Chapter VI: Part 6

Tom Furness was foolish enough to tell the story of Dick's big jump, and was jollied therefore by everybody, receiving credit for a most Munchausen imagination. Tom let them rough him all right, for nothing pleased him better, but came to me at last with Sam Hitchcock asking me to settle a bet, whether or no Dick Fairfax had broken the record of the running broad jump in practice.

Of course I could but tell the truth under such circumstances, although I knew I was putting my reputation for veracity to a severe test. I declared very seriously that Dick had certainly bested the twenty-four-foot mark under record conditions. Sam was incredulous, and went so far as to remind me that it was not at all a joking matter, for a good ten-dollar note must change hands on my decision. At this, I repeated my statement positively as before, and Sam paid over the money without any further remark.

It was altogether too good a story for him to keep, and it soon became an interesting subject of discussion. Those who knew me best (and Sam among them, despite his loss) believed the tale, but there were many "doubting Thomases." Some made it a subject for senseless jokes and witless questions, such as, "Was the tape elastic?" "Did he jump from the roof?" or "Did he do it very, very early in the morning?" Other "smart Alecs" declared the twenty-four feet was all right, but the extra one and three-quarters inches they could not go.

Now, I am not at all averse to a draw on the long bow when swapping lies with a sporting friend and both know the game we play, but when I speak seriously I wish to be taken in the same way. Beside, I had allowed money to pass on it, and that should have settled the matter.

It was partly due to my resentment at this banter that Dick finally made the team and little Jack Bennett did not. The latter certainly became better in practice, but I claimed that neither were of any use at their regular jumps, and that Dick's extraordinary performance, for which I vouched again, while not likely to be repeated, was possible, and made Dick the better man for the choice.

When the decision was finally made, about a week before the games, I wrote Mrs. Fairfax a long letter, telling her the whole truth, giving special emphasis to the early morning trial. I declared my only hope for Dick's success (and that a faint one) was that the heat of a contest with men of other colleges, and before a crowd, might wake him up and get him a place. I did not see how he could win except by a miracle. I declared that I had kept my promise to her most faithfully, and that my disappointment was, if possible, greater than her own.

I received an answer promptly, which read as follows:

THE OAKS, FAIRFAX CO., VA.

DEAR SIR: I understand the conditions perfectly, but am still
confident that Richard will win. He must win. Give him the
enclosed note just before his last trial. On no account allow him
to see it before, nor permit any considerable interval between the
reading and Richard's last jump.

Sincerely yours,
MARGARET LEE FAIRFAX.
TO MR. WALTER BROWN.

Now, I confess that when I finished the reading I really questioned the sanity of the "chatelaine" of "The Oaks." What effect could a note have, no matter how worded, upon easy-going Dick Fairfax? What appeal could she make that would add the necessary feet to his jump? It made me think of boyish stories of the age of chivalry, when talismanic words were efficacious. I read this short note over as carefully and even more wonderingly than the first black-bordered letter written by the same hand. Then I put it away in my pocket, resolved to follow instructions implicitly, no matter how foolish they might seem. I should have nothing with which to reproach myself, and would give Mrs. Fairfax no occasion for fault-finding. So the matter was left, and Dick went on with the rest of the team, perfectly contented with himself and all around him.

The games that year were not particularly interesting, except the one event for which we were so poorly prepared, and in which even Tom Furness did not have the courage to claim a single point.

It was a clear day after a three-days' rain, and the track was heavy, which happened to suit us. We had a couple of "mud larks" who scooped the sprints, though a dry-track would not have given them a place.

Dick spent most of the day watching the contests, as disinterestedly as if he was a native of the Isle of Java. He was clothed in a big gray blanket wrap and an omnipresent smile. The wrap had crimson cords and tassels, was extremely becoming, and more than one pair of bright eyes looked at him approvingly from the grand stand. Our Virginia jumper was certainly the handsomest and most distinguished-looking of all the contestants, and the girls always wish such a man to win, and are surprised and disappointed when some raw-boned chap with carroty hair, freckled face, and not a regular feature beats out their favorite. It was a glorious day, the sun bright, the sky cloudless, the seats crowded, and the college cheers like volleys of infantry at short range. When the "running broad" was on, and the numbers were called, Dick did not answer to his, and we were forced to look him up, the clerk meanwhile fussing and fuming, and using language more forceable than polite. At last I found him looking dreamily across the track at a pretty girl in the grand stand, as if this was his only business. He followed me with a bored look, and several backward glances delayed his sufficiently leisurely footsteps.

There was another delay on account of the ground; for, as frequently happens, the soil in the box where the men landed was so soft that it broke back several inches. Seever was the first man, and I did not want him to throw away a single chance. A spade was sent for and the loose earth flattened down a bit, but it took considerable time. The clerk, measurer, and almost every one else were put out but Dick, who had thrown himself full length on the soft turf by the side of the path, and bore the delay with extreme fortitude.

Most of the other contestants had taken a trial jump or two to get their strides and make their marks, but Dick waited contentedly for his number to be called, and would have been just as well satisfied if he had been skipped altogether.

Seever was the first of a large field, and when his number was announced he threw off his wrap and walked down the path. He was one of the most awkward men I ever saw, but as honest as he was homely. All his opponents wished him well, and several of them, as they sprawled around on the grass, had a joke or a bit of chaff for him as he left them. I always like to see the first trial of the "running broad." There is the narrow cinder-path, the whitewashed joist, and the soft earth, smoothed by repeated rakings ready to receive the prints of the spiked shoes. After that it is tedious until the weeding-out process is completed, and the three best men fight it out for the places.

I could have told within three inches of what Seever would do before he made his jump, for he was extremely steady, and had been at it for four years, and reached his limit. He came down the track awkwardly, but at a good speed, caught the joist firmly with his big foot, rose in the air with a grunt, and landed with a thud. The measurer announced twenty feet one-quarter inch without hesitation, for Seever always jumped high, and kept his heels together. Two or three others tried, and then came Frost, our second man, a little fellow with curly black hair. He was a bit better or worse than Seever, but inclined to be careless, and to-day it cost him dear. He overstepped the joist so far that he wrenched his ankle badly and was forced to retire, limping off to the dressing-room on a couple of the boys' shoulders.

Dick was almost last, and when he was called, he rose slowly, with a yawn, threw the gray wrap over Seever's head, and walked down the path as if he cared not where it led. When he turned, he looked up to the grand stand and gave the little blonde in the blue dress a glance and smile, for which he was most liberally applauded. At first only a few pairs of little gloved hands clapped, but they were persistent; others, who supposed for some reason or other applause was the proper thing at this time, joined in, and Dick received quite an ovation, although he had done nothing and was expected to do nothing.

I can see him to-day as he looked then. His arm out for his sprint; his bare legs, brown and sinewy, but smooth and graceful as a girl's; his whole figure a model for an artist. He was much surprised at the applause, for he was not used to it, and did not expect it. The color rose in his dark cheeks as he started down the path, quickening speed with every step, until just as his college cheer sounded its first sharp note he caught the joist, and bounded into the air. It was a perfect jump, barring a little lack of determination, but with much more fire than usual. I watched as the measurer pulled out his tape, and was pleased enough when he gave the distance as twenty-one two. I had been thinking all the day of the mother down in the old home, whose heart was so bound up in the success of her boy. I would have given a month's salary to have been able to send her the telegram she hoped for.

One after another, tall and short, stout and slender, good and bad, had their three trials, and Dick was in the finals by an inch and a half. Poor old Seever was out of it, and Dick was the only string we had left. All of our people were perfectly satisfied at this, and Tom was smiling as a Cheshire cat. I had absolutely no hope that Dick would do better than third, for after his first attempt, although the applause had been louder than ever, he had taken no notice of it, and had apparently lost all interest in the sport. Being accustomed to his surroundings, he went through his performances in a perfunctory fashion, showing a fraction over twenty feet, and then a fraction under. Indeed, he had become his old listless, careless self again.

In the finals he did first nineteen-nine, and then, despite the desperate effort I made to stir him up with sharp words, he fell back to his old maddening distance of nineteen-six and one-half.

The other two competitors, a little fellow with light hair, and a big chap with not much hair of any color, had respectively twenty-two one and one-half, and twenty-one and three-quarters inch to their credit. All seemed over but the shouting when Dick walked slowly down the cinder-path for his last trial. No applause did he get either, except from the gloved hands, for men do not like to see an athlete without determination, no matter how well they may like him in society.

As he walked down the path, I followed along a little behind him on the turf. I waited until he put his hand out, in exact accordance with instructions, and then I handed him his mother's message. He looked at me a moment with surprise, then took the black-bordered note and broke the seal.

He read it hastily, and the color left his face as if a mortal fear had stricken him. Into his eyes there came first a far-away look, then one of the fiercest determination. He crumpled the note in his left hand, faced around for his sprint, and was off like a flash. I watched the lithe figure and followed it, but Dick had landed long before I reached the joist. He had caught the timber much as he had done on the April morning, and had thrown his knees high as before. I saw him cut the air, and my heart came into my mouth as I thought of a win and a broken record both. But it was not to be. I saw him land in the end of the box, far beyond any other jump; but, to my horror, he had reached too far with his feet, and though he made a desperate effort, he balanced a moment, and then threw himself on his back and side. He picked himself up without a word, and throwing his gray wrap over his shoulder pushed his way through the little crowd of contestants and officials, and strode off toward the dressing-rooms without even waiting for the measurer.

I had eyes now only for the tape. The footmarks were plain as possible, and on the right and several inches back were the prints of Dick's thigh and elbow in the brown earth. The measurer pulled the tape out carefully, and I saw his finger slide by the twenty-two mark, where they hesitated a moment. He examined the broken ground with eager eyes, and at last his thumb stopped at the three and one-quarter inch. The little fellow who had made the twenty-two one and one-half was close by my side, and I heard him sigh at the sight. He had another trial; but the first place had seemed his already, and now he must fight for it with only one more chance. I was quite sure that Dick's jump was good enough, and so it proved. Richard Spotswood Fairfax was a winner. I was delayed a little, and when I reached the dressing-room I learned that the boy had dressed hurriedly, and driven off in a carriage by himself, without a word for any one. When I reached the hotel, he had taken his departure, waiting neither for congratulations nor farewells.

The first telegram I sent that night was to Virginia, and the first letter I read, on my return, was one with a black border.

THE OAKS, FAIRFAX CO., VA.

DEAR SIR: I am in receipt of your telegram. I must thank you for
the faithfulness with which you have fulfilled my request. It is
not probable that Richard will continue in athletics. I enclose
herewith a compensation which is certainly due you. I shall be
greatly disappointed if denied the pleasure of its acceptance.
Wishing you the success you deserve in your profession, I am,

Sincerely yours,
MARGARET LEE FAIRFAX.
TO MR. WALTER BROWN.

So closed my correspondence with the "chatelaine" of "The Oaks," whom I never saw, but about whom I have often thought. What did she write in that black-sealed, black-bordered note? I have puzzled my brain over it many and many an hour. I think I have guessed the riddle; but true or false, it must be kept a secret still.

Dick himself is certainly not an enigma. He is only the most pronounced case of a description I have met before and since.

He had ability, but not the inclination nor the will. A temporary anger on that April morning had given him the necessary determination to force his muscles to their extreme exercise of power. His mother's note had furnished a motive which had brought him in a winner. Without incentives, his muscular powers were not exercised, and his performances were ordinary.

Sometimes, as I sit by the fireside, smoking my pipe over old memories, I think of Dick, and wonder what he would have done had he Teddy Atherton's head on his shoulders, or his heart inside his ribs.

Of all my athletic disappointments Dick furnished me with the most disheartening, and among all the surprises of field and track none has equalled the Virginia jumper.

We are winners. The lobby of the hotel is crowded. Athletes, college men, travellers, and a curious public are well shuffled together. It is the same old pack of cards that I have seen for years, though the faces change. That "know-it-all" by the post is a new man, yet he is telling just how and why we won, like the wiseacres who preceded him, and the others who will follow; for this line of succession never runs out. He is telling how he has foreseen the result for weeks, and can call witnesses to prove his faultless prediction of six months ago. Yes, he can, though we only pulled out by the skin of our teeth, after sitting on the anxious seat all the afternoon; and had not Jim Harding thrown the hammer ten feet farther than ever before, we never should have won at all. But this only makes the "know-it-all's" wisdom more remarkable, and my ignorance as well, for I had thought the team a losing one, though I had, of course, held my tongue.

Bah! Thirty years have not reconciled me to this gentry, with the addled brains and brazen throats.

Most of the college men are gathered in little groups, around which the crowds ebb and flow in a surging tide. That its strongest current is through the swinging door of the bar-room cannot be denied, nor that it shows signs of the source from which it sprang. There are at least three grains of talk to one of listen, which is the regular dose, though the athletes pull the proportion down. They are, as usual, quietest of all. They have developed other muscles than those of the tongue; and yet even they are a bit talkative to-night, and have an unmistakably festive air about them.

After months of preparation and weeks of strict training, when rigid rules prohibit, and all the pleasant things of life seem labelled "Keep off the grass," there is a maddening pleasure in being free again,--free to taste that favorite dish, palatable but indigestible; free to inhale the fragrance of a good cigar; free to watch the hands of the clock swing into the small hours; free, as Harry Gardner expresses it, "to do as you darn please once more."

For those who have lost there is the necessity of drowning sorrow, and it is certainly the duty of a good winner to give his victory a fitting celebration. There is not as much difference in the two ceremonies as might be imagined.

Our team has broken training, and some of them are breaking it badly. There are the long summer months before them, with the leisure hours at seashore or mountains, and no more work until the cool winds of autumn begin to blow. Even those of the most regular habits are kicking over the traces, and some of the wilder spirits, that make a trainer's hair gray before its time, to whom the six months' restraint has been a galling yoke, are giving themselves very loose rein. I am sorry to say that this particular team has not a large percentage of either deacons or clergymen, though Jim Harding afterward took holy orders, became an honor to the cloth, and will some day be a bishop. I occasionally attend his church; and when I see his huge form at the desk, and hear his voice, powerful and earnest, as it echoes to the farthest corner, I wonder if he has forgotten the night when we looked for "Paddy's cousin, the copper," when "every one was a winner."

As I enter the hotel lobby, after dinner, on this evening of the games of 188-, I discover Jim standing near the street entrance with Harry Gardner, and a little knot of college friends and admirers. They are smoking like bad chimneys, and between puffs are giving a green reporter some most surprising bits of information, much to their own enjoyment and the delectation of their friends. The little reporter is taking copious notes, which will create a sensation in the morning, if the sporting editor does not discover them before they get into print. Jim is big and blond, and Harry slender and dark; the former has made a first in the "hammer-throw;" the latter, after winning his trial heat in the "hundred" with ease, got away badly in the finals, and had to content himself with adding a single point to our score.

Now, Jim and Harry are particular friends of mine; I shall never handle them again, and I want a last word or two of farewell. They have developed under my care from awkward boys to the finished athletes they are to-night. I have seen the firm, round muscles becoming more and more perfect; the heart and lungs grow equal to more and more severe tests, and the increasing courage and self-reliance (without which there can be no success on the cinder-path) which will help them through many a struggle with the world they are about to enter. It is one of the sad parts of a trainer's life that he must lose such friends.

I force my way through the crowd, getting numberless nods and greetings of a warmer nature, for I am a well-known man in such a gathering. I strike the strong current flowing to and from the bar; but a little patience, and a liberal use of the elbow, brings me to the boys at last. I give them each a hand, and we exchange a word or two of congratulation. Harry is, I see, a bit sore at his misfortune, for he had been picked as a sure winner. I give him a word of praise for his gallant effort to make up a three-yard loss at the start. There are many sprinters who would not have tried at all, let alone have pulled off the much-needed point. I tell Harding, with assumed resentment, that he has been sogering all the time, abusing my confidence by playing the sleeper, and that he has always been good for the extra ten feet.

At this Jim gives one of his basso profundo laughs, and in answer to my question as to what mischief he is plotting, replies that Harry and himself are waiting for Paddy, who has gone with Tom Furness for a little something "to kape the night out," and that they have promised the Irishman to help him look up his cousin "Dinny Sullivan, a copper."

I find that all they know about this cousin is that he is a policeman, on duty somewhere in the Bowery district. The boys admit the scent is not strong, but anticipate good sport in the hunt, whether they bag the game or not. There is always fun with Paddy, for though he has become a mighty knowing man on cinder-path and track, and is not as green as when he tackled the "ghostly hurdler," he is a delicious bit still.

He appears a moment after, the "Knight of the Rake and Roller," accompanied by Tom; and judging from the aroma that clings to them, the necessary precautions have been taken against the baleful influences of the night air.

Tom is as happy and sanguine as ever, shakes me by the hand as if my arm was a pump-handle in midsummer, and immediately protests that not a step will he take out of the house unless I go with him.

At this they all insist that the party will be incomplete without me. I must go, or I shall break up the party and spoil sport. After considerable resistance, which I admit now was assumed, I consented at last. The truth was that, while I had not trained as had the boys, I had given many months of care and anxiety to them, and really wanted a bit of a fling myself. I knew very well what the little walk would lead up to, but reasoned that the boys were bound to get into trouble, and that it would be a charity to look after them. In fact, I played the hypocrite in a way for which I should have been ashamed.

Although Tom and the boys gave unmistakable signs of "having dined," and Paddy of his heroic remedies against the night, we all meander to the bar for a last measure of precaution, light fresh cigars, and sally forth.

The clocks are striking eight as the door swings behind us, the stars are beginning to show, and the street lights to shine. The air is mild, and the pavements seem like a country road after the awful crowd of the lobby. The rattle of the pavements is silence compared with the rattle of tongues which we have left behind us.

We pile into a carriage which Paddy selects from a number drawn up to the curb,--because the driver is a Connemara man. We are not particularly comfortable with three on one seat, and five pairs of long legs interlaced; but our ride is enlivened by Paddy's conversation, no less brilliant than fluent, which is a magnificent compliment. Occasionally Tom succeeds in getting in a word, but the rest of us are out of it. He is about to give us some reminiscences of "Dinny's" boyhood when the carriage stops, much to our surprise, for we do not realize the lapse of time.

We alight before a corner drug-store, and Paddy calls the "Connemara man" an "Irish thief" when Tom pays him an exorbitant charge. He is easily placated, however, and goes into the store to inquire after Dinny, while we wait outside. We look through the window, between the red bottle on the right and the blue bottle on the left, and see him go up to the clerk at the soda fountain. The latter, a tall, pale-faced youth, answers shortly, and points to a big directory on a little shelf in the corner. Paddy walks over, upsetting a rack of sponges on the way, opens the directory doubtfully, turns over its leaves, runs his finger down a page or two, looks more and more puzzled, and at last beckons us in.

We enter, and find him looking blankly at an almost unending list of Dennis Sullivans, engaged in many occupations, and several of them "on the force." After a careful examination, befitting the seriousness of the occasion, we pronounce the task hopeless, and file out again. Our departure is apparently greatly to the relief of the pale young man, for we had laughed until the bottles rattled when Paddy described his cousin as a "big chunk av a man, wid a taste for gin, an' a bad habit av snorin'."

We halt in the lee of the mortar and pestle, while the crowd surges past, and hold a council of war. Harding suggests that our best plan is to form a rush line, letting none pass until they tell all they know about "Dennis Sullivan, the copper." This proposition is hailed with delight by all but Tom and me, and though we are in the minority our opposition succeeds. To spread a drag-net across a Bowery sidewalk I believe to be a decidedly hazardous proceeding, and likely to result in the catching of fish too big to land. We finally form, with Paddy ahead, then Jim and Harry, Tom and myself bringing up the rear.

We had not taken a dozen steps before Paddy halts a tough-looking chap with "Do yes know me cousin, Dinny Sullivan?" The prisoner wears a very short sack-coat, plaid trowsers, and a tall silk hat. He has a "mouse" under one eye, and the other, though lacking the honorable decoration of its companion, is red and angry. His mustache is closely clipped and dyed a deathly black; the cigar in the extreme corner of his mouth is tilted at an acute angle. He blows a cloud of smoke over Paddy's shoulder, and looks us all over suspiciously, each in turn.

Now, we are rather a formidable party: Paddy and Jim as big as houses, Tom tall and angular, myself a rugged specimen, and Harry, though not adding much to our physical strength, evidently spoiling for trouble. As a rule, the little men are the aggressors, and most dangerous of all if they have a crowd with them.

Paddy's first captive, in deference to our superior force, decides to act the civil, and asks gruffly, "What's his biz?"

"He's a cop," answered Paddy, "a big chunk av a man, wid a scar over the lift eye, under the hair." Identifying a man by a concealed scar is too much for Tom, who breaks into a hearty laugh, and the prisoner himself gives a half smile, when after denying all knowledge of "Dinny" he is allowed to pass on.

We next halt a couple of young fellows, evidently gentlemen, out on a lark. They recognize in Paddy a character worth cultivating, and keep him talking several minutes, asking fool questions; but they finally admit that "me cousin Dinny Sullivan" is not on their list of acquaintances.

We spent some time in this way, Paddy doing picket duty, the main army close up in support. After questioning a dozen or more we make up our minds that Dinny is certainly not as well known on the Bowery as John L. or Tony Pastor, and that the success of our mission is doubtful. We had enjoyed the dialogues immensely, particularly that with a good-natured German. The latter understood hardly a word of English, but spoke his own language like a cuckoo clock. Paddy, of course, knew not a single word he said, but stuck to him for several minutes, giving up English at last, and treating us to the classic accents of old Ireland.

Nearly all we met had taken the matter good-naturedly, but one or two did not see the joke, and turned ugly. One big fellow talked fight, but the proposition was received by Paddy with such extreme joy, and preparations were made with such alacrity, that he thought better of the plan and withdrew his challenge. This was greatly to Paddy's disappointment, and Harry's as well, the latter offering to take the Irishman's place, though he would have been fifty pounds short weight.

We had been stopping frequently for Paddy to take further precautions to "kape the night out," and the rest of us doctored with the same medicine in smaller doses.

Paddy was now perfectly happy, and he had his reasons. The "byes" had won; he was drinking, under Tom's most learned and experienced tuition, a different new drink every time, and in his heart of hearts was sure of a fight before the sun rose.

What more could an Irishman ask; and a Connemara Irishman at that? His face was growing redder and more smiling every minute, and his feet, although they performed their duties after a fashion, would certainly not have been equal to the "crack in the floor test," as on the night when he encountered the "ghostly hurdler."

But although Pat would have been contented to continue in the same blissful state until the crack of doom, the rest of us began to tire of the quest, and to look around in search of other things beside "Dinny, the copper." The streets were crowded, the stores open, the bar-rooms doing a rushing business, and the places of amusement in full blast.

Suddenly Jim stopped before the bulletin board of a little variety theatre, and began to examine it critically. There was a long list of names in black letters,--singers, dancers, acrobats, boxers, and I know not what else; but Jim's eyes were fixed with great seriousness at the tall red letters at the bottom. They declared, in extremely mixed metaphor, "A Galaxy of Stars, and Every One a Winner."

"I'm going in," said Jim, with much gravity, throwing his cigar away.

"How about Paddy's cousin, the copper?" asked Harry.

"He's as likely here as anywhere," Jim answered; "beside, it says that 'every one's a winner,' and that's the only kind for us to-night."

We were all of us quite ready for a change, so we stepped into the little lobby, Paddy first going up to the ticket office to ask, "Is me cousin, Dinny Sullivan, the copper, inside?"

The ticket-seller, a big, fat fellow, with weak eyes and a Roman nose, thought Paddy was trying to jolly him, and answered "No," quite tartly. Paddy, of course, resented the incivility, and declared himself to be a gentleman, and he cared not who knew it. He further ventured to doubt whether the man behind the window was in the same class with himself, and, gradually abandoning the reproachful accents with which he had begun, became first unparliamentary, and then abusive.

The ticket-seller stood it for a while, and then told Paddy to pass along, that "Dinny Sullivan" was not inside, but that they had two other policemen who were no relation of Pat's, but would take care of him just the same.

This last threat raised Paddy's anger to the boiling point, so that he first tried unsuccessfully to enter through the locked door, and then reaching his huge fist through the little open place in the window, shook it as near the Roman nose as the length of his arm would permit.

We finally persuaded him to subside, and Harry took his place with a roll of bills to purchase the tickets. He had hardly begun to speak, however, before Harding caught him, and lifted him, despite his struggles, on to the shoulder of a big statue of Terpsichore, in the corner, reminding him, gently but firmly, that the invitation was his, and he must be permitted to pay the bills. He obtained five seats in the front row of the orchestra, and parted therefor with two dollars and fifty cents.

We were inspected a trifle suspiciously by the door-keeper, but filed in, and found the little theatre filled with a numerous and enthusiastic audience. The gallery was packed, the cheap seats on the rear of the floor well taken, and only a few of the more expensive ones in the front of the house unoccupied. The air was hot, and full enough of the fumes of alcohol to burn. Before we had adjusted our lungs to the new conditions, a little fellow in a dirty zouave suit took the checks from Jim, and ushered us down the centre aisle to our seats in the front row. We made considerable noise, for the steps were of uneven depths, and at unequal distances, and Paddy stumbled all over himself at every opportunity.

Harry went in first, followed by Pat, Tom, myself, and Jim, in the order named. We were obliged to squeeze by an old lady and her daughter who occupied the end seats, and the former, sitting next to Jim, resented the necessary crowding by sundry sniffs and looks of disgust. Her displeasure was so evident that Jim felt called upon to apologize, which he did in his most grandisonian manner, and in tones not less loud than those of the singer on the stage, "I beg your pardon, madam; I assure you it was unintentional; I have tender feet myself, and can sympathize with you."

At this there was a burst of applause and laughter. I looked around and could see a number of college men scattered through the orchestra, evidently ready to encourage any exploit to which such "dare-devils" as Jim and Harry might treat them.

There were a few of the gentler sex in the audience, but the great majority were men, the flotsam and jetsam of the Bowery. Some of these joined in the laughter at Jim's elaborate apology, and others scowled their resentment at the disturbance. From the abode of the gallery gods (filled mostly with boys, big and little) came a shrill "Put 'em out!" and a big wad of paper composed of an entire "World," and thrown by a skilful hand, which landed on the top of Jim's head.

But Jim, apparently not at all noticing the attention which he was attracting, unfolded his play-bill, and began to study it with the air of a connoisseur, or a provincial manager in search of talent. The document was headed with "BILLY JAYNE'S REFINED VAUDEVILLE CO.," and near the bottom of the first page was bracketed, "Robert Loring, Basso Profundo, Nautical Songs, Without a Rival."

It was evidently Robert who was "doing his turn" when we entered, for his song told of "wild waves, brave ships, oak timbers, fearful storms, wrecks, and watery graves," in tones deep enough to make the heart quake. He ended, just as we were well settled in our seats, with a row of descending notes, the last several feet below the lowest brick of the cellar, and bowed himself off the stage, amid a burst of applause, which was followed by another demonstration, well mingled with laughter, when Jim remarked very audibly to the old lady by his side, "I really wonder how he does it," and "Shouldn't you think it would hurt him?"

Loring had already occupied the full time for "his turn" (we discovered later that the performer came out and filled up his ten minutes just the same, whether applauded and encored, or greeted with stony silence), so, notwithstanding vigorous clapping, assisted by the more demonstrative boot-heel, Robert only made his bow from the wings, and departed.

As he disappeared on one side, a diminutive little darky hurried on from the other, and changed the cards, announcing as the next star, "Sam Walker." An examination of the play-bill rewarded us also with the information that Sam was the "World's Champion Clog Dancer, Lancashire Style." Two attendants in ragged costumes brought out a big square of white marble, which they deposited with considerable labor on one side of the stage, and after a little delay, to make the audience impatient, the distinguished Walker appeared, clad in well-chalked white tights, and with the champion's belt buckled round his waist. It was at least six inches wide, and so heavy with gold, silver, and precious stones that the redoubtable Sam was obliged to remove it before he could dance at all. Sam's brother Alfred, in a rusty dress suit, took his seat in a chair on the other side of the stage, and with an enormous accordeon furnished the music for the champion, who treated us to a continuation of festive taps, stopping with wonderful precision whenever the music broke off, even if in the middle of a note.

Next came "Annette Toineau," the "Queen of French Song, Fresh from Her Parisian Triumphs;" and the big man at the piano began to execute a lively tune, which set all the feet in the house in motion, until Annette herself appeared. This she did with a nod, a wink, and a kick that won instant applause, even before she opened her mouth to sing. An enthusiastic admirer in the gallery called out, "You're all right, Liz, old girl," from which remark, and the accent (much more Celtic than French) with which she afterward treated us, I argued that Annette was but a stage name, and the "Parisian Triumphs" probably a fiction of the manager. Annette was a very pretty little girl, with a trim figure in abbreviated skirts, and she sang rather naughty songs in a manner that made them worse than they were written.

I could hear Jim, after she was through, remark to the old lady by his side, that such songs were likely to lead to the perversion of youth, and should not be sung except to those who had reached the age of discretion; by which I suppose he meant himself and the old lady, though she was old enough to be his grandmother. Jim's censorious remarks were, however, more than offset by Harry, who, at the other end of our line, applauded so vociferously that Annette rewarded him with a direct and beaming smile when she made her last bow.

Then followed "Leslie and Manning, Knock-about Grotesques," "Cora, the Queen of the Slack Wire," and "Sam Berne, the Dutch Monarch;" the last of whom first convulsed us by asking Tom, in a sepulchral whisper, to "Please wake your friend," pointing to Paddy, who was indeed asleep; and then had a very funny dialogue with the piano-pounder, in which they both pretended to get in a towering passion over the question as to whether the singing or the accompaniment was the worse.

The delights of the play-bill were now well-nigh exhausted, the next to the last on the list being "Alice Wentworth, America's Most Dashing Soubrette." She appeared to the tune of some gay waltz notes from the long-suffering piano. Alice was a slender girl, with brown hair and large, dark eyes. I doubt she could ever have been "dashing," though pretty she certainly had been. There were also signs that "once she had seen better days," as the old song goes. But now, despite the assistance of paint and padding, it was evident that sickness or dissipation had robbed her of most of the attractions she had once possessed. Her face was too thin for the bright color on her cheeks, her steps were too listless for the generously filled stockings, and she coughed several times before she began her song. It was a jolly little thing, sung in good time and tune, and with those touches which indicate unmistakably the rudiments, at least, of a musical education. The song was well received, but at the end of the verse she had a dance, which called for considerable exertion, and was very trying for her. She got through the first two verses all right, but when she started the third her strength was gone; she broke down, and gasped for breath. The piano continued for a few notes, then stopped, and there was a dead silence. It was a pitiful sight enough: the poor girl trying to get strength enough to continue, coughing and gasping painfully; but some one in the orchestra back of us hissed, there was a cry from the gallery of "Take her off," and then a chorus of yells and cat-calls. It was the same old wolf instinct which makes the pack tear to pieces the wounded straggler,--the wolf instinct in some way transmitted to man.

I was indignant enough, and looked around at the audience after the chap that made the first hiss, but should probably have done nothing had not Tom Furness, who has the biggest heart in the world, made an effort to stem the tide. He jumped on his feet, rising to his full height, and began to applaud with all his might. Of course we all joined in, Paddy's big feet and hands making a prodigious noise; and the better nature of the audience being given a lead, the hisses were drowned by a great storm of applause that fairly shook the old theatre.

Poor Alice succeeded in getting enough breath to finish her song, and, dancing no more, gave as an encore "Ye Banks and Braes o' Bonny Doon," in a way that reached the hearts of the toughest in the house. It is wonderful how such an audience is affected by the pathetic. An allusion to an "old mother," an "old home," or suffering from sin and wrong will catch them quicker than the most doubtful verse.

The last word of the old Scotch song ended, Alice made her bow amid applause as hearty if not as noisy as when we drowned the hissing, and I hope the poor girl was able to keep her place, or, better still, went back to the old home, among the New Hampshire hills, perhaps, or under the shadow of the Maine pines.

There was now a great bustle on the stage, a rush of "supes," and a clamor of orders. The scenery was pushed back and the drop-scenes hoisted out of the way. Padded posts were set in the floor, ropes strung and pulled taut, making a very satisfactory ring, and the chairs placed in the corners. By the demonstration on the stage and the eagerness of the audience, it was evident that we had now come to the great attraction of the evening. The play-bill read "George Johnson, Heavy-Weight Boxer, Will Knock Out Three Opponents in Three Rounds Each, or Forfeit $50 to the Man Who Stays."

Now, although I was fairly well informed concerning the boxing world, I was unable to remember "George Johnson's" name, and wondered why he had not been taken on by some of the well-known men who intruded themselves into the papers so frequently. The play-bill said clearly that he had challenged the world, and Tom suggested that Johnson was probably too good for them to take him on, or perhaps he had not a diligent backer who could wield a vigorous pen. Harry, who stripped at one hundred and thirty, declared his willingness to put on the gloves with Mr. Johnson if they would let him stand on a chair. Paddy, to whom the performance had become a dreadful bore, endured only through respect for the high society in which he was travelling, had now become wide awake, and at Harry's remark pricked up his ears and asked with much interest if they gave any one in the audience a chance to put on the gloves. Jim told him that there were probably three "stiffs" already engaged to go through the motions of a knock-out, and Paddy remarked that it was a pity, and subsided for the time.

When everything was arranged, the pails of water, sponges, and towels handy, and the gloves thrown into the middle of the ring, the manager introduced Mr. Richard Foley as the referee of the bouts, ending his remarks with some very florid compliments to Mr. Foley's well-known fairness in such matters. What was our surprise to discover in the gentlemanly referee the identical man we had first stopped on the street to inquire for "Dinny Sullivan, the copper." He wore the same short coat and plaid trousers, but had discarded the tall hat and the cigar, without which he looked lonely. The mouse under his eye had also disappeared, the artist having succeeded in disguising its mournful hue by a skilful application of flesh paint.

After the enthusiasm which greeted his appearance had a little subsided, Mr. Foley raised his hand in a Napoleonic fashion to command silence, stepped to the front of the stage, and hanging on the ropes in an attitude of extreme ease and freedom from restraint, made the usual little speech without which a boxing contest would seem out of joint. He declared the bout to be one of "a friendly nature" for "scientific points only," and ended with the warning that any disturbance from the audience would stop the contest immediately.

At the close of his remarks appeared the celebrated George Johnson, a tall mulatto, who took his seat in the chair facing the audience, followed by his handlers. He was stripped to the waist, and wore a blue sash, white trunks, and tan shoes. He was a powerful fellow, well trained, and looked like a bronze statue when he rose, bowing and smiling at a little group of colored friends who called to him from the front of the gallery.

A moment later "Jack Costigan, the Jersey blacksmith," made his debut, and was greeted with even more enthusiasm than Johnson, probably because of the predominating nationality of the audience, for he was certainly not a beauty, or even a well-built man. Indeed, he was a mighty tough-looking customer, his black hair clipped close enough to reveal a number of white scars, his face pockmarked, his shoulders stooping, and he was at least ten pounds lighter than Johnson, with much less height and reach. He looked sheepish enough to prepare us for the "lie down" that was to follow, and seemed pleased that his chair gave him the opportunity to turn his back to the spectators.

After the very labored introductions by Mr. Foley, in which a slight allusion was made to their previous records, the men took their corners, and at the call of "time" they shook hands and got to business. Now, I shall have hardly a word to say concerning this bout, for there was a much more stirring one to follow. It was evident from the beginning, although Johnson was the better man, and could have won anyway, that Costigan was not sent to do his best. He was an old war-horse, performed his part well, kept up the mill until the middle of the third round, and then at a comparatively light blow went down. He pretended to make a desperate effort to rise while the ten seconds were counted, then picked himself up, and Johnson was declared the winner.

After Costigan disappeared there was a long wait, the house growing more and more impatient. At last the manager appeared and announced his great regret that the two other boxers had disappointed him. He announced that one of them had a broken arm, and read a physician's certificate to that effect. The other, as far as we could learn, was suffering from a broken heart; that is, he had, after looking the redoubtable Johnson over, declined to face him for any consideration.

The manager, again expressing his sorrow at the unavoidable disappointment, handed our friend, Mr. Foley, a fifty-dollar bill, making a great splurge about it, and asked if there were not some gentlemen in the house who would take the places of the delinquents.

At this there was a dead silence, except the noise made by Paddy and Harry whispering together, but what they said I did not understand. Again the manager repeated the request, evidently not expecting its acceptance, and ended with a challenge reflecting delicately upon the courage of his audience.

He had hardly spoken the words when suddenly, to my surprise and dismay, Paddy rose slowly to his feet, and clearing his throat said, in husky tones, "Faith, thin, 'tis a pity it is not to hev the foight, and lackin' a better I'll give him a bit av a go meself."

There had been many murmurs of disappointment when it looked as if there would be but one bout, instead of three as advertised, and at Paddy's speech there was deafening applause. I did my best to dissuade him, as did Tom Furness as well; but Jim took up the plan with enthusiasm, and despite our protests the three "devil-may-cares" crowded along the aisle, and disappeared through a little door under the gallery, which led to the stage. A few moments later they filed on, all three with their coats off, stepped through the ropes, and Paddy took his seat in the chair facing Johnson, his red face wreathed in smiles, and his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, Jim and Harry going to work in a very business-like manner to prepare for the contest.

Now, all this was great fun for the audience, the manager, and even Johnson himself, who grinned back at Paddy, showing a long row of white teeth. It took no expert to see that the Irishman was dead easy, and there were the anticipated windmill swings, and abortive efforts to hit on his part, and a scientific exhibition from Johnson, with a knock-out to follow.

Tom and I expected nothing better, unless Johnson should be careless enough to let Paddy hit him once, in which case he might be treated to a surprise party, for Pat had an arm like a gorilla, and a fist as big as a small ham. Indeed, when Jim tried to push the gloves on which Costigan had discarded, after his lie down, he found it a job requiring the exercise of patience and considerable strength as well.

At last Paddy was all right, Harry fanning him with the towel, Jim kneeling behind him, whispering sage advice into his ear, to which Paddy nodded his head with a confident grin. We were close enough to hear his husky, "'Tis right you are," and "Sure that wud phase 'im." The boys looked striking enough on the stage, with their refined faces, fashionable clothes, and spotless linen. Not one in the building but knew they were gentlemen, and nearly all wished them success with their man. Paddy himself had caught the crowd also, the gallery becoming his at first sight of his wide smile and the sound of his "illigant brogue."

Mr. Foley called "time," and at the word Harry gave a last flap, Jim a final word of advice, and as Paddy rose to his feet they pulled the chair through the ropes, and left their man in the ring, to do his "_devoir_" as best he might.