Argosy All-Story Weekly — 'The Metal Monster' — page 158: what you’re looking at

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

152 inside the next five minutes. We don’t want any lowbrow boxers and wrestlers and such like. That ain’t what we need at all. Something artistic and youthful and beau- tiful is what—” “So I heard,” broke in Aleck. “ But, Andy, I want to tell you you’re all wrong. You’re a mile wide. Maybe these angel cake classic hoofers of yours would get over all right in the big cities, but—”’ However, further quotations are prob- ably unnecessary. We had quite an argu-- ment, and before we got through it was fairly heated in spots. And I'd like to say that a few days later the Leonora Lincoln Dancers joined out with us in one mass of youth and beauty, but I can’t because they didn’t. Truth: he generally prevails. Anyway, what really joined us was a gent with a forty-four chest and no education, and his name was Butcher Banahan. This Mr. Butcher Banahan had once stayed four rounds with the heavyweight champion pugilist' of the world, before the champion won his title and was still young and in- experienced; still, it made a good talking ‘point for the Butcher, and he made the most of it. As a fighter Butcher Banahan was certainly a great orator. The Butcher had brotight a sparring partner along with him, and the idea, of course, was to have the Butcher and his chopping block amuse the audience nightly with a short exhibition of fancy work; then the Butcher would take on all comers, forfeiting one hundred seeds to any person hardy enough to weather three rounds; and then, right from the stage, the Butcher would issue a loud piercing chalienge to the Champion—which was a perfectly safe thing to do because every one knows that champions never fight. There were other reasons, too, why it was perfectly safe; but no doubt the one stated is sufficient. Well, the plan—which was entirely Aleck’s and Mr. Banahan’s—worked first- rate for several performances. Aleck gave the Butcher a lot of publicity, and the box- office began to feel the thrill of life along its keel, and Aleck went around wearing one of those “‘ Who’s looney now?” expres- sions, whenever he thought I was looking. Aleck Wheeler is a good deal like - ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. Then, one night, a young but enormous blacksmith, who knew nothing at all about boxing and less about the White Lights celebrated in song and story—all of which lights the Butcher knew by their first names —arose from the audience and presently engaged the Butcher in a very engaging manner. At the end of the second three- minute instalment the Butcher was weak but able to sit up, and I guess if there’d been any nourishment handy the Butcher would have taken it, because. he surely looked as if he needed it. The truth of the matter is, that young shoer of horses walloped the eternal stuff- ing out of Mr. Banahan for two rounds; and then, when the third period was only @ minute or so old, he reached down and pulled one from South Africa, exploded it right on the Butcher’s chin, and knocked Mr. Banahan into a cocked hat, over the footlights and through the bass drum. Not many hours later Butcher Banahan went away from us. I wondered what Aleck would do next. The advertisement of the Leonora Lincoln Dancers was still running, I’d noticed, but I didn’t say anything. Well, what Aleck did was this: He wrote a letter to a friend of his in New York, a wrestling impresario, asking him to forward by fast freight one competent grappler. Apparently, then, Aleck had now reached the point where he proposed to have no further doings with boxers either individ- ually or as a class. In fact, he so expressed himself—or to that effect, anyway. There is nothing to be gained by using Aleck’s exact words. Some three or four days later, when Aleck and I were talking things over in the manager’s office of the theater we were then playing, and not finding anything pleasant to chat about, the result of Aleck’s letter to the wrestling promoter bulged in on us. We guessed at once that he was some sort of an alien; what led us to guess that was his complexion, which was of a sort of medium dark shade, about Colorado Claro, I think. His eyes looked sort of foreign or some- thing, too; they were dark, smoky-looking eyes that looked as if they were just smol- COMIC OOO SH Colin