Chapter III

THE auditorium was a great barn-like building which had been erected originally for the purpose of a roller-skating rink. Nowadays the charity bazaars were held there, the balls, political mass-meetings, amateur dramatics, and prize-fights.

Cathewe, as he gazed curiously around, pictured to himself the contrast between the Thanksgiving ball of the past week and the present scene, and fell into his usual habit of philosophizing. His seat was high up in the gallery. What faces he saw through the blue and choking haze of smoke! Saloon keepers, idlers, stunted youth, blasé men about town, with a sprinkling of respectable business men, who ever and anon cast hasty and guilty glances over their shoulders, and when caught would raise a finger as if to say: "You rogue, what are _you_ doing here?"--these and other sights met his interested eye. Even he confessed to himself that his presence here was not all due to the gathering of color for his new book. Self-analysis discovered to him that the animal in him was eagerly awaiting the arrival of the fighters. Such is human nature.

Down below he saw the raised platform, strongly protected by ropes. Around this were the reporters' tables, the telegraph operators' desks, a few chairs for the privileged friends of the press, and pails, towels and sponges. Yes, there was the rector, sitting at one of the reporters' tables, erect in his chair, his gaze bent upon his paper pad, apparently oblivious to his strange surroundings. Cathewe wondered what was going on in that somewhat mystifying mind. He certainly would have been surprised could he have read.

In fact, the rector was going over again his own memorable battle in Boston some ten years ago. He was thinking how it had changed his whole career, how it had swerved him from the bar to the pulpit.

Ah, to be within the magic circle of her presence, to be within sight and touch all his life, sometimes to hear her voice lifted in song, the smooth, white fingers bringing to life the poetry of sound! He had ceased to lie to himself. He loved, with all his heart, with all his soul. He had given up; he had surrendered completely; but she was never to know. Even at this moment poverty took him to the mount and showed him the abyss between him and his heart's desire. He was aroused from his dreams by a sudden commotion, a subdued murmur. Mr. Sullivan's antagonist, dressed in a gaudy sky-blue bath-robe, was crawling under the ropes, followed by his seconds. The murmur grew into a prolonged cheer when Mr. Sullivan shortly followed in a bath-robe, even richer in hues.

The reporters shifted their writing-pads, lighted fresh cigars, and drew their legs under the tables. The sporting editor of the _Post_ turned to the rector.

"I'll tip you off on the technicalities of the scrap," he said. "All you need to do is to watch the men and describe what they do in your own way."

"Thank you," replied the rector. He was calm. When Mr. Sullivan nodded pleasantly, he smiled.

The men in the ring threw aside their bath-robes, and stood forth in all the splendor of their robust physiques. A short, pompous man, wearing a watch-chain which threatened to disconcert his physical balance, stepped to the ropes and held up his hand. Silence suddenly fell upon two thousand men.

"Th' preliminary is off; th' 'Kid' refuses to go on because th' 'Dago' didn't weigh in as agreed. Th' main bout will now take place. Mr. Sullivan t' th' right, an' Mr. McManus t' th' left." The pompous man took out a greasy telegram from his pocket, and said: "Lanky Williams challenges th' winner fer a purse an' a side bet of fi' thousan'."

He was cheered heartily. Nobody cared about the preliminary "go"; it was Sullivan and McManus the spectators had paid their money to see.

The rector recalled the scenes in _Quo Vadis_, and shrugged his shoulders. Human nature never changes; only politics and fashions. He himself was vaguely conscious of a guilty thrill as he saw the two men step from their corners and shake hands.

As this is a story not of how Mr. "Shifty" Sullivan won his battle from Mr. McManus, but of how the rector of St. Paul's nearly lost his, I shall not dwell upon the battle as it was fought by rounds. Let it suffice that the crisis came during the twelfth round. Sullivan was having the best of this round, though in the four previous he had been worsted. The men came together suddenly, and there was some rough in-fighting. The pompous man, who was the referee, was kept on the jump. One could hear the pad-pad of blows and the scrape-scrape of shoes on the resined mat, so breathless were the spectators. The boxers became tangled.

"Foul, foul!"

The voice rang out strong and distinct. It was not the referee's voice, for the referee himself looked angrily down whence the voice came. Sullivan, his face writhed in agony, was clinging desperately to his opponent.

"A foul blow!"

Pandemonium. Everybody was yelling, half not knowing why.

The seconds and trainers were clambering into the ring. The referee separated the boxers. They rushed at each other furiously. The seconds stepped in between. A general mix-up followed, during which the pompous man lost his silk hat.

The reporter for the _Post_ pulled the rector's coat tails, and the rector sank into his chair, pale and terrified. He had forgotten! Carried away by his old love of clean fighting, by his love of physical contests, he had forgotten, forgotten!

"Foul! It was a foul!"

"Ye-a! Ye-a! Foul blow!"

"Bully fer th' parson!"

"Sullivan, Sullivan!"

"McManus!"

"Foul, foul! T'row out th' referee!"

"Give th' deacon a show fer his money!"

These and a thousand other cries rose in the vicinity of the rector. Those reporters whose city editors had not thought of the stroke of sending a minister of the gospel to report the fight were delighted. Here was a story worth forty fights, a story to delight thousands and thousands who looked upon St. Paul's as a place where only the rich might worship.

"I declare the fight a draw, an' all bets off!" howled the referee, wiping the dust from his damaged hat, which he had at length recovered.

The rector rose to move down the aisle to the entrance. He felt morally and physically crushed. All this would be in the newspapers the next morning. He was disgraced; for everybody would ask, "How should he know what a foul blow was?" It was terribly bitter, after having struggled so long. Presently he became aware that men, reeking with cigar smoke and liquors, were talking loudly to him, even cursing him. He caught some words about "makin' us lose our bets, when we come all th' way from N'York."

A hand came into contact with his cheek, and the sting of it ran like fire through his veins. The wrath at his moral defeat broke down the dikes of his self-control; the fury which is always quickly provoked by physical pain in the animality of man, swept aside his prudence. The man who struck him was seen to rise bodily and fall crumpled among the seats. The man's friends--there were four in number--recovering from their momentary surprise, attacked the rector swiftly, and not without a certain conformity.

What followed has become history. Even Sullivan and his opponent forgot their animosity for the time being, and leaned eagerly over the ropes. Far back in the surging crowd several police helmets could be discerned, but they made little progress. The rector in his tightly fitting frock was at a disadvantage, but his wonderful vigor and activity stood him in good stead. Quick as a cat he leaped from this side to that, dealing his blows with the rapidity of a piston-rod and almost as terrible in effect. Once he went down; but, like Antæus, the touch of earth revived him and doubled his strength.

Men, in the mad effort to witness this battle, trod on one another's toes, hats were crushed, coats were torn, even blows were struck. They stood on chairs, on tables, yelling and cheering. This was a fight that _was_ a fight. Faking had no part in it; there was no partiality of referees. When the police finally arrived it was all over. The rector was brushing his hat, while Cathewe, who had dashed down-stairs at the first sound of the rector's voice, was busy with the rector's coat.

"Want t' appear against 'em?" asked one of the officers.

"No, no! Let them go," cried the rector. "Cathewe, take me out, please; take me home." His hands shook as he put on his hat. He was very white. The knuckles of his left hand were raw and bleeding.

The police finally opened a pathway in the cheering crowd, and through this Cathewe and the rector disappeared. Outside, Cathewe hailed a carriage.

"Cathewe, I have absolutely and positively ruined my career."

The rector sank back among the cushions, overwhelmed. His voice was uneven and choked.

"Nonsense!" cried Cathewe. "What else could you do?"

"I could have passed by the man who struck me."

"Oh, pshaw! A man can not help being human simply because he wears the cloth. It was the bulliest fight I ever saw. It was magnificent! They weren't in it at any time. And you walloped four of 'em, and one was an ex-pugilist. It was great."

"Don't!"

"They'll call you the fighting parson."

"I shall resign to-morrow. I must begin life all over again. It will be very hard."

"Resign nothing! By the way, I saw General Boderick in the crowd."

"Boderick? Oh, I must hurry. He must have my resignation before he has a chance to demand it."

"Don't you worry about him. I saw him waving his cane like mad when you got up from the floor and smashed that second-ward ruffian. He won't dare to say anything. His daughter thinks that he went up to the club."

"I shall resign. I am determined upon that."

"We'll all have something to say regarding that."

"But the newspapers to-morrow! It will be frightful."

"My dear fellow, I am about to visit each in turn, and you can remain in the carriage. I'll take upon myself to fix it up so that it will receive scarcely any mention at all."

"My eternal gratitude is yours if you can accomplish that." There was a note of hope in the rector's voice.

It was after eleven o'clock when Cathewe deposited the rector before the parsonage. Cathewe was a great favorite with the newspaper men, and he had had no trouble at all in suppressing the sensational part of the affair.

As for the rector, he sank wearily into his study chair and buried his face in his hands. He had won one fight, but he had lost another of far more importance. Somehow, he had always just reached the promised land to feel the earth slip from under his feet. He was a failure. The only thing he had to be thankful for was that he stood alone in his disgrace. His father and mother were dead. Where should he go from here? He hadn't the slightest idea. He certainly would never don the cloth again, for this disgrace would follow him wherever he went. He was unfitted for mercantile life; he loved outdoors too well. If only he possessed the talent of Cathewe, who could go anywhere and live anywhere, without altering his condition! Well, he would go to the far West; he would put his geological learning into action; and by the time the little money he had saved was gone, he would have something to do.

Ah, but these things did not comprise the real bitterness in his heart. He had stepped outside the circle, stepped down below the horizon of her affairs. True, his wildest dreams had never linked his life with hers; but the nearness to her was as life to him. And now all that was over.

He reached for his writing-pad and wrote his resignation. It was a frank letter, straightforward and manly. He sealed it and stole out and deposited it in the letter-box just in time for the night collector to take it up. He had burned his bridges. They would be only too glad to get rid of him. He was absently straightening the papers on his table, when a small blue envelope attracted his attention. A faintness seized him as he recognized the delicate handwriting. It was an invitation, couched in the most friendly terms, to dine with General and Miss Boderick the following evening. If only he had seen this note earlier! He bent his head on his arms, and there was no sound save the wind in the chimney.

"The rector, sir," announced the general's valet.

"Show him in here, James, and light up," said the general.

When the rector entered, the general greeted him cheerfully.

"Sit down, sit down, and let us talk it all over," the general began. "I have not yet turned over your resignation to the trustees; and yet, in my opinion, this resignation is the best thing possible under the circumstances. You were not exactly cut out for a minister, though you have done more good to the poor than a dozen of your predecessors. I wish to apologize to you for some thoughts I have harbored against you. Wait a minute, wait a minute," as the rector raised a protesting hand. "I have called you a milksop because you always accepted the trustees' rebuffs with a meek and lowly spirit. But when I saw you lick half a dozen ruffians last night (yes, I was there; and while I'm a churchman, I am a man and a soldier besides), I knew that I had done you an injustice. By the way, are you related to the late Chaplain Allen of the ----st Regiment?"

"He was my father," wonderingly.

"Humph!"

"It was out of regard for him that I became a divinity student."

"Parsons sons are all alike. I never saw a parson's son who wasn't a limb of the Old Scratch. You became a divinity student after you left Harvard?"

The rector sent his host a startled glance.

"Oh, I have heard all about that episode; and I like you all the better for it. You should have been a soldier. We used to call your father the 'fighting parson.' Now, I've a proposition to make to you. Do you know anything about mining? anything about metals and geology?"

"Yes, sir; I have had a large reading upon those subjects." The rector's heart was thumping.

"A practical knowledge?"

"As practical as it is possible for a man in my position to acquire."

"Very good. It is a sorry thing to see a young man with misdirected energies. I'll undertake to direct yours. In January I want you to go to Mexico for me."

"Mexico?"

"Mexico. I have large mining interests there which need the presence of a man who can fight, both mentally and physically. I will pay you a good salary, and if you win, some stock shall go with the victory. Now don't think that I'm doing this out of sympathy for you. I am looking at you from a purely commercial point of view. Will you accept?"

"With all my heart," with a burst of enthusiasm.

"That's the way to talk. We'll arrange about the salary after dinner. Now, go down to the music-room. You will find Miss Boderick there. She will manage to entertain you till dinner time; and while you are about it, you may thank her instead of me. I shouldn't have thought of you but for her. Don't worry over what the newspapers have said. In six months this affair will have blown over, and you will have settled the mining dispute one way or the other. You will excuse me now, as I have some important letters to write. And, mind you, if you breathe a word that I was at the fight last night ..."

So the Reverend Richard Allen stole quietly down to the music-room. It was dark; and he entered softly and sat down in a corner at the farther end of the room, so as not to disturb the musician. In all the years of his life, the life which numbered thirty variegated years, he had never known such happiness.

In the study above the general chuckled as he wrote, and murmured from time to time the word: "Milksop!"

THE GIRL AND THE POET