Chapter 3

( Originally Published 1915 )

TWO PERSONS OF DISTINCT PUBLIC IMPORTANCE, WITH A MOMENT'S IDLE SPECULATION AS TO WHICH MIGHT PROVE THE BETTER MAN, SHOULD THEY MEET IN A BUSINESS WAY

A MATCH was in progress. Two big men, stripped to short trunks, canvas shoes, and padded brown gloves, with red-brown stains on them, were sparring and striking. Their finely trained bodies glistened in that blazing white light. She could hear their heavy breathing, and the soft pad-pad-pad of their feet on the canvas-covered platform—and now and then the thud of a cleanly placed blow.

A gong ran. The men turned wearily to their corners; and numbers of attendants in white clothing scrambled in through the ropes with buckets and bottles and stools and sponges, and bath towels that they waved frantically.

Miss Wilson looked about at the audience. Many of the women, while perhaps a bit overdressed, were beautiful, and seemed not unlike the women one saw at the Opera Comique. The men, for the most part, appeared to be average, well-to-do Parisians, with well-trimmed spade beards or carefully groomed mustaches. So far they were quiet enough; decorous, even. The loud talk and the occasional shouting came from the crowded rows of men and boys in the galleries.

She reflected, as had so many thousands of Anglo-Saxon observers before her, on. the impersonal quality of the Parisian and the Parisienne—on their extraordinary Openness to facts of any sort, on their almost complete freedom from prejudice, moral or otherwise, on their good-humored attention to anything that was for any reason interestin . That was why they came to this rough spectacle; becau it was interesting to them. In her own mind she was ap logizing for being here at all. They were doing nothing of he sort. She was dependent on the routine of her habitual nvironment. At this very moment she was something t a loss because she had, with such travail of spirit, brou ht herself to cut loose from that environment. Not so t ese Parisians—they acted and felt here exactly as they w uld act and feel anywhere else. And while she listened with half an ear to Moran's occasional quiet remarks and re lied to them, her inner mind was dwelling on that keen b t of observation he had quoted—"It isn't that they're bet er than us, or worse. It's only that their safety valve is set lower."

The gong rang, and the fight was resumed. She watched it with more assurance than at first. It was rough; but she was coming to see that it offered opportunities for quickness of thought, as well as of action, and really unlimited openings for judgment and courage--for character, of a sort.

This round ended the bout. Moran explained that it was the last of the regimental championships, and added that it was not particularly interesting. "Those boys are only the best of a lot of amateurs. Third raters."

He said this without a smile, and without a trace of condescension; simply stated it as a fact.

She replied, gazing thoughtfully at the fat announcer in evening clothes who was reaching down through the ropes for the slips of paper on which the decisions of the several judges were recorded—"It isn't so hard to watch as I feared.

I'm not sure that it isn't just about the wholesomest thing I've ever seen in Paris. They don't seem to go in for things so direct and honest as boxing, usually."

He flashed a blunt glance at her, then looked away. "There are worse things than boxing," he said, simply but with an unmistakable touch of feeling—the first she had caught in him. •

The next match was what he termed the main preliminary. A blond French lightweight against a Jewish boy from Philadelphia, who bore the name of Spider O'dell. This proved to be quite a different affair from the preceding. "You'll see a little class now," observed her escort; and within a very few moments she realized what he meant. These boxers were slim, alert, soft-skinned and nimble as wood sprites. They sparred, feinted, and danced about, exchanging blows so rapidly that the untrained eye could not at any given moment follow what was taking place. They studied each other with cool eyes, never for an instant relaxing from a high nervous tension that soon transmitted itself to the audience. Men and women alike edged forward on their chairs. Waves of excitement swept the gallery crowds and brought them repeatedly to their feet. There was a steady patter of applause and shouts and cries that rose at short intervals into thunders of cheering.

Round by round the two youthful masters of their craft went about their work—always quick, always tense, at moments breaking out into whirlwinds of energy that were never fevered, never anything but calculated; and that yet were carried through with a speed of execution that left one breathless. More than once Hilda found herself applauding, during those moments when the great building was rocking with the clapping of thousands of hands, the stamping of thousands of feet, the cheering of thousands of throats. But the two boys went on, unheeding of everything outside those white ropes, as if there was nothing in the world but the task before themi

"Why," she cried, close to Moran's ear, "they're positively businesslike about it !"

"Of course," he replied. "It is business!"

The match was to go ten rounds. In the seventh it became evident that the Frenchman was tiring. He moved more slowly; heavily, at times. More and more frequently he dodged inside a blow and clung close to the Spider. Hilda wondered how on earth he ever managed to do it. It was odd, too, that the only safe place for him in that ring should be close to his opponent, too close for effective hitting.

There was an almost steady roar now from all parts of the house. Once, when she leaned back and put her hands over her ears, she became aware that Moran was studying her with a trace of concern on his face; so she dropped her hands, smiled, and sat straight up again.

Then she saw something that brought an outright laugh to her lips. In the very front row, near the corner of the ring, sat a woman of at least sixty or sixty-five, with hair nearly white beneath her black bonnet, black gown adorned with jet ornaments, and face that Hilda instantly characterized as "sweet," calmly following the tide of battle through an ebony-handled lorgnette. She called Moran's attention to this, and he smiled.

One fact that she was again becoming aware of, now that her mind was in some measure adjusted to the occasion, was the distinct public importance of her escort. If he had seemed a celebrity at the tango tea, he was to-night, in this, his own world, very nearly a great personage. Spectators all about them, in the lulls between rounds, were pointing him out. And the rougher men, specimens of what she was beginning to recognize as the boxing type, who came and went about the ringside, were plainly eager to speak to him and elated to receive a nod in return.

The gong announced the conclusion of the tenth round. The Spider was acclaimed vainqueur; and the two fighters muffled in bath robes and each followed by a little file of managers, handlers and admirers, made their way out through the crowd.

Now followed a bustle of confusion about the ring. Blushing eager youths of various sizes from the French provinces, from England, from America, from Australia, 'climbed into the ring and stood in awkward attitudes while the fat announcer bellowed out formal introductions. Self-important persons rushed about among the press tables, whispering excitedly to this man and that. A new referee appeared, an Englishman; his sleeves rolled up and his soft shirt open at the neck.

Two of the self-important ones came over and urged Moran to get up into the ring for an introduction. But the personage merely shook his head, without the faintest appearance of interest on his solid face. Arguments were advanced, only to be met by that same pointblank refusal.

Hilda felt a thousand pairs of eyes on him and on herself. Never in her life had she felt so conspicuous.

The self-important ones finally gave it up and went away. Moran called her attention to a tall young man standing at the ringside, chatting with a group of acquaintancesi "Carpentier," he said.

"Why," she murmured, in fresh surprise, "he's very good-looking !"

"Nice fellow," responded Moran.

The great French champion, it appeared, had recently been given a grant of money by the government for upholding the honor of his country in the realms of sport. "After he knocked Wells out," Moran added, and smiled faintly. "Wells keeps on getting put to sleep, but it doesn't seem to hurt his reputation a bit in England."

"What is the matter with him ?" she asked, glad of a chance to draw out her escort on his own topic.

"Clever boxer," he replied, "but he has what the newspaper boys call a glass jaw." And he fell silent again.

The great champion turned away from the group about him and looked about the house. The gallery boys were shouting so lustily at him that he finally gave them a smile and a nod. Others on the main floor—even the bearded ones in evening dress—were calling his name; and for a moment he could only bow in all directions, occasionally waving his hand with extraordinary lightness and grace. Then his eyes rested on the silent man at Hilda's side; and his young fair face became suddenly illuminated. He walked straight over toward them with hand outstretched.

Moran rose to greet him. He was the shorter, a trifle; but stockier. Hilda could not help reflecting, as she stole a glance upward at the two great men of this outlandish world, that her escort was the solider and the stronger. His almost stolid reserve, too, was pleasing to her beside the frankly Gallic effusiveness of the champion. "Probably he is not so quick," she thought, herself now almost a part of this picturesque environment; " but somewhere in him he must have some of that fire and go I've seen to-night. A man could hardly get to be as prominent as he is without earning the position some way." She even yielded to the notion that now, having come to know him a little, and having learned what this business of boxing is like, it would be interesting to see him in action. "If he does meet Carpentier, I'll make some one bring me to see it," she decided then and there. "That is, if I'm in Paris."

A puzzling element in the situation was the friendly relationship that plainly existed between the two fighters. Though it occurred to her that their very prominence would naturally draw them together. "Men at the top of any profession get lonely," she reflected. "They can't really chum with their subordinates and followers. It's got to be some one else who's at the top. And then of course it is a business." Indeed, she knew from her own experience how one comes to admire and even feel a sort of affection for a business rival who is vigorous and aggressive enough to stir one and bring out one's own stronger qualities.

Moran turned now, and with a trace of shyness introduced the Frenchman; and she found herself clasping his firm big hand. He spoke English to her.

There was a new commotion about the ring, and new cheering from the galleries. Groups of men were pushing in through the crowded aisles.

A huge barrel of a man, an Englishman, stepped up into the ring and seated himself on one of the stools. He wore a coat about his shoulders.

There was another commotion, and a genuine uproar from the crowd. A high-shouldered, round-headed negro appeared in the corner opposite the Englishman. He threw off his bath robe, and stood grinning there, a great stocky fighting machine, all muscle, his skin reflecting the light like polished mahogany.

There was a flutter of discussion and confusion. The self-important were about the ring in swarms. Bandaged hands were examined by critical eyes. The gloves were adjusted. Then, one by one, the self-important dropped down between the ropes, until only the white man, the black man and the referee were left. The gong clanged. A dramatic hush settled over the great audience.

The two men stepped to mid-ring, touched hands in a perfunctory greeting, and squared off. They circled once, slowly. The negro threw out his open left hand in a quick feint, then brought his right fist forward and downward in a short choppy blow that terminated on the chin of his opponent.

The Englishman sank to his knees, then dropped forward on his hands. His head sagged clear to the canvas and rested there; and he pivoted around it in a floundering circle while the referee stood over him, deliberately counting him out. Then the handlers rushed into the ring and half carried, half dragged him to his corner. The negro was already putting on his bath robe, his evening's work done.

Hilda, sitting rigid on the extreme edge of her chair, her eyes staring, her face chalk white, was only dimly conscious of the tremendous angry roar that shook the building. The thing had literally taken her breath away.

Moran had risen and was bending over her. "Come," he said, "let's get out. That's all. And the crowd is mad !"

He took her arm and hurried out the long aisle between solid ranks of screaming, gesticulating men and women. At the outer door she stopped and leaned against the wall to get her breath.

"What is it ?" she asked. "Why are they so angry ?"

"Oh, these people charged big prices to-night—announced it as a championship match. And there's nothing to it, you see. He just hit him once. They are calling it a frame-up. They want their money back."

Then they were out in the night air. She was limp with fatigue, but nervously alight with excitement.

He hailed a taxi, and handed her in; then hesitated.

"Maybe you'd like a bite to eat somewhere before you go home," he suggested, as if uncertain what would be best.

"Oh, yes," she said quickly—"anywhere ! Anything. I can't stop now." When he still hesitated, she suggested Lavenue's. So they skimmed back through the cool night, down the Champs Elysees, over the river, and through dim streets to the brightly lighted old restaurant that was essaying bravely to dispel the gloomy shadows of the great Montparnasse Station across the little square.