Argosy All-Story Weekly, July 1, 1922 — page 76: what you’re looking at

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

866 expected to fight Battling Riley! There would be no disgrace in running away from a champion pugilist, trained to the hour for his own specialty. The press would get the story, everybody would laugh over it, and the successful candidate would be applauded as a nervy chap who got his orders, and carried them out to the letter. Riley him- self—reading the story—would harbor no resentment. It would be good advertising for him. Of course he would resent the insult. He wouldn’t be half a man if he didn’t! And quite naturally he would attempt to wipe it out in gore. Pax Rogers’s gore. But Pax felt certain that he could count upon a full second or two of stupefaction on Riley’s part, that a stripling should dare ad- dress him thus. Doubtless, seeing him draw nigh, he would suppose him one among the hundreds of admirers who yearned to fawn upon him, bask in his presence, shake his hairy fist, and be able forever thereafter to say: ‘“‘ Battling Riley? Sure I know him!” Then would come Pax’s crude vitupera- tion out of the mouth of a suckling. A gasp—a widening of eyes and then the an- nihilating fist. And during this gasp—this brief paralysis—Pax would drop his head and, seeking his opening—or making one— charge through the pop-eyed throng in the lobby, and flee as one striving for a touch- down. Pax could run a hundred yards in eleven seconds flat, clad in moleskins, sweater and cleated boots, with a football under one arm. He had never yet been tackled from be- hind. And never before had such an in- centive spurred him on as would be fur- nished by a berserk middleweight three paces in the rear! Riley would not follow him very far. Pax knew the Kingston streets like a newsboy; but if worse came to worst, once in the suburbs, there was a good turnpike running clear to Manhattan. Pax smiled, shook hands with himself, and went to bed to dream of walking for miles and miles between double files of statesmen, athletes, soldiers and pretty girls, each of whom pointed to the gold and black enameled insignia of Sarcophagus, and sighed enviously if a man, or smiled daz- zling if a maiden! ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. It was characteristic of him that having come to a decision he dismissed the affair from his mind. The very next evening he accepted an invitation to speak at a meet- ing called to protest against the disgraceful exhibition between Battling Riley and the Bimbo. He was never in better form, and his remarks were applauded by battalions of old ladies and timid old gentlemen, and were quoted in full in the morning papers. “‘ Saddening as this blood-lust is, this in- heritance of the old Roman colisseum which leads two low-browed morons to pound each other for hire, they are respectable com- pared with the men and even, alas, women and boys who pay admission to witness a debasing spectacle! To call it ‘ the manly art ’ is an insult to intelligence. It is neither manly nor an art. If we cannot prevent this cruel and bloody exhibition, let us at least register our vigorous disapproval of that which rouses only the basest passions and helps postpone the day of brotherly love and universal altruism.” Loud applause, and much waving of lav- ender-scented handkerchiefs rewarded the young collegian as he resumed his seat. Battling Riley did not read of the meet- ing, and wouldn’t have been interested if he had. There were nuts who couldn’t see anything in a good scrap, he knew; and his press agent loved them like brothers and sisters. They were a great, free advertise- ment for him. Nor had the champion ever heard of Pax Rogers. He knew that there was a college in Kingston, and courted on its undergraduates to help swell the gate receipts. An old sparring partner of his had once taught boxing here, and once he had sold a bull pup to a Kingston gradu- ate. That was all he knew about this par- ticular institution. At four o’clock the day after Pax’s speech, the lobby of the Kingston Arms was comfortably filled with its own guests, a big squad of newspaper and camera men, local sporting characters, college youths, girls of the flapper type, and as many nondescripts as dared to pass the huge and haughty door- man of the great hotel. It was not easy to get near the cham- pion, who Jeaned against a pillar beside his manager, shaking hands in a bored manner DOOK C©