Adventure, June 1911 — page 87: what you’re looking at

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

The .Fight of Patsy McGlynn Il PATSY McGLYNN stepped from _the side door of President Fulmer’s residence and hurried down the street. Three blocks away he slackened his pace and walked leisurely in the direction of the ferry. “I don’t want to get over there ahead of the old man,” he said, “so Vl mosey along, easy like.” It was mid-afternoon when the young athlete sauntered up to the training-quar- ters. A big crowd was about the place and the sports, reporters, photographers and others, who had come to see the noted heavy- weight don the gloves for the last time be- fore the great fight, were voicing their dis- appointment at Doolan’s announcement that he would box no more until he faced Farnum in the ring, two days hence. Acci- dents, he had explained, were likely to hap- pen. He might injure his hands, or strain a tendon. The event was the most impor- tant in his career and he couldn’t afford to take chances. He was in perfect condition for the fight of his life. His friends and backers would have to excuse him. The disgusted visitors growled and moved away to catch their train back to the city. Only a few remained, and of this number Patsy noticed, without surprise, President Fulmer, the treasurer and two of the club directors. They were talking to Doolan who, now appéaring for the first time to notice the presence of his late sparring part- ner, called him up and introduced him to the distinguished visitors. Patsy was glad to meet the gentlemen, especially the famous Mr. Fulmer, of whom he had heard so much —though he had pictured him a much older man, he said. “T got that crowd out of the way on pur- pose,” explained the pugilist. ‘These gentle- men want to see me in action. Get your ring clothes on, Patsy. We'll box four rounds for ’em. It’s only a——” “Til tell you what we want, McGlynn,”’ broke in the pompous president, taking mat- ters into his own hands. ‘‘We want to see some real glove-work—something fast and furious. Of course you’re liable to get battered up some, but you’re no doubt used to that. Here’s ten dollars to buy salve for the bruises that are waiting for you, and,” he rattled on, “‘to encourage you to do your best, we four spectators will each give you another ten dollars if you succeed in knock- 273 ing this big fellow out.” All hands joined in the laughter which greeted this announce- ment from the great sporting promoter, and Patsy thieved a knowing glance at him asie started for his dressing-room, mutteri “Four t’ms ten’s forty, and one’s fiftv— mother’ll have a fit!’ aii President Fulmer, watch in hand; squeezed through the ropes and addressed “the audience.” “Gentlemen,” he said, “I am running this show, and I hope that. fact will be @ sufficient guarantee that it is on the square. At the first sign of faking on the part of either of these principals the contest will be declared off and there will be things doing which are not down on the bill.” Doolan laughed at this “little joke,” though, to tell the truth, that laugh of his did not add materially to the sum total of the world’s supply of mirth. There was a note of seriousness in Fulmer’s speech and manner which was not to be mistaken. As for Patsy, he was kept busy during the president’s remarks, in two directions—the sustained simulation of absorbing interest in official instructions, and the avoidance of a series of desperately winked signals from Doolan’s corner. As Fulmer proceeded, with increased em- phasis, to picture the dire things in store for the first man who showed signs of faking, the bearing of the big professional, now plainly disgusted at Patsy’s gaping dullness, was observed to undergo a sudden change. A new idea seemed all at once to possess him. Heceased tosmile. His face became set. He glared at the man in the center of the ring, at the young athlete in the oppo- sit corner, and jammed the thin layer of padding back from that part of the glove which covered his right knuckles. Patsy observed all this. He knew what it meant. Though making no outward sign, he smiled —smiled, as the late lamented Bill Nye would have said—elsewhere. “Time!” called the self-appointed referee. ‘Shake hands!” Doolan, jaws set, eyes a-gleam, moved warily to the center of the ring. Patsy, with right hand extended, stepped lithely for- PUGILIST and pupil sat in opposite ward to meet him. Doolan drew close to the young fellow and, instead of grasping the proffered glove with his right hand, he COmiclbooks corners of the training-ring, ani (C@