 CHAPTER 13 STRANGE BEHAVIOR OF A SPARING PARTNER 1. Sally's emotions, as she sat in her apartment on the morning of her return to New York, resembled somewhat those of a swimmer who, after wavering on a raw morning at the brink of a chill pool, nerves himself to the plunge. She was aching, but she knew that she had done well. If she wanted happiness, she must fight for it, and for all these months she had been shirking the fight. She had done with wavering on the brink, and here she was in midstream, ready for whatever might befall. It hurt, this coming to grips. She had expected it to hurt, but it was a pain that stimulated, not a dull melancholy that smothered. She felt alive, and defiant. She had finished unpacking and tidying up. The next move was certainly to go and see her. She had suddenly become aware that she wanted very badly to see ginger. His stolid friendliness would be a support and a prop. She wished now that she had sent him a cable so that he could have met her at the dock. It had been rather terrible at the dock. The echoing customs, sheds, had sapped her valour, and she felt alone and forlorn. She looked at her watch, and was surprised to find how early it was. She could catch him at the office and make him take her out to lunch. She put on her hat and went out. The restless hand of change, always active in New York, had not spared the outer office of the Fillmore Nicholas theatrical enterprises limited in the months of her absence. She was greeted on her arrival by an entirely new and original stripling in place of the one with whom, at her last visit, she had established such cordial relations. Like his predecessor he was generously pimpled, but there the resemblance stopped. He was a grim boy, and his manner was stern and suspicious. He peered narrowly at Sally for a moment as if he had caught her in the act of perloining the office blotting paper, then, with no little acerbity, desired her to state her business. I want Mr. Kemp, said Sally. The office boy scratched his cheek dourily with a ruler. No one would have guessed, so austere was his aspect, that a moment before her entrance he had been trying to balance it on his chin, juggling the while with a pair of paper-weights. For impervious as he seemed to human weaknesses, it was the Slad's ambition one day to go into vaudeville. What name, he said coldly. Nicholas, said Sally, I am Mr. Nicholas's sister. On a previous occasion, when she had made this announcement, disastrous results had ensued, but today it went well. It seemed to hit the office boy like a bullet. He started convulsively, opened his mouth, and dropped the ruler. In the interval of stooping and recovering it, he was able to pull himself together. He had not been curious about Sally's name. What he had wished was to have the name of the person for whom she was asking, repeated. He now perceived that he had had a bit of luck. A wearying period of disappointment in the matter of keeping the paper-weights circulating while balancing the ruler had left him peevish, and it had been his intention to work off his ill-humour on the young visitor. The discovery that it was the boss's sister who was taking up his time suggested the advisability of a radical change of tactics. He had stooped with a frown. He returned to the perpendicular with a smile that was positively winning. It was like the sun suddenly bursting through a London fog. Will you take a seat, lady? he said, with polished courtesy even unbending so far as to reach out and dust one with the sleeve of his coat. He added that the morning was a fine one. Thank you, said Sally. Will you tell him I'm here? Mr. Nicholas is out, miss, said the office boy with gentlemanly regret. He's back in New York, but he's gone out. I don't want Mr. Nicholas. I want Mr. Kemp. Mr. Kemp? Yes, Mr. Kemp. The fellow at his inability to oblige shone from every hilltop on the boy's face. Don't know of any one of that name around here, he said apologetically. But surely, Sally broke off suddenly, a grim foreboding had come to her. How long have you been here? she asked. All day, ma'am, said the office boy, with the manner of a Casablanca. I mean, how long have you been employed here? Just over a month, miss. Hasn't Mr. Kemp been in the office all that time? Names new to me, lady, does he look like anything? I mean to say, what's he look like? He has very red hair. Never seen him in here, said the office boy. The truth shone coldly on Sally. She blamed herself for ever having gone away and told herself that she might have known what would happen. Left to his own resources, the unhappy ginger had once more made a hash of it. And this hash must have been a more notable and outstanding hash than any of his previous efforts, for surely Fillmore would not lightly have dismissed one who had come to him under her special protection. Where is Mr. Nicholas? she asked. It seemed to her that Fillmore was the only possible source of information. Did you say he was out? Really out, miss, said the office boy, with engaging candor. He went off to White Plains in his automobile half an hour ago. White Plains, what for? The pimpled stripling had now given himself up wholeheartedly to social chit-chat. Surely he liked his time to himself and resented the intrusion of the outer world, for he who had chosen jugglery for his walk in life must neglect no opportunity of practising. But so favourable was the impression which Sally had made on his plastic mind that he was delighted to converse with her as long as she wished. I guess what's happened is he's gone up to take a look at Bugs Butler, he said. Who's Butler? said Sally, mystified. The office boy smiled a tolerant smile. Though an admirer of the sex, he was aware that women were seldom hep to the really important things in life. He did not blame them. That was the way they were constructed, and one simply had to accept it. Bugs Butler is training up at White Plains, miss. Who is Bugs Butler? Everything of his former bleakness of aspect returned to the office boy. Sally's question had opened up a subject on which he felt deeply. Ah, he replied, losing his air of respectful deference as he approached the topic. Who is he? That's what they're all saying, all the wise guys. Who has Bugs Butler ever licked? I don't know, said Sally, for he had fixed her with a penetrating gaze and seemed to be pausing for a reply. Nor nobody else, said the stripling vehemently. A lot of stiffs out on the coast, that's all. Ginks nobody has ever heard of except Cyclone Mullins, and it took that false alarm fifteen rounds to get a referee's decision over him. The boss would go and give him a chance against the champ, but I could have told him that the legitimate contender was K. Legh Bins. K. Legh put Cyclone Mullins out in the fifth. Well, said the office boy, in the overwrought tone of one chafing at human folly. If anybody thinks Bugs Butler can last six rounds with Lou Lucas, I have two bucks right here in my vest pocket that says it ain't so. Sally began to see daylight. Oh, Bugs, Mr. Butler, is one of the boxers in this fight that my brother is interested in? That's right, he's going up against the lightweight champ. Lou Lucas is the lightweight champ, he's a bird. Yes, said Sally. This youth had a way of looking at her with his head cocked on one side, as though he expected her to say something. Yes, sir, said the stripling with emphasis, Lou Lucas is a hot sketch. He used to live on the street next to me. He added as clinching evidence of his hero's prowess. I've seen his old mother as close as I am to you. Say I've seen her a hundred times. Is any stiff of a Bugs Butler going to lick a fellow like that? It doesn't seem likely. You spoke it, said the lad crisply, striking unsuccessfully at a fly which had settled on the blotting paper. There was a pause. Sally started to rise. And there's another thing, said the office boy, loathed to close the subject. Can Bugs Butler make a hundred and thirty-five ringside without being weak? It sounds awfully difficult. They say he's clever. The expert laughed satirically. Well, what's that going to get him? The poor fish can't punch a hole in a nut Sunday. You don't seem to like Mr. Butler. Oh, I have nothing against him, said the office boy, magnanimously. I'm only saying he's no license to be mixing it with Lou Lucas. Sally got up. Absorbing as this chat on current form was, more important matters claimed her attention. How shall I find my brother when I get to White Plains? She asked. Oh, anybody'll show you the way to the training camp. If you hurry, there's a train you can make now. Thank you very much. You're welcome. He opened the door for her with an old world politeness which disuse had rendered a little rusty. Then, with an air of getting back to business after a pleasant but frivolous interlude, he took up the paper weights once more and placed the ruler, with nice care, on his upturned chin. Two. Fillmore heaved a sigh of relief and began to sidle from the room. It was a large room, half bar and half gymnasium. Make appliances of various kinds hung on the walls, and in the middle there was a wide roped-off space around which a small crowd had distributed itself with an air of expectancy. This is a commercial age, and the days when a prominent pugilist's training activities used to be hidden from the public gaze are over. Today, if the public can lay its hands on fifty cents, it may come and gaze its will. This afternoon, plutocrats to the number of about forty had assembled, though not all of these, to the regret of Mr. Lester Burroughs, the manager of the eminent bug's butler, had parted with solid coin. Many of those present were newspaper representatives and on the free list, writers who would polish up Mr. Butler's somewhat crude prognostications as to what he proposed to do to Mr. Lou Lucas, and would report him as saying, I am in really superb condition and feel little apprehension of the issue, and artists who would depict him in a state of semi-nudity, with feet several sizes too large for any man. The reason for Fillmore's relief was that Mr. Burroughs, who was a great talker, and had button-hulled him a quarter of an hour ago, had at last had his attention distracted elsewhere, and had gone off to investigate some matter that called for his personal handling, leaving Fillmore free to slide away to the hotel and get a bite to eat, which he sorely needed. The zeal which had brought him to the training camp to inspect the final day of Mr. Butler's preparation, for the fight was to take place on the morrow, had been so great that he had omitted to lunch before leaving New York. So Fillmore made thankfully for the door, and it was at the door that he encountered Sally. He was looking over his shoulder at the moment, and was not aware of her presence till she spoke. Hello, Fillmore! Sally had spoken softly, but a dynamite explosion could not have shattered her brother's composure with more completeness. In the leaping twist which brought him facing her, he rose a clear three inches from the floor. He had a confused sensation, as though his nervous system had been stirred up with a pole. He struggled for breath and moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue, staring at her continuously during the process. Great men, in their moments of weakness, are to be pitied rather than scorned. If ever a man had an excuse for leaping like a young ram, Fillmore had it. He had left Sally not much more than a week ago in England, in Shropshire, at Monks Crofton. She had said nothing of any intention on her part of leaving the country, the county, or the house. Yet here she was, in Buggs Butler's training camp at White Plains, in the state of New York, speaking softly in his ear without even going through the preliminary of tapping him on the shoulder to advertise her presence. No wonder that Fillmore was startled, and no wonder that, as he adjusted his faculties to the situation, there crept upon him a chill apprehension. For Fillmore had not been blind to the significance of that invitation to Monks Crofton. Nowadays, Yorah Wooward does not formally approach a girl's nearest relative, and ask permission to pay his addresses, but, when he invites her and that nearest relative to his country home, and collects all the rest of the family to meet her, the thing may be said to have advanced beyond the realms of mere speculation. Shroodly Fillmore had deduced that Bruce Carmile was in love with Sally, and mentally he had joined their hands and given them a brother's blessing, and now it was only two plain that disaster must have occurred. If the invitation could mean only one thing, so also could Sally's presence at White Plains mean only one thing. Sally! A croaking whisper was the best he could achieve. What? What? Did I startle you? I'm sorry. What are you doing here? Why aren't you at Monks Crofton? Sally glanced past him at the ring and the crowd around it. I decided I wanted to get back to America, circumstances arose which made it pleasanter to leave Monks Crofton. Do you mean to say? Yes, don't let's talk about it. Do you mean to say, persisted Fillmore, that Carmile proposed to you and you turned him down? He flushed. I don't think it's particularly nice to talk about that sort of thing, but yes. A feeling of desolation overcame Fillmore. That conviction, which saddens us at all times, of the willful bone-headedness of our fellows, swept coldly upon him. Everything had been so perfect, the whole arrangement so ideal, that it had never occurred to him as a possibility that Sally might take it into her head to spoil it by declining to play the part allotted to her. The match was so obviously the best thing that could happen. It was not merely the suitor's impressive wealth that made him hold this opinion, though it would be idle to deny that the prospect of having a brother-in-lawful claim on the Carmile bank balance had cast a rosy glamour over the future as he had envisaged it. He honestly liked and respected the man. He appreciated his quiet and aristocratic reserve. A well-bred fellow, sensible with all, just the sort of husband a girl like Sally needed. And now she had ruined everything. With the capricious perversity which so characterizes her otherwise delightful sex, she had spilled the beans. But why? Oh, Fill! Sally had expected that realization of the facts would produce these symptoms in him, but now that they had presented themselves she was finding them rasping to the nerves. I should have thought the reason was obvious. You mean you don't like him? I don't know whether I do or not. I certainly don't like him enough to marry him. He's a darn good fellow. Is he? You say so. I don't know. The imperious desire for bodily sustenance began to compete successfully for Fillmore's notice with his spiritual anguish. Let's go to the hotel and talk it over. We'll go to the hotel, and I'll give you something to eat. I don't want anything to eat, thanks. You don't want anything to eat? said Fillmore incredulously. He supposed, in a vague sort of way, that there were eccentric people of this sort, but it was hard to realize that he had met one of them. I'm starving. Well run along, then. Yes, but I want to talk. He was not the only person who wanted to talk. At the moment a small man of sporting exterior hurried up. He wore what his tailor's advertisements would have called a knobbly suit of checked tweed and, in defiance of popular prejudice, a brown bowler hat. Mr. Lester Burroughs, having dealt with the business which had interrupted their conversation a few minutes before, was anxious to resume his remarks on the subject of the supreme excellence in every respect of his young charge. Say, Mr. Nicholas, you ain't going. Bugs is just getting ready to spar. He glanced inquiringly at Sally. My sister, Mr. Burroughs, said Fillmore faintly. Mr. Burroughs is Bugs Butler's manager. How do you do, said Sally? Pleased to meet you, said Mr. Burroughs. Say. I was just going to the hotel to get something to eat, said Fillmore. Mr. Burroughs clutched at his button with a swoop and held him with a glittering eye. Yes, but say before you go let me tell you something. You never seen this boy am I, not when he was feeling right. Believe me, he's there. He's a wizard. He's a Hindu. Say, he's been practicing up a left shift that— Fillmore's eye met Sally's wandly, and she pitied him. Presently she would require him to explain to her how he had dared to dismiss Ginger from his employment, and make that explanation a good one, but in the meantime she remembered that he was her brother and was suffering. He's the cleverest lightweight, proceeded Mr. Burroughs fervently, since Joe Gans, I'm telling you, and I know he— Can he make a hundred and thirty-five ringside without being weak? asked Sally. The effect of this simple question on Mr. Burroughs was stupendous. He dropped away from Fillmore's coat button, like an exhausted bivalve, and his small mouth opened feebly. It was as if a child had suddenly propounded to an eminent mathematician some abstruse problem in the higher algebra. People who took an interest in boxing had come into Mr. Burroughs' life before. In his younger days, when he was a famous featherweight, the first of his three wives had been accustomed to sit at the ringside during his contests and urge him in language of the severest technicality to knock opponents blocks off. But somehow he had not supposed from her appearance and manner that Sally was one of the elect. He gaped at her, and the relieved Fillmore sidled off like a bird hopping from the compelling gaze of a snake. He was not quite sure that he was acting correctly in allowing his sister to roam at large among the somewhat bohemian surroundings of a training camp. But the instinct of self-preservation turned to the scale. He had breakfasted early, and if he did not eat right speedily it seemed to him that dissolution would set in. "'Was that?' said Mr. Burroughs feebly. It took him fifteen rounds to get a referee's decision over cyclone mullins,' said Sally severely. And K. Legh bends. Mr. Burroughs rallied. "'You ain't got it right,' he protested. "'Say, you mustn't believe what you see in the papers. The referee was dead against us, and cyclone was down once for all of half a minute, and they wouldn't count him out. Gee, you got to kill a guy in some towns before they'll give you a decision.' At that they couldn't do nothing so raw as make it anything but a win for my boy, after him leading by a mile all the way. Have you ever seen bugs, ma'am?' Sally had to admit that she had not had that privilege. Mr. Burroughs, with growing excitement, felt in his breast pocket, and produced a picture postcard, which he thrust into her hand. "'That's bugs,' he said. Take a slant at that, and then tell me if he don't look the goods.' The photograph represented a young man in the irreducible minimum of clothing, who crouched painfully, as those stricken with one of the acuter forms of gastritis. "'I'll call him over and have him sign it for you,' said Mr. Burroughs, before Sally had had time to grasp the fact that this work of art was a gift and no mere loan. Here, bugs, watcher! A youth, enveloped in a bathrobe, who had been talking to a group of admirers near the ring, turned, started languidly towards them, then seeing Sally quickened his pace. He was an admirer of the sex.' Mr. Burroughs did the honors. "'Bugs, this is Miss Nicholas. Come to see you work out. I have been telling her she's going to have a treat.' And to Sally. "'Shake hands with bugs, butler, ma'am, the coming lightweight champion of the world.' Mr. Butler's photograph, Sally considered, had flattered him. He was, in the flesh, a singularly repellent young man. There was a mean and cruel curve to his lips, and a cold arrogance in his eye, a something dangerous and sinister in the atmosphere he radiated. Moreover, she did not like the way he smarked at her. However, she exerted herself to be amiable. "'I hope you're going to win, Mr. Butler,' she said. The smile which she forced as she spoke the words removed the coming champion's doubts, though they had never been serious. He was convinced now that he had made a hit. He always did, he reflected, with the girls. It was something about him. His chest swelled complacently beneath the bathrobe. "'You betcher,' he asserted briefly. The girls' burrows looked at his watch. Time you were starting, Bugs.' The coming champion removed his gaze from Sally's face, into which he had been peering in a conquering manner, and cast a disparaging glance at the audience. It was far from being as large as he could have wished, and at least a third of it was composed of non-payers from the newspapers. "'All right,' he said, bored. His langer left him, as his gaze fell on Sally again, and his spirits revived somewhat. After all, small though the number of spectators might be, bright eyes would watch and admire him. "'I'll go a couple of rounds with Reddy for a starter,' he said. Seen him anywheres? He's never around when he's wanted. "'I'll fetch him,' said Mr. Burrows. He's back there somewheres. "'I'm going to show that guy up this afternoon,' said Mr. Butler coldly. He's been getting too fresh.' The manager bustled off, and Bugs Butler, with a final smirk, left Sally and dived under the ropes. There was a stir of interest in the audience, though the newspaper men, blasé through familiarity, exhibited no emotion. Presently Mr. Burrows reappeared, shepherding a young man whose face was hidden by the sweater which he was pulling over his head. He was a sturdily built young man. The sweater, moving from his body, revealed a good pair of shoulders. A last tug, and the sweater was off. Red hair flashed into view, tousled and disordered, and as she saw it Sally uttered an involuntary gasp of astonishment which caused many eyes to turn towards her. With a red-headed young man, who had been stooping to pick up his gloves, straightened himself with a jerk, and stood staring at her blankly and incredulously, his face slowly crimsoning. Three. It was the energetic Mr. Burrows who broke the spell. "'Come on, come on,' he said impatiently. "'Lil' speed there, ready.' Ginger Kemp started like a sleep-walker awakened. Then recovering himself slowly began to pull on the gloves. Embarrassment was stamped on his agreeable features. His face matched his hair. Sally plucked at the little manager's elbow. He turned irritably, but beamed in a distraight sort of manner when he perceived the source of the interruption. "'Who him?' he said, in answer to Sally's whispered question. He's just one of Bugza's sparring partners. But— Mr. Burrows, fussy now that the time had come for action, interrupted her. "'You'll excuse me, miss, but I have to hold the watch. We mustn't waste any time.' Sally drew back. She felt like an infidel who intrudes upon the celebration of strange rites. This was man's hour, and women must keep in the background. She had the sensation of being very small, and yet very much in the way, like a puppy who has wandered into a church. The novelty and solemnity of the scene awed her. She looked at Ginger, who, with averted gaze, was fiddling with his clothes in the opposite corner of the ring. He was as removed from communication as if he had been in another world. She continued to stare, wide-eyed, and Ginger, shuffling his feet self-consciously, plucked at his gloves. Mr. Butler, meanwhile, having doffed his bathrobe, stretched himself and, with leisurely nonchalance, put on a second pair of gloves, was filling in the time with a little shadow-boxing. He moved rhythmically to and fro, now ducking his head, now striking out with his muffled hands, and a sickening realization of the man's animal power swept over Sally, and turned her cold. Swayed in his bathrobe, Bugs Butler had conveyed an atmosphere of dangerousness. In the boxing tights, which showed up every rippling muscle, he was horrible and sinister, a machine built for destruction, a human panther. So he appeared to Sally, but a stout and bulbous-eyed man standing at her side was not equally impressed. Obviously one of the wise guys of whom her friend, the sporting office boy, had spoken, he was frankly dissatisfied with the exhibition. Shadow-boxing he observed in a caveling spirit to his companion. Yes, he can do that all right, just like I can fox-trot if I ain't got a partner to get in the way, but one good wallop, and then watch him. His friend, also plainly a guy of established wisdom, assented with a curt nod. Ah, he agreed. New Lucas, said the first wise guy, is just as shifty and he can punch. Ah, said the second wise guy. Just because he beats up a few poor mutts of sparring partners, said the first wise guy disparagingly, he thinks he's someone. Ah, said the second wise guy. As far as Sally could interpret these remarks, the full meaning of which was shrouded from her, they seemed to be reassuring. For a comforting moment she ceased to regard Ginger as a martyr waiting to be devoured by a lion. Mr. Butler, she gathered, was not so formidable as he appeared, but her relief was not to be long-lived. Of course he'll eat this red-headed gink, went on the first wise guy. That's the thing he does best, killing his sparring partners, but Lou Lucas. Sally was not interested in Lou Lucas. The numbing fear had come back to her, even these Cognoscenti, little as they esteemed Mr. Butler, had plainly no doubts as to what he would do to Ginger. She tried to tear herself away, but something stronger than her own will kept her there, standing where she was, holding on to the rope and staring forlornly into the ring. "'Ready, bugs?' asked Mr. Burroughs. The coming champion nodded carelessly. "'Go to it,' said Mr. Burroughs. Ginger ceased to pluck at his gloves, and advanced into the ring. Four. Of all the learned professions, pugilism is the one in which the trained expert is most sharply divided from the mere dabbler. In other fields the amateur may occasionally hope to compete successfully with the man who has made a business of what is to him but a sport, but at boxing never, and the whole demeanor of Bugs Butler showed that he had laid this truth to heart. It would be too little to say that his bearing was confident. He comported himself with the carefree jauntiness of an infant about to demolish a Noah's Ark with a tack hammer. Cyclone Mullins's might withstand him for fifteen rounds where they yielded to a K-leg bins in the fifth, but when it came to beating up a sparring partner, and an amateur at that, Bugs Butler knew his potentialities. He was there for he weighs, and he did not attempt to conceal it. Crouching as was his want, he uncoiled himself like a striking rattlesnake, and flicked Ginger lightly over his guard. Then he returned to his crouch and circled sinuously about the ring with the amiable intention of showing the crowd, payers and deadheads alike, what real footwork was. If there was one thing on which Bugs Butler prided himself, it was footwork. The adverb lightly is a relative term, and the blow which had just planted a dull patch on Ginger's cheekbone affected those present in different degrees. Ginger himself appeared stolidly callous. Sally shuddered to the core of her being, and had to hold more tightly to the rope to support herself. The two wise guys mocked openly. To the wise guys, expert connoisseurs of SWAT, the thing had appeared richly farcical. They seemed to consider the blow, administered to a third party and not to themselves, hardly worth calling a blow at all. Two more, landing as quickly and neatly as the first, left them equally cold. "'Call that punching,' said the first wise guy. "'Ah,' said the second wise guy. "'But Mr. Butler, if he heard this criticism, and it is probable that he did, for the wise ones had been restrained by no delicacy of feeling from raising their voices, was in no way discommoded by it. Bugs Butler knew what he was about. Bright eyes were watching him, and he meant to give them a treat. The girls like smooth work. Any rough-neck could sail into a guy and knock the daylights out of him. But how few could be clever and flashy and scientific! You few indeed thought Mr. Butler, as he slid in and led once more. Something solid smote Mr. Butler's nose, rocking him onto his heels, and inducing an unpleasant, smarting sensation about his eyes. He backed away and regarded Ginger with astonishment, almost with pain. Until this moment he had scarcely considered him as an active participant in the scene at all, and he felt strongly that this sort of thing was bad form. It was not being done by sparring partners. A juster man might have reflected that he himself was to blame. He had undeniably been careless. In the very act of leading he had allowed his eyes to flicker sideways to see how Sally was taking this exhibition of science, and he paid the penalty. Nevertheless, he was peaked. He shimmered about the ring, thinking it over, and the more he thought it over, the less did he approve of his young assistant's conduct. Hard thoughts towards Ginger began to float in his mind. Ginger, too, was thinking hard thoughts. He had not had an easy time since he had come to the training camp, but never till to-day had he experienced any resentment towards his employer. Until this afternoon Bugs Butler had pounded him honestly and without malice, and he had gone through it, as the other sparring partners did, phlegmatically, taking it as part of the day's work. But this afternoon there had been a difference. Those careless flicks had been an insult, a deliberate offense. The man was trying to make a fool of him, playing to the gallery, and the thought of who was in that gallery inflamed Ginger past thought of consequences. No one, not even Mr. Butler, was more keenly alive than he to the fact that in a serious conflict with a man who tomorrow night might be lightweight champion of the world, he stood no chance whatever, but he did not intend to be made an exhibition of in front of Sally without doing something to hold his end up. He proposed to go down with his flag flying, and in pursuance of this object he dug Mr. Butler heavily in the lower ribs with his right, causing that expert to clinch and the two wise guys to utter sharp barking sounds expressive of derision. Say, what the hell do you think you're getting at? demanded the aggrieved pugilist in a heated whisper in Ginger's ear as they fell into the embrace. What's the idea, you jellybean? Ginger maintained a pink silence. His jaw was set, and the temper which nature had bestowed upon him to go with his hair had reached white heat. He dodged a vicious right which whizzed up at his chin out of the breaking clinch and rushed. A left hook shook him, but was too high to do more. There was rough work in the far corner, and suddenly with startling abruptness, Bugs Butler, bothered by the ropes at his back and trying to sidestep, ran into a swing and fell. Time shouted the scandalized Mr. Burroughs, utterly aghast at this frightfulness adventure. In the whole course of his professional experience he could recall no such devastating occurrence. The audience was no less startled. There was audible gasping. The newspaper men looked at each other with a wild surmise and conjured up pleasant pictures of their sporting editors receiving this sensational item of news later on over the telephone. The two wise guys, continuing to pursue Mr. Butler with their dislike, emitted loud and raucous laughs, and one of them, warming his hands into a megaphone, urged the fallen warrior to go away and get a rep. As for Sally, she was conscious of a sudden, fierce, cavewomanly rush of happiness which swept away completely the sickening qualms of the last few minutes. Her teeth were clenched, and her eyes blazed with joyous excitement. She looked at Ginger yearningly, longing to forget a gentle upbringing and shout congratulation to him. She was proud of him, and mingled with the pride was a curious feeling that was almost fear. This was not the mild and amiable young man whom she was want to mother through the difficulties of a world in which he was unfitted to struggle for himself. This was a new Ginger, a stranger to her. On the rare occasions on which he had been knocked down in the past it had been Bugs Butler's canny practice to pause for a while and rest, before rising and continuing the argument, but now he was up almost before he had touched the boards, and the satire of the second wise guy, who had begun to saw the air with his hand and count loudly, lost its point. It was only too plain that Mr. Butler's motto was that a man may be down, but he is never out, and indeed the knockdown had been largely a stumble. Bugs Butler's educated feat, which had carried him unscathed through so many contests, had for this single occasion managed to get themselves crossed, just as Ginger's blow landed, and it was to his lack of balance rather than the force of the swing that his downfall had been due. Time, he snarled, casting a malevolent side-glance at his manager, like hell it's time. And in a whirlwind of flying gloves he flung himself upon Ginger, driving him across the ring, while Mr. Burrow's, watch in hand, stared with dropping jaw. If Ginger had seemed a new Ginger to Sally, still more did this seem a new Bugs Butler to Mr. Burrow's, and the manager groaned in spirit. Coolness, skill, and science, these had been the qualities in his protégé which had always so endeared him to Mr. Lester Burrow's, and had so enriched their respective bank accounts, and now, on the eve of the most important fight in his life, before an audience of newspaper men, he had thrown them all aside and was making an exhibition of himself with a common sparring-partner. That was the bitter blow to Mr. Burrow's. Had this lapse into the unscientific primitive happened in a regular fight he might have mourned, and poured reproof into Bugs's ear when he got him back in his corner at the end of the round, but he would not have experienced this feeling of helpless horror. The sort of horror an elder of the church might feel if he saw his favourite bishop yielding in public to the fascination of jazz. It was the fact that Bugs Butler was lowering himself to extend his powers against a sparring-partner that shocked Mr. Burrow's. There is an etiquette in these things. A champion may batter his sparring-partners into insensibility if he pleases, but he must do it with nonchalance. He must not appear to be really trying. And nothing could be more manifest than that Bugs Butler was trying. His whole fighting soul was in his efforts to corner Ginger and destroy him. The battle was raging across the ring and down the ring and up the ring and back again, yet always Ginger, like a storm-driven ship, contrived somehow to weather the tempest. Out of the flurry of swinging arms he emerged time after time bruised, bleeding, but fighting hard. For Bugs Butler's fury was defeating its object. Had he remained his cool and scientific self he could have demolished Ginger and cut through his defence in a matter of seconds. But he had lapsed back into the methods of his unskilled novitiate. He swung and missed, swung and missed again, struck but found no vital spot. And now there was blood on his face, too. In some wild melee the sacred fount had been tapped, and his teeth gleamed through a crimson mist. The wise guys were beyond speech, they were leaning against one another, punching each other feebly in the back. One was crying. And then suddenly the end came, as swiftly and unexpectedly as the thing had begun. His wild swings had tired Bugs Butler, and with fatigue prudence returned to him. His feet began once more their subtle weaving in and out. Twice his left hand flickered home. A quick faint, a short jolting stab, and Ginger's guard was down, and he was swaying in the middle of the ring, his hands hanging, and his knees a quiver. Bugs Butler measured his distance. And Sally shut her eyes. End of CHAPTER XIII Mr. Abraham One. The only real happiness, we are told, is to be obtained by bringing happiness to others. Bugs Butler's mood, accordingly, when some thirty hours after the painful episode recorded in the last chapter, he awoke from a state of coma in the ring at Jersey City to discover that Mr. Lou Lucas had knocked him out in the middle of the third round, should have been one of quiet contentment. His inability to block a short left hook followed by a right, to the point of the jaw, had ameliorated quite a number of existences. Mr. Lou Lucas, for one, was noticeably pleased. So were Mr. Lucas's seconds, one of whom went so far as to kiss him. And most of the crowd who had betted heavily on the champion were delighted. Yet Bugs Butler did not rejoice. It is not too much to say that his peevish bearing struck a jarring note in the general gaiety. A heavy frown disfigured his face as he slouched from the ring. But the happiness which he had spread went on spreading. The two wise guys, who had been unable to attend the fight in person, received the result on the ticker and exuberantly proclaimed themselves the richer by five hundred dollars. The pimpled office boy at the Philmore Nicholas theatrical enterprises Ltd. caused remark in the subway by whooping gleefully when he read the news in his morning paper, for he, too, had been rendered wealthier by the brittleness of Mr. Butler's chin. And it was with fierce satisfaction that Sally, breakfasting in her little apartment, informed herself through the sporting page of the details of the contender's downfall. She was not a girl who disliked many people, but she had acquired a lively distaste for Bugs Butler. Lou Lucas seemed a man after her own heart. If he had been a personal friend of Ginger's he could not, considering the brief time at his disposal, have avenged him with more thoroughness. In round one he had done all sorts of diverting things to Mr. Butler's left eye. In round two he had continued the good work on that gentleman's body, and in round three he had knocked him out. Would anyone have done more? Sally thought not, and she drank Lou Lucas's health in a cup of coffee, and hoped his old mother was proud of him. The telephone bell rang at her elbow. She unhooked the receiver. Hello? Oh, hello! said a voice. Ginger! cried Sally delightedly. I say, I'm awfully glad you're back. I only got your letter this morning, founded at the boarding house. I happen to look in there and— Ginger, interrupted Sally, your voice is music, but I want to see you. Where are you? I'm at a chemist's shop across the street. I was wondering if— Come here at once. I say, may I? I was just going to ask. You miserable creature! Why haven't you been round to see me before? Well, as a matter of fact, I haven't been going about much for the last day, you see. I know, of course. Quick sympathy came into Sally's voice. She gave a side-long glance of approval and gratitude at the large picture of Lou Lucas which beamed up at her from the morning paper. You poor thing! How are you? Oh, all right, thanks. Well, hurry! There was a slight pause at the other end of the wire. I say, well, I'm not much to look at, you know. You never were, stop talking and hurry over. I mean to say. Sally hung up the receiver firmly. She waited eagerly for some minutes and then footsteps came along the passage. They stopped at her door and the bell rang. Sally ran to the door, flung it open, and recoiled in consternation. Oh, ginger! He had stated the facts accurately when he had said that he was not much to look at. He gazed at her devotedly out of an unblemished right eye, but the other was hidden altogether by a puffy swelling of dull purple. A great bruise marred his left cheekbone, and he spoke with some difficulty through swollen lips. It's all right, you know, he assured her. It isn't. It's awful. Oh, you poor darling! She clenched her teeth viciously. I wish he had killed him. Eh? I wish Lou Lucas, or whatever his name is, had murdered him. Brute! Oh, I don't know, you know. Ginger's sense of fairness compelled him to defend his late employer against these harsh sentiments. He isn't a bad sort of chap, really, Bugs Butler, I mean. Do you seriously mean to stand there and tell me you don't loathe the creature? Oh, he's all right. See his point of view and all that, can't blame him, if you come to think of it, for getting the wind up a bit in the cirks. Bit thick, I mean to say, a sparring partner going at him like that. Naturally he didn't think it much of a wheeze. It was my fault right along, oughten to have done it, of course, but somehow when he started making an ass of me, and I knew you were looking on, well, it seemed a good idea to have a dash at doing something on my own. No right to, of course. A sparring partner isn't supposed— Sit down, said Sally. Ginger sat down. Ginger, said Sally, you are too good to live. Oh, I say. I believe if someone sandbagged you and stole your watch and chain, you'd say there were faults on both sides or something. I'm just a cat, and I say I wish your beast of a Bugs Butler had perished miserably. I'd have gone and danced on his grave, but whatever made you go in for that sort of thing. Well, it seemed the only job that was going at the moment. I've always done a goodish bit of boxing, and I was very fit, and so on, and it looked to me rather an opening, gave me something to get along with—you get paid quite fairly decently, you know, and it's rather a jolly life. Jolly? Being hammered about like that? Oh, you don't notice it much. I've always enjoyed scrapping, rather, and you see, when your brother gave me the push—Sally uttered an exclamation. What an extraordinary thing it is. I went all the way out to White Plains that afternoon to find Fillmore and tackle him about that, and I didn't say a word about it, and I haven't seen or been able to get a hold of him since. No? Busy sort of cove your brother. Why did Fillmore let you go? Let me go? Oh, you mean—well, there was a sort of mix-up, a kind of misunderstanding. What happened? Oh, it was nothing, just a—what happened? Ginger's disfigured countenance betrayed embarrassment. He looked awkwardly about the room. It's not worth talking about. It is worth talking about. I have a right to know. It was I who sent you to Fillmore. Now that, said Ginger, was jolly decent of you. Don't interrupt. I sent you to Fillmore, and he had no business to let you go without saying a word to me. What happened? Ginger twiddled his fingers unhappily. Well, it was rather unfortunate. You see, his wife—I don't know if you know her. Of course I know her. Why, yes, you would, wouldn't you? Your brother's wife, I mean, said Ginger acutely. Though, as a matter of fact, you often find sisters in law who won't have anything to do with one another. I know a fellow. Ginger, said Sally, it's no good your thinking you can get out of telling me by rambling off on other subjects. I am grim and resolute and relentless, and I mean to get this story out of you if I have to use a corkscrew. Fillmore's wife, you were saying? Ginger came back reluctantly to the main theme. Well, she came into the office one morning, and we started fooling about. Fooling about? Well, kind of chivying each other. Chivying? At least I was. You were what? Sort of chasing her a bit, you know? Sally regarded this apostle of frivolity with amazement. What do you mean? Ginger's embarrassment increased. The thing was, you see, she happened to trickle in rather quietly when I happened to be looking at something, and I didn't know she was there till she suddenly grabbed it. Grabbed what? The thing. The thing I happened to be looking at. She bagged it, collared it, took it away from me, you know, and wouldn't give it back, and generally started to rot about a bit, so I rather began to chivy her to some extent, and just caught her when your brother happened to roll in. I suppose, said Ginger, putting two and two together. He had really come with her to the office, and had happened to hang back for a minute or two to talk to somebody or something. Well, of course, he was considerably fed to see me apparently doing jujitsu with his wife. Enough to rattle any man if you come to think of it. Said Ginger. Ever fair-minded. Well, he didn't say anything at the time, but a bit later in the day he called me in and administered the push. Sally shook her head. It sounds the craziest story to me. What was it that Mrs. Fillmore took from you? Oh, just something. Sally wrapped the table imperiously. Ginger. Well, as a matter of fact, said her goaded visitor. It was a photograph. Who of? Or if you are particular, of whom? Well, you, to be absolutely accurate. Me, Sally stared, but I've never given you a photograph of myself. Ginger's face was a study in scarlet and purple. You didn't exactly give it to me, he mumbled. When I say give, I mean— Good gracious! Sudden enlightenment came upon Sally. That photograph we were hunting for when I first came here, had you stolen it all the time? Why, yes, I did sort of pinch it. You fraud! You humbug! And you pretended to help me look for it. She gazed at him almost with respect. I never knew you were so deep and snaky, I'm discovering all sorts of new things about you. There was a brief silence. Ginger, confession over, seemed a trifle happier. I hope you're not frightfully sick about it, he said at length. It was lying about, you know, and I rather felt I must have it. Hadn't the cheek to ask you for it, so— Don't apologize, said Sally cordially. Great compliment! So I have caused your downfall again, have I? I'm certainly your evil genius, Ginger. I'm beginning to feel like a regular rag and a bone and a hank of hair. First I egged you on to insult your family—oh, by the way, I want to thank you about that. Now that I've met your Uncle Donald I can see how public-spirited you were. I ruined your prospects there, and now my fatal beauty—cabinet size—has led to your destruction once more. It's certainly up to me to find you another job. I can see that. No, really, I say, you mustn't bother. I shall be all right. It's my duty. Now what is there that you really can do? Burglary, of course, but it's not respectable. You've tried being a waiter and a prize-fighter and a right-hand man, and none of those seems to be just right. Can't you suggest anything? Ginger shook his head. I shall wangle something I expect. Yes, but what? It must be something good this time. I don't want to be walking along Broadway and come on you suddenly as a street-cleaner. I don't want to ascend for an express-man and find you popping up. My idea would be to go to my bank to arrange an overdraft and be told the president could give me two minutes and crawl in humbly and find you pressing away to beat the band in a big chair. Isn't there anything in the world that you can do that's solid and substantial and will keep you out of the poor house in your old age? Think. Of course, if I had a bit of capital. Ah, the businessman. And what, inquired Sally, would you do, Mr. Morgan, if you had a bit of capital? Run a dog thing of me, said Ginger promptly. What's a dog thing of me? Why, a thing of my jig, for dogs, you know. Sally nodded. Oh, a thing of my jig for dogs. Now I understand. You will put things so obscurely at first. Ginger, you poor fish. What are you raving about? What on earth is a thing of my jig for dogs? I mean a sort of place like fellows have, breeding dogs, you know, and selling them and winning prizes and all that. There are lots of them about. Oh, a kennel's. Yes, a kennel's. What a weird mind you have, Ginger. You couldn't say kennel's at first, could you? That wouldn't have made it difficult enough. I suppose, if anyone asked you where you had your lunch, you would say, Oh, I had a thing of my jig for mutton chops. Ginger, my lad, there is something in this. I believe, for the first time in our acquaintance, you have spoken something very nearly resembling a mouthful. You are wonderful with dogs, aren't you? I'm dashed keen on them, and I've studied them a bit. As a matter of fact, though it seems rather like swanking, there isn't much about dogs that I don't know. Of course, I believe you're a sort of honorary dog yourself. I could tell it by the way you stopped that fight at Rovile. You plunged into a howling mass of about a million hounds of all species, and just whispered in their ears, and they stopped at once. Why, the more one examines this, the better it looks. I do believe it's the one thing you couldn't help making a success of. It's very paying, isn't it? Works out at about a hundred percent on the original outlay I've been told. A hundred percent? That sounds too much like something of Phil Morris for comfort. Let's say ninety-nine and be conservative. Ginger, you have hit it. Say no more. You shall be the dog king, the biggest thing of my jigger for dogs in the country. But how do you start? Well, as a matter of fact, while I was up at White Plains, I ran into a cove who had a place of the sort and wanted to sell out. That was what made me think of it. You must start to-day, or early to-morrow. Yes, said Ginger doubtfully. Of course, there's the catch, you know. What catch? The capital. You've got to have that. This fellow wouldn't sell out under five thousand dollars. I'll lend you five thousand dollars. No, said Ginger. Finally looked at him with exasperation. Ginger, I'd like to slap you, she said. It was maddening, this intrusion of sentiment into business affairs. Why, simply because he was a man and she was a woman, should she be restrained from investing money in a sound commercial undertaking? If Columbus had taken up this bone-headed stand towards Queen Isabella, America would never have been discovered. I can't take five thousand dollars off you, said Ginger firmly. Who's talking of taking it off me, as you call it, storm sally? Can't you forget your burglarious career for a second? This isn't the same thing as going about stealing defenseless girls' photographs. This is business. I think you would make an enormous success of a dog-place, and you admit you're good, so why make frivolous objections? Why shouldn't I put money into a good thing? Don't you want me to get rich, or what is it? Ginger was becoming confused. Argument had never been his strong point. But it's such a lot of money. To you, perhaps, not to me, I'm a plutocrat. Five thousand dollars, what's five thousand dollars? I feed it to the birds. Ginger pondered woodenly for a while. His was a literal mind, and he knew nothing of Sally's finances, beyond the fact that when he had first met her she had come into a legacy of some kind. Moreover, he had been hugely impressed by Fillmore's magnificence. It seemed plain enough that the Nicholases were a wealthy family. I don't like it, you know, he said. You don't have to like it, said Sally. You just do it. A consoling thought flashed upon Ginger. You'd have to let me pay you interest. Let you, my lad, you'll have to pay me interest. What do you think this is, a round game? It's a cold business deal. Topping, said Ginger, relieved. How about twenty-five percent? Don't be silly, said Sally quickly. I want three. No, that's all wrought, protested Ginger. I mean to say, three, I don't. He went on, making a concession. Mine saying, twenty. If you insist I'll make it five, not more. Well, ten, then. Five. Suppose, said Ginger insinuatingly, I said, seven. I never saw anyone like you for haggling, said Sally with disapproval. Listen, six, and that's my last word. Six? Six. Ginger did sums in his head. But that would only work out at three hundred dollars a year. It isn't enough. What do you know about it, as if I hadn't been handling this sort of deal in my life? Six, do you agree? I suppose so. Then that's settled. Is this man you talk about in New York? No, he's down on Long Island at a place on the south shore. I mean, can you get him on the phone and clinch the thing? Oh yes, I know his address, and I suppose his number's in the book. Then go off at once and settle with him before somebody else snaps him up. Don't waste a minute. Ginger paused at the door. I say, you're absolutely sure about this? Of course. I mean to say. Get on, said Sally. Two. The window of Sally's sitting-room looked out onto a street which, while not one of the city's important arteries, was capable, nevertheless, of affording a certain amount of entertainment to the observer. And after Ginger had left she carried the morning paper to the windowsill and proceeded to divide her attention between a third reading of the fight report and a lazy survey of the outer world. It was a beautiful day, and the outer world was looking its best. She had not been at her post for many minutes when a taxi cab stopped at the apartment house, and she was surprised and interested to see her brother Fillmore heave himself out of the interior. He paid the driver, and the cab moved off, leaving him on the sidewalk, casting a large shadow in the sunshine. Sally was on the point of calling to him when his behaviour became so odd that astonishment checked her. From where she sat, Fillmore had all the appearance of a man practising the steps of a new dance, and sheer curiosity as to what he would do next kept Sally watching in silence. First he moved in a resolute sort of way towards the front door, then suddenly stopping scuttled back. This movement he repeated twice, after which he stood in deep thought before making another dash for the door, which, like the others, came to an abrupt end, as though he had run into some invisible obstacle. And finally, wheeling sharply, he bustled off down the street, and was lost to view. Sally could make nothing of it. If Fillmore had taken the trouble to come in a taxi cab, obviously to call upon her, why had he abandoned the idea at her very threshold? She was still speculating on this mystery when the telephone bell rang, and her brother's voice spoke huskily in her ear. Sally? Hello, Fill. What are you going to call it? What am I... Call what? The dance you were doing outside here just now. It's your own invention, isn't it? Did you see me? Said Fillmore, upset. Of course I saw you. I was fascinated. I—er—I was coming to have a talk with you—Sally!—Fillmore's voice trailed off. Well, why didn't you? There was a pause, on Fillmore's part, if the timbre of his voice correctly indicated his feelings, a pause of discomfort. Something was plainly vexing Fillmore's great mind. Sally, he said at last, and coughed hollily into the receiver. Yes? I—that is to say—I have asked Gladys—Gladys will be coming to see you very shortly. Will you be in? I'll stay in. How is Gladys? I'm longing to see her again. She is very well—a trifle—a little upset. Upset? What about? She will tell you when she arrives. I have just been phoning to her. She's coming at once. There was another pause. I'm afraid she has bad news. What news? There was silence at the other end of the wire. What news? repeated Sally a little sharply. She hated mysteries. But Fillmore had rung off. Sally hung up the receiver thoughtfully. She was puzzled and anxious. However, there being nothing to be gained by worrying, she carried the breakfast things into the kitchen and tried to divert herself by washing up. Presently a ring at the doorbell brought her out to find her sister-in-law. Marriage, even though it had brought with it the lofty position of partnership with the hope of the American stage, had affected no noticeable alteration in the former Miss Winch. As Mrs. Fillmore she was the same square, friendly creature. She hugged Sally in a muscular manner and went on in the sitting-room. Well, it's great seeing you again, she said. I began to think you were never coming back. What was the big idea, springing over to England like that? Sally had been expecting the question and answered it with composure. I wanted to help Mr. Fawcett. Who's Mr. Fawcett? Hasn't Fillmore ever mentioned him? He was a dear old man at the boarding-house, and his brother died and left him a dress-making establishment in London. He screamed to me to come and tell him what to do about it. He has sold it now and is quite happy in the country. Well, the trip's done you good, said Mrs. Fillmore. You are prettier than ever. There was a pause. Already in these trivial opening exchanges Sally had sensed a suggestion of unwanted gravity in her companion. She missed that careless whimsicality which had been the chief characteristic of Miss Gladys Winch, and seemed to have been cast off by Mrs. Fillmore Nicholas. Without their meeting, before she had spoken, Sally had not noticed this, but now it was apparent that something was weighing on her companion. Mrs. Fillmore's honest eyes were troubled. What's the bad news? asked Sally abruptly. She wanted to end the suspense. Fillmore was telling me over the phone that you had some bad news for me. Mrs. Fillmore scratched at the carpet for a moment with the end of her parasol without replying. When she spoke it was not in answer to the question. Sally, who's this man Carmile over in England? Oh, did Fillmore tell you about him? He told me there was a rich fellow over in England who was crazy about you and had asked you to marry him and that you had turned him down. Sally's momentary annoyance faded. She could hardly, she felt, have expected Fillmore to refrain from mentioning the matter to his wife. Yes, she said, that's true. You couldn't write and say you've changed your mind. Sally's annoyance returned. All her life she had been intensely independent, resentful of interference with her private concerns. I suppose I could if I had, but I haven't. Did Fillmore tell you to try to talk me round? Oh, I'm not trying to talk you round, said Mrs. Fillmore quickly. Goodness knows I'm the last person to try and jolly anyone into marrying anybody if they didn't feel like it. I've seen too many marriages go wrong to do that. Look at Elsa Doeland. Sally's heart jumped as if an exposed nerve had been touched. Elsa, she stammered, and hated herself because her voice shook. Has, has her marriage gone wrong? Gone all to bits, said Mrs. Fillmore shortly. You remember she married Gerald Foster, the man who wrote The Primrose Way. Sally with an effort repressed and hysterical laugh. Yes, I remember, she said. Well, it's gone all bluey. I'll tell you about that in a minute. Coming back to this man in England, if you're in any doubt about it, I mean, you can't always tell right away whether you're fond of a man or not. When first I met Fillmore, I couldn't see him with a spy-glass, and now he's just the whole shooting match. But that's not what I wanted to talk about. I was saying one doesn't always know one's own mind at first, and if this fellow really is a good fellow, and Fillmore tells me he's got all the money in the world. Sally stopped her. No, it's no good. I don't want to marry Mr. Carmile. That's that, then, said Mrs. Fillmore. It's a pity, though. Why are you taking it so much to heart, said Sally, with a nervous laugh? Well, Mrs. Fillmore paused. Sally's anxiety was growing. It must, she realized, be something very serious indeed that had happened if it had the power to make her forthright sister-in-law disjointed in her talk. You see, went on Mrs. Fillmore, and stopped again. Gee, I'm hating this, she murmured. What is it? I don't understand. You'll find it's all too darned clear by the time I'm through, said Mrs. Fillmore mournfully. If I'm going to explain this thing, I guess I'd best start at the beginning. You remember that review of Fillmore's, the one we both begged him not to put on? It flopped. Oh! Yes, it flopped on the road and died there. Never got to New York at all. Ike Schumann wouldn't let Fillmore have a theatre. The book wanted fixing, and the numbers wanted fixing, and the scenery wasn't right, and while they were tinkering with all that there was trouble about the cast, and the actor's equity closed the show. Best thing that could have happened, really, and I was glad at the time, because going on with it would only have meant wasting more money, and it had cost a fortune already. After that, Fillmore put on a play of Gerald Foster's, and that was a frost, too. It ran a week at the booth. I hear the new piece he's got in rehearsal now is no good either. It's called the Wild Rose or something, but Fillmore's got nothing to do with that. But Sally tried to speak, but Mrs. Fillmore went on. Don't talk just yet, or I shall never get this thing straight. Well, you know Fillmore, poor darling, anyone else would have pulled in his horns and gone slow for a spell, but he's one of those fellows whose horse is always going to win the next race. The big killing is always just round the corner with him. Funny how you can see what a chump a man is and yet love him to death. I remember saying something like that to you before. He thought he could get it all back by staging this fight of his that came off in Jersey City last night, and if everything had gone right he might have got a float again. But it seems as if he can't touch anything without it turning to mud. On the very day before the fight was to come off the poor mutt who was going against the champion goes and lets a sparring partner of his own knock him down and fool around with him. With all the newspaper men there, too. You probably saw about it in the papers. You made a great story for them. Well, that killed the whole thing. The public had never been any too sure that this fellow Bugs Butler had a chance of putting up a scrap with the champion that would be worth paying to see, and when they read that he couldn't even stop his sparring partner slamming him all around the place they simply decided to stay away. Poor old Phil. It was a finisher for him. The house wasn't a quarter full, and after he'd paid those two plug-uglies their guarantees, which they insisted on having before they had so much as go into the ring he was just about cleaned out. So there you are. Sally had listened with dismay to this catalogue of misfortunes. Oh, poor Phil, she cried. How dreadful. Pretty tough. But the primrose way is a big success, isn't it? said Sally, anxious to discover something of brightness in the situation. It was. Mrs. Phil more flushed again. This is the part I hate having to tell you. It was. Do you mean it isn't still? I thought Elsa had made such a tremendous hit. I read about it when I was over in London. It was even in one of the English papers. Yes, she made a hit, all right, said Mrs. Phil more dryly. She made such a hit that all the other managements in New York were after her right away, and Phil more had hardly sailed when she handed in her notice and signed up with Gobble and Cone for a new piece they are starring her in. Ah, she couldn't, cried Sally. My dear, she did. She's out on the road with it now. I had to break the news to poor old Phil more at the dock when he landed. It was rather a blow. I must say it wasn't what I would call playing the game. I know there isn't supposed to be any sentiment in business, but after all we had given Elsa her big chance. But Phil more wouldn't put her name up over the theatre in electrics, and Gobble and Cone made it a clause in her contract that they would, so nothing else mattered. People are like that. But Elsa, she used not to be like that. They all get that way. They must grab success if it's to be grabbed. I suppose you can't blame them. You might just as well expect a cat to keep off catnip. Still she might have waited to the end of the New York run. Mrs. Phil more put out her hand and touched Sally's. Well, I've got it out now, she said, and believe me, it was one rotten job. You don't know how sorry I am, Sally. I wouldn't have had it happen for a million dollars, nor would Phil more. I'm not sure that I blame him for getting cold feet and backing out of telling you himself. He just hadn't the nerve to come and confess that he had fooled away your money. He was hoping all along that this fight would pan out big and that he'd be able to pay you back what you had loaned him. But things didn't happen right. Sally was silent. She was thinking how strange it was that this room in which she had hoped to be so happy had been from the first moment of her occupancy a storm-center of bad news and miserable disillusionment. In this first shock of the tidings it was the disillusionment that hurt most. She had always been so fond of Elsa, and Elsa had always seemed so fond of her. She remembered that letter of Elsa's with all its protestations of gratitude. It wasn't straight. It was horrible—calice, selfish, altogether horrible. It's—she choked, as a rush of indignation brought the tears to her eyes. It's beastly—I'm—I'm not thinking about my money, that's just bad luck—but Elsa—Mrs. Fillmore shrugged her square shoulders. Well, it's happening all the time in the show business, she said, and in every other business, too, I guess, if one only knew enough about them to be able to say. Of course it hits you hard because Elsa was a pal of yours, and you're thinking she might have considered you after all you'd done for her. I can't say I much surprised myself. Mrs. Fillmore was talking rapidly, and dimly Sally understood that she was talking so that talk would carry her over this bad moment. This now would have been unendurable. I was in the company with her, and it sometimes seems to me as if you can't get to know a person right through till you've been in the same company with them. Elsa's all right, but she's two people, really, like these dual-identity cases you read about. She's awfully fond of you—I know she is. She was always saying so, and it was quite genuine. If it didn't interfere with business, there's nothing she wouldn't do for you. But when it's a case of her career, you don't count. Nobody counts. Not even her husband. Now, that's funny, if you think that sort of thing funny. Personally, it gives me the willies. What's funny? asked Sally Dully. Well, you weren't there, so you didn't see it, but I was on the spot all the time, and I know as well as I know anything that he simply married her because he thought she could get him on in the game. He hardly paid any attention to her at all till she was such a riot in Chicago, and then he was all over her. And now he's got stung. She throws down his show and goes off to another fellow's. It's like marrying for money and finding the girl hasn't any. And she's got stung, too, in a way, because I'm pretty sure she married him mostly because she thought he was going to be the next big man in the playwriting business and could boost her up the ladder. And now it doesn't look as though he had another success in him. The result is there at outs. I hear he's drinking. Somebody who'd seen him told me he had gone all to pieces. You haven't seen him, I suppose. No. I thought maybe you might have run into him. He lives right opposite. Sally clutched at the arm of her chair. Lives right opposite? Gerald Foster? What do you mean? Across the passage there, said Mrs. Fillmore, jerking her thumb at the door. Didn't you know? That's right. I suppose you didn't. They moved in after you had beaten it for England. Elsa wanted to be near you, and she was tickled to death when she found there was an apartment to be had right across from you. Now that just proves what I was saying a while ago about Elsa. If she wasn't fond of you, would she go out of her way to camp next door? And yet, though she's so fond of you, she doesn't hesitate about wrecking your property by quitting the show when she sees a chance of doing herself a bit of good. It's funny, isn't it? The telephone bell, tinkling sharply, rescued Sally from the necessity of a reply. She forced herself across the room to answer it. Hello? Ginger's voice spoke jubilantly. Hello? Are you there? I say, it's all right about that binge, you know. Oh, yes. That dog fellow, you know, said Ginger, with a slight diminution of exuberance. His sensitive ear had seemed to detect a lack of animation in her voice. I have just been talking to him over the phone, and it's all settled, if, he added, with a touch of doubt, you still feel like going into it, I mean. There was an instant in which Sally hesitated, but it was only an instant. Why, of course, she said steadily, why should you think I had changed my mind? Well, I thought, that is to say, you seemed, oh, I don't know. You imagined things. I was a little worried about something when you called me up, and my mind wasn't working properly. Of course, go ahead with it. Ginger, I'm delighted. I say, I'm awfully sorry you're worried. Oh, it's all right. Something bad? Nothing that'll kill me. I'm young and strong. Ginger was silent for a moment. I say, I don't want to butt in, but can I do anything? No, really, Ginger. I know you would do anything you could, but this is just something I must worry through by myself. When do you go down to this place? I was thinking of popping down this afternoon, just to take a look round. Let me know what train you're making, and I'll come and see you off. That's ripping of you, right, Ho? Well, so long. So long, said Sally. Mrs. Fillmore, who had been sitting in that state of suspended animation which comes upon people who are present at a telephone conversation which has nothing to do with themselves, came to life as Sally replaced the receiver. Sally, she said, I think we ought to have a talk now about what you're going to do. Sally was not feeling equal to any discussion of the future. All she asked of the world at the moment was to be left alone. Oh, that's all right. I shall manage. You ought to be worrying about Fillmore. Fillmore's got me to look after him, said Gladys, with quiet determination. You're the one that's on my mind. I lay awake all last night thinking about you. As far as I can make out from Fillmore, you've still a few thousand dollars left. Well, as it happens, I can put you on to a really good thing. I know a girl. I'm afraid, interrupted Sally, all the rest of my money, what there is of it, is tied up. You can't get hold of it? No. But listen, said Mrs. Fillmore, urgently. This is a really good thing. This girl I know started an interior decorating business some time ago, and is pulling in money in handfuls. But she wants more capital, and she's willing to let go of a third of the business to anyone who'll put in a few thousand. She won't have any difficulty getting it, but I phoned her this morning to hold off till I'd hurt from you. Honestly, Sally, it's the chance of a lifetime. It would put you right on Easy Street. Isn't there really any way you could get your money out of this other thing and take on this deal? There really isn't. I'm awfully obliged to you, Gladys dear, but it's impossible. Well, said Mrs. Fillmore, prodding the carpet energetically with her parasol. I don't know what you've gone into, but unless they've given you a share in the mint or something, you'll be losing by not making the switch. You're sure you can't do it? I really can't. Mrs. Fillmore rose, plainly disappointed. Well, you know best, of course. What a muddle everything is! Sally, she said, suddenly stopping at the door. You're not going to hate poor old Fillmore over this, are you? Why, of course not. The whole thing was just bad luck. He's worried stiff about it. Well, give him my love and tell him not to be so silly. Mrs. Fillmore crossed the room and kissed Sally impulsively. You're an angel, she said. I wish they were more like you. But I guess they've lost the pattern. While I'll go back and tell Fillmore that, it'll relieve him. The door closed, and Sally sat down with her chin and her hands to think. Three. Mr. Isidore Abraham's, the founder and proprietor of that deservedly popular dancing resort poetically named the Flower Garden, leaned back in his chair with a contented sigh, and laid down the knife and fork with which he had been assailing a plate full of succulent goulash. He was dining, as was his admirable custom, in the bosom of his family at his residence at Far Rockaway. Across the table his wife, Rebecca, beamed at him over her comfortable plinth of chins, and round the table his children, David, Jacob, Morris, and Sadie, would have beamed at him if they had not been too busy at the moment, engurgitating goulash. A genial, honest, domestic man was Mr. Abraham's, a credit to the community. Mother, he said. Pa, said Mrs. Abraham's, knew there was something I'd meant to tell you, said Mr. Abraham's, absently chasing a piece of bread round his plate with a stout finger. You remember that girl I told you about some time back, girl working at the garden, girl called Nicholas, who came into a bit of money and threw up her job. I remember you liked her, Jakey dear, don't gobble. Ain't gobbling, said Mr. Abraham's. Everybody liked her, said Mr. Abraham's, the nicest girl I ever hired, and I don't hire none but nice girls, because the garden's a nice place and I like to run it nice. I wouldn't give you a nickel for any of your tough joints, where you get nothing but lowlifes and scare away all the real folks. Everybody liked Sally Nicholas, always pleasant and always smiling, and never anything but the lady. It was a treat to have her around. Well, what do you think? Dead, inquired Mrs. Abraham's, apprehensively. The story had sounded to her as though it were heading that way. Wipe your mouth, Jackie dear. No, not dead, said Mr. Abraham's, conscious for the first time that the remainder of his narrative might be considered by a critic something of an anti-climax and lacking in drama. But she was in to see me this afternoon and wants her job back. Ah, said Mrs. Abraham's, rather tonelessly. An ardent supporter of the local motion-picture palace she had hoped for a slightly more jingery denouement, something with a bit more punch. Yes, but don't it show you, continued Mr. Abraham's, gallantly trying to work up the interest. There's this girl, goes out of my place not more than a year ago, with a good bank-roll in her pocket, and here she is back again, all of it spent. Don't it show you what a tragedy life is, if you see what I mean, and how careful one ought to be about money? It's what I call a human document. Goodness knows how she's been and gone and spent it all. I'd never have thought she was a sort of girl to go gadding around. Always seemed to me to be kind of sensible. What's gadding, Pop? asked Master Jackie, the goulash having ceased to chain his interest. Well, she wanted her job back, and I gave it to her, and glad to get her back again. There's class to that girl. She's the sort of girl I want in the place. Doesn't seem quite to have so much get-up in her as she used to. Seems kind of quiet and down, but she's got class, and I'm glad she's back. I hope she'll stay. But don't it show you. Ah! said Mrs. Abraham's, with more enthusiasm than before. It had not worked out such a bad story after all. In its essentials it was not unlike the film she had seen the previous evening. Gloria Gooch in A Girl Against the World. Pop! said Master Abraham's. Yes, Jackie. When I'm grown up I won't never lose no money. I'll put it in the bank and save it. The slight depression caused by the contemplation of Sally's troubles left Mr. Abraham's as mist melts beneath the sunbeam. That's a good boy, Jackie, he said. He felt in his waistcoat pocket, found a dime, put it back again, and bent forward, and patted Master Abraham's on the head. End of Chapter 14, read by Kara Schellenberg on February 2, 2009, in San Diego, California. Chapter 15 of The Adventures of Sally. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Adventures of Sally by P. G. Woodhouse. Chapter 15. Uncle Donald Speaks His Mind. There is, in certain men, and Bruce Carmile was one of them, a quality of resilience, a sturdy refusal to acknowledge defeat, which aids them as effectively in affairs of the heart as in encounters of a sterner and more practical kind. As a whore, Bruce Carmile resembled that durable type of pugilist who can only give of his best after he has received at least one substantial wallop on some tender spot. Although Sally had refused his offer of marriage quite definitely at Monkscrofton, it had never occurred to him to consider the episode closed. All his life he had been accustomed to getting what he wanted, and he meant to get it now. He was quite sure that he wanted Sally. There had been moments when he had been conscious of certain doubts, but in the smart of temporary defeat these had vanished. That streak of bohemianism in her which from time to time since their first meeting had jarred upon his orderly mind was forgotten, and all that Mr. Carmile could remember was the brightness of her eyes, the jaunty lift of her chin, and the gallant trimness of her. Her gay prettiness seemed to flicker him like a whip in the darkness of wakeful nights, lashing him to pursuit. And quietly and methodically, like a respectable wolf settling on the trail of a red riding-hood, he prepared to pursue. Delicacy and imagination might have kept him back, but in these qualities he had never been strong. One cannot have everything. His preparations for departure, though he did his best to make them swiftly and secretly, did not escape notice of the family. In many English families there seems to exist a system of intercommunication and news distribution, like that of those savage tribes in Africa, who pass the latest item of news and interest from point to point over miles of intervening jungle by some telepathic method never properly explained. On his last night in London, there entered to Bruce Carmile at his apartment in South Audley Street, the family's chosen representative, the man to whom the family pointed with pride, Uncle Donald, in the flesh. There were two hundred and forty pounds of the flesh Uncle Donald was in, and the chair in which he deposited it creaked beneath its burden. Once at Monkscrofton Sally had spoiled a whole morning for her brother Fillmore by indicating Uncle Donald as the exact image of what he would be when he grew up. A superstition, cherished from early school days, that he had a weak heart, had caused the family's managing director to abstain from every form of exercise for nearly fifty years. And as he combined with a distaste for exercise, one of the three heartiest appetites in the southwestern postal division of London, Uncle Donald, at sixty-two, was not a man one would willingly have lounging in one's armchairs. Bruce Carmile's customary respectfulness was tinged with something approaching dislike as he looked at him. Uncle Donald's walrus moustache heaved gently upon his laboured breath like seaweed on a ground swell. There had been stares to climb. What's this, what's this? He contrived to ejaculate at last. You packing? Yes, said Mr. Carmile shortly. For the first time in his life he was conscious of that sensation of furtive guilt which was habitual with his cousin Ginger when in the presence of this large, mackerel-eyed man. You going away? Yes. Where are you going? America. When are you going? Tomorrow morning. Why are you going? This dialogue has been set down as though it had been as brisk and snappy as any cross-talk between vaudeville comedians, but in reality Uncle Donald's peculiar methods of conversation had stretched it over a period of nearly three minutes. After each reply and before each question he had puffed and sighed and inhaled his moustache with such painful deliberation that his companion's nerves were finding it difficult to bear up under the strain. You're going after that girl, said Uncle Donald accusingly. Bruce Carmile flushed darkly, and it is interesting to record that at this moment there flitted through his mind the thought that Ginger's behavior at Bleak's coffee-house, on a certain notable occasion, had not been so utterly inexcusable as he had supposed. There was no doubt that the family's chosen one could be trying. Will you have a whiskey and soda, Uncle Donald? he said, by way of changing the conversation. Yes, said his relative, in pursuance of a vow he had made in the early eighties never to refuse an offer of this kind. Gimme. You would have thought that that would have put matters on a pleasant or footing, but no, having lapped up the restorative, Uncle Donald returned to the attack quite unsoffened. Never thought you were a fool before, he said severely. Bruce Carmile's proud spirit chafed. This sort of interview, which had become a commonplace with his cousin Ginger, was new to him. Hitherto his actions had received neither criticism nor been subjected to it. I'm not a fool. You are a fool. A damn fool, continued Uncle Donald, specifying more exactly. Don't like the girl. Never did. Not a nice girl. Didn't like her. Right from the first. Need we discuss this, said Bruce Carmile, dropping as he was apt to do, into the grand manner. The head of the family drank in a layer of mustache and blew it out again. Need we discuss it, he said with asperity. We are going to discuss it. What you think I climbed all these blasted stairs for with my weak heart? Give me another. Mr. Carmile gave him another. So bad business, moaned Uncle Donald, having gone through the movements once more. Shocking bad business. If your poor father were alive, what you think he'd say to your tearing across the world after this girl? I'll tell you what he'd say. What kind of whiskey is this? O'Rafferty special. New to me, not bad. Quite good. Sound mellow. Where'd you get it? Billbys in Oxford Street. Must order some. Mellow. He'd say, well, God knows what he'd say. What you doing it for? What you doing it for? That's what I can't see. None of us can see. Puzzles, your Uncle George. Baffles, your Aunt Geraldine. Nobody can understand it. Girl, simply after your money. Anyone can see that. Pardon me, Uncle Donald, said Mr. Carmile stiffly. But that is surely rather absurd. If that were the case, why should she have refused me at Monck's Crofton? Drawing you on, said Uncle Donald promptly. Luring you on. Well-known trick. Girl in 1881, when I was at Oxford, tried to lure me on. If I hadn't had some sense and a weak heart, what you know of this girl? What you know of her? At that point, who is she? Where'd you meet her? I met her at Rovile, in France. Travelling with her family? Travelling alone, said Bruce Carmile, reluctantly. Not even with that brother of hers? Bad, said Uncle Donald. Bad, bad. American girls are accustomed to more independence than English girls. That young man, said Uncle Donald, pursuing a train of love. He is going to be fat one of these days if he doesn't look out. Travelling alone, was she? What did you do? Catch her eye on the pier? Really, Uncle Donald. Well, must have got to know her somehow. I was introduced to her by Lancelot. She was a friend of his. Lancelot, exploded Uncle Donald, quivering all over like a smitten jelly at the loathed name. While that shows you what sort of a girl she is, any girl that would be a friend of... Unpack. I beg your pardon? Unpack. Mustn't go on with this foolery. Out of the question. Find some girl, make you a good wife. Your Aunt Mary has been meeting some people named of Bassington, Bassington. Related Kent, Bassington, Bassington's. Eldest daughter charming girl. Just do for you. Outside the pages of the more old-fashioned type of fiction, nobody ever really ground his teeth. But Bruce Carmile came nearer to it at that moment than anyone had ever come before. He scowled blackly, and the last trace of suavity left him. I shall do nothing of the kind, he said briefly. I sail to-morrow. Uncle Donald had had a previous experience of being defied by an effew, but it had not accustomed him to the sensation. He was aware of an unpleasant feeling of impotence. Nothing is harder than to know what to do next when defied. Eh, he said. Mr. Carmile, having started to defy, evidently decided to make a good job of it. I am over twenty-one, said he. I am financially independent. I shall do as I please. But consider, pleaded Uncle Donald, painfully conscious of the weakness of his words, reflect. I have reflected. Your position in the county. I've thought of that. You could marry anyone you pleased. I'm going to. You are determined to go running off to God knows where after this miss I can't even remember her damn name? Yes. Have you considered, said Uncle Donald portentiously, that you owe a duty to the family? Bruce Carmile's patience snapped, and he sank, like a stone, to absolutely gingery in depths of plain spokenness. Oh, damn the family, he cried. There was a painful silence broken only by the relieved sigh of the arm-chair, as Uncle Donald heaved himself out of it. After that, said Uncle Donald, I have nothing more to say. Good, said Mr. Carmile, rudely, lost to all shame. Septus, if you come back married to that girl I'll cut you in by George, I will. He moved to the door. Bruce Carmile looked down his nose without speaking. A tense moment. What, asked Uncle Donald, his fingers on the handle, did you say it was called? What was what called? That whisky. Oh, Rafferty special. And where'd you get it? Bilby's in Oxford Street. I'll make a note of it, said Uncle Donald. End of Chapter 15. Read by Kara Schellenberg on February 3, 2009, in San Diego, California.