The Argosy, Vol. 81, No. 4 — page 96: what you’re looking at

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

662 THE face and body, and with each successful punch the champion’s rushes became more feeble and blind. Tobias got his share of blows, but they were weak and harmless. The excitement of the crowd knew no bounds. Donovan had given up all thought of flight. He was at the ringside now, shout- ing, laughing, crying; calling Tobias his jewel, his eighth wonder of the world, his champion of champions! “Youll win, boy! You'll win!” he screeched. “I always knew you’d win. He can’t last much longer. Tear into him, boy! He’s all in!” Tobias turned his grin on Donovan. “Get that there money ready,” he called across. ‘‘I’m a-goin’ to put Clarence to bed now.” There followed two hammer-like blows, and Clarence Higginbothom, better known as the peerless One-Round Higgin, sank to the floor for the full count and a little more. It was all over in one round. The frenzied crowd proclaimed a new champion. From the press-box the news was flashed across the continent. Tobias Brewer of Nameless Creek, Ark., had become a national celebrity! And that night Tobias Brewer left his bed untouched as he sat at.a table counting and recounting an enormous roll of -greenbacks. It was still very early the next morning when the jubilant Donovan rushed along the street toward the new champion’s lodg- ing-house. His mission was an important one. He intended to drill his “phenom” in the art of being interviewed before the sport and special writers of the various news- papers could besiege him. He bounded up the steps just in time to meet the great man coming out of the front ARGOSY. door. At the sight of him Donovan stopped short and stared with open mouth. The man who stood before him was the same Tobias Brewer he had met that day in the West Side Athletic Club, leather boots, faded overalls, pink tie and all. In his hand he carried a small gray canvas telescope satchel, fastened with two bright yellow cloth straps. ‘What the devil!” cried Donovan. “You ain’t going away?” “Sure thing,” replied Tobias with calm finality. “It’s back to Arkansaw for me.” Donovan gulped and passed his hand over his eyes. “Why, boy, you’re crazy. Don’t you know you’re champion of the world? I’ve got vaudeville and burlesque contracts enough for you to keep you busy for the next two years at $500 a week. Whoever heard of a champion dropping off the face of the earth the next day?” “That’s all right,” answered Tobias. “Call me champion if it makes you feel good, but I never did nothin’ but lay out that there Clarence Higginbothom, a thing I’d done a dozen times before. But if you ever hitched me up with one of them there real fighters, and that’d likely be the next time, I’d be a goner, that’s all. “I’ve got money enough to last me a life- time, and I hain’t a-calculatin’ on bein’ sent home in a box after a row with one of these here scientific boxers. Right now the goin’s good and I’m a-goin’ back home to build that there cozy house for that there gal of mine. So long, brother.” Donovan wilted to a sitting posture on the steps and through eyes that saw as if through a fog, watched the pastoral figure of Tobias Brewer disappear all too rapidly around the corner. PROTEST "THE ghost-flower, not the rose, should be the pledge Of love like thine, so bloodless and so cold— Exactly chilled to type, the perfect mold Of flawless forms, whereof none may allege A fault; a pallid goodness to disedge The human heart—love wholly self-controlled! Oh, for frank passion innocently bold— The honest girl I kissed beside the hedge When glowed the gloaming giddy with glad song, The lane a dizzy whirl of dancing flowers, And all my blood beat joy of June-time’s charm! You love but me? Why, then, your old self wrong By new conventions? Oh, for bygone hours, The rustic maid whose brown hand was so warm! Stokely S. Fisher. CORNICLOOOLK