father had gone to Pittsburgh to look
for work. I was scouring the town of Sharon to pick up any odd job that
would earn me a nickel. There were no telephones and I used to carry
notes between sweethearts, pass show bills for the "opry," and ring a
hand-bell for auctions. An organized charity had opened headquarters
on Main Street to collect clothing and money for the destitute families
of the workers. I went up there to see if they needed an errand boy. A
Miss Foraker--now Mrs. F. H. Buhl--was in charge. She was a sweet
and gracious young woman and she explained that they had no pay-roll.
"Everybody works for nothing here," she said. "I get no pay, and the
landlord gives us the use of the rooms free. This is a public charity and
everybody contributes his services free."
I saw a blue serge boy's suit among the piles of garments. It was about
my size and had seen little wear. I thought it was the prettiest suit I had
ever seen. I asked Miss Foraker how much money it would take to buy
the suit. She said nothing was for sale. She wrapped up the suit and
placed the pack. age in my arms, saying, "That's for you, Jimmy."
I raced home and climbed into the attic of our little four-
dollar-a-month cottage, and in the stifling heat under the low roof I
changed my clothes. Then I proudly climbed down to show my blue
suit to my mother. "Where did you get those clothes, James?" she asked