12 Sports Aces, May 1943 — page 84: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

82 - 12 SPORTS ACES 2 Oot 2010000 oreo Pwr OO Gor brs O er Bene Or Orr es oe enh tS Bn Bor Oar Ser Gen Gir + One Bares Ore Gre Gr Br Oe Or Orn Po nhs Pen Ger Ge Geshe Sern Oooo +BerOe oe The split on Stan’s face broadened into an ugly leer. Fhe boys pelted him with snowballs. Stan turned towards them and they scat- tered frantically. He shrugged and kept on walking. Strange boys, they did not wish to be friendly. He would have told them they threw well if he knew enough English. It was good they threw so well. They could kill many Nazis with hand grenades. He kept on walking towards the Arena and his heart was heavy. If people would only look at his eyes they would see the twinkle in them and realize he meant the splitting of his face to be a smile, not a leer. But people never got elose enough to The Gargoyle to see his eyes. It was five miles from his cheap hotel to the Arena. He walked the whole dis- tance. He made more money wrestling than he ever thought he would make in his life. But he was broke. There were a lot of people who needed the money more than he did. Half of what he made went into a refugee fund, the other half went to a fund for the Polish Army. Jake Hertzog was waiting for him in the dressing room, Hertzog hada thin sharp face and he always chewed gum. It made him look like a blue pike hungrily eyeing a smaller fish. Hertzog scowled at the elock. He growled: “W otta hell kept you so long, you dumb yap?” Stan looked. at him blankly. He did not understand most of what his manager said. But one thing he knew. Hertzog was bad. He was like a Nazi. He was no better than a beast. Stan undressed and said, “Me win dis time?” “Ah!” sneered Hertzog. “Shut up.” He turned to a hanger-on and said, “The halfwit don’t know it, but he’s all washed up tonight. We built him up and tonight we're gonna dump him—if there’s any- thing left when Crusher Carter gets through with him.” He laughed. Stan did not like that laugh. It sounded like a croak. He had heard laughs like that before. It had not been good. He did not know what Hertzog name Buck Williams, was saying, but he did not like that either. A neatly dressed man with a light face and blond hair came in. Stan’s face split. He grabbed his hand and jabbered a string of Polish at him. It was fhe in- terpreter Hertzog got to give Stan in- structions. Hertzog snapped, “Tell the bum he fights Crusher Garter tonight. Carter is the best in the game. The Gargoyle loses tonight.” The interpreter relayed the news to Stan. Stan frowned. He jabbered some- thing af the interpreter. Thé interpreter said to Hertzog, “He says you say he wins, he wins. Always you say he wins, always he wins. Why must he now lose?” ERTZOG said, “Ah, you wouldn't understand. It’s a game, see? When Carter beats the Gargoyle, then takes the champ, the Gargoyle gets a return match with Carter. More dough, see? For both of *em.” There was a crafty gleam in his eyes. The interpreter told that to Stan. Stan’s frown deepened. He had wrestled in the old country. Fairly. He did not understand this. The interpreter ex- plained Hertzog said it was a game. The Americans liked their wrestling that way. Stan shrugged. He nodded his head. He understood. If they liked it that way—. He had seen a Jot of things in the three years he had been in the United States whieh puzzled him. Especially in the wrestling game. He did not like them, but the others said nothing. The interpreter left and Hertzog turned to his friend and said, “Buek Williams, the champ, is next.” He made a breaking motion with his hands and laughed. . Stan’s eyes ghinted. He had caught the He understood Hertzog’s motion with his hands. It be- gan to add up for him. Buck Williams was a good boy. Stan had wrestled him. He had been careful not to hurt Buck. They said Buck was going to join the Marines. That was good. He could kill Nazis comichbook (E)