The Argosy, August 1914 — page 109: what you’re looking at

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

NOBODY LOVES A LOSER. of thetr seconds, the men advanced to the center of the squared circle, ex- changed a suspicious handclasp, and squared off. An incipient yell from the onlookers was swallowed, as with an effort, and several thousand pairs of eyes focused on the boxers. Seen thus face to face, they present- ed an interesting study. Monk Reilly was the traditional fighting man. His hair was cropped, his ears set flat, his watchful eyes were round and small, and punishing blows had almost lev- eled his nose with his face. He sug- gested somehow a hard-bitten Irish terrier, alert, mettlesome, ignorant of fear. He had been a fighter from the time he could toddle. He was born with the instinct and trained in the school of necessity. His first battle under ring’ rules had been with the bare fists, in the early morning before officers of the law were astir, when he had shown his gameness by pushing on to a draw after both eyes had been closed tight and he was forced to employ one hand to pull the swollen flesh apart so that he could see to hit with the other. Between that and the winning of the championship there had been a long in- terval. He had never been able to match his pluck with cleverness. Sheer dogged resolution, however, had car-. ried him at last to the top of the pile. He was thirty-three, a family man, and his leading ambition was to retain the title a couple of years longer, when he would have enough salted away to insure his wife and children against want and could retire to the easy life of a saloonkeeper. To the wise ones there was a marked difference between the Jack Garrett who faced the champion, chest to chest and eye to eye, and that other Jack Garrett who, a few months earlier, had gone down under Butch Horlock’s fist. Confidence was enthroned now where doubt sat then. He lacked a little of the height and reach of his opponent. On the other hand, he sug- gested greater strength, which in the 99 long run might mean bottom—en- durance—staying power. And he had ten years the advantage. “ Jim Jeffries says to me, says he—” began the Westerner. His es friend interrupted. “Can it,’ he ordered. off!” The loudly clanging bell gave the signal. Ere its vibrations had died away the battle began. ‘The champion, a little suspicious of his lasting powers, had planned to carry the fight to the challenger. His right arm shot out to the accompani- ment of a shuddering “ ah!” from the spectators. The blow fell harmless. A fraction of a second quicker—but the Naviga- tor, cautious and watchful, jerked his head and the glove whistled past his ear. “ They’re “Boy, could you ha’ seen them! Our Jack, mind you—him that has fished alongside of us. An’ all New York lookin’ on, with I don’t know how many from other parts. They were the game ones.” Herb Mann was telling his com- panions of the Hooper gang of the battle. “T sat close to th’ ring, where Jack had fixed for me to be. First off I thought ’twas make-believe—that was’ when they put on gloves, like a boat- sponge they were. How can they hurt anybody with those, says I. ‘ But ’twas fine th’ way they looked in one another’s eyes and you seen neither was scared of the other. They’d as quick have gone to work without them feather pillow things, if they were let. Feller next me says th’ law wouldn’t allow. He told me they could hit hard, all right, with th’ boat- sponges. ‘Tell that to a summer boarder,’ I says. “ Th’ old feller—th’ champion—he whips one out at Jack. Quick he was, an’ long an’ slim, like a dogfish. A’ dogfish face he had on him, too, as I could see sittin’ down there in th’ amen GomiGcdooks (C@