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Read Ebook: Spring Street A Story of Los Angeles by Richardson James Hugh
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Ebook has 2522 lines and 85228 words, and 51 pages
He came to his decision about the money for the funeral director quickly. He told her he was going to look for work and went to George Blake at his Spring street gymnasium. Blake, an instructor in boxing, had seen him spar in amateur bouts and had taken him in tow. He boxed because he liked it; never with a thought of ever fighting for money. Only a month before he had refused an offer of a bout at Jack Doyle's Vernon arena.
"George," he said, "can you get me a bout at Vernon?"
"What's the big idea?" asked Blake with a smile.
"I need the money."
"How soon?"
"As soon as I can get it."
"I'll see Wad Wadhams, tonight," Blake said. "If there's a place on the bill I'll get it for you."
The next day Blake called him to the gymnasium.
"You'll go on in the preliminaries," he said. "Two hundred if you win, a hundred if you draw and fifty if you lose. How's that?"
"That means I must win," John said.
In his pocket as he spoke was the funeral director's bill for 0.
"You'd better get to work right now, then," cautioned Blake. "You're matched with a tough boy, but if you're in any sort of shape at all you should come out on top."
A fist thudded against his jaw. Absorbed in his thoughts he had left an opening and the boy in the ring with him was quick to take advantage of it. Instinctively he "covered," bending over with his arms wrapped around his head and body for protection until his brain cleared.
Then, savagely, he tore into the boy before him, jabbing him swiftly with his left glove and suddenly sending over his right with a snap. The boy sank to the floor.
"That's enough, Gallant," admonished Blake. "Take it easy."
He lifted the boy to his feet.
As he pounded at the punching bag a few minutes later he promised himself that this would be his one and only fight in a ring, for his mother's sake.
That night, when he left for Vernon, he told her his first deliberate lie.
He was in his corner. A scrawny youth with a twisted nose, a jersey sweater and a husky voice was tying on his gloves.
"Wot's your name, kid?"
The announcer was bending over him.
"Gallant," he answered, after hesitating. The announcer turned and crossed to the opposite corner of the ring and John's eyes followed him. He saw his opponent, a thick-shouldered Mexican, with flashing black eyes, gleaming white teeth, a broad, deep chest tapering to a slender waist.
The Mexican returned his appraising look, and sneered.
"Come on, kid," the announcer was calling to him from the center of the ring.
John dropped his bathrobe from his shoulders and went forward.
"On my right--the Gallant kid," shouted the announcer, pausing for the laugh that came up from the crowd.
"The what?" a voice asked.
"The Gallant kid, he calls himself," shouted back the announcer. "On my left--Battling Rodriguez. One hundred and thirty-five pounds."
John went back to his corner. He rested his gloved hands on the ropes and scraped the soles of his shoes into a box of rosin shoved beneath his feet by the twisted nose youth, who had a towel thrown over his shoulder and a pail of water near him.
Blake pulled himself up beside him.
"Remember, John, keep cool and keep jabbing that left in his face," he said.
John looked out at the crowd. A thought of his mother flashed into his head and he seemed to see her face in the blue haze of smoke.
"He'll try rushing you--he thinks he's another Joe Rivers," said Blake. "Wait for a chance to soak him."
The gong sounded and, whirling around, he went to the center of the ring. The Battler came dancing out to meet him. They touched gloves for a handshake and each took a step back. The Battler moved his gloves in quick little circles and the noise from the crowd stopped. John forgot everything else, the fight was on.
The Battler feinted, swaying his body from side to side, and came at him. He shot out his left hand, jabbing at the swarthy face of the Mexican. His fist struck only the air and the Battler, his lips drawn back, his eyes blazing, crashed into him.
A fist pounded into his stomach and another ripped into his face. He heard a wild shout from the crowd and the Mexican jumped back, smiling. A trickle of blood dropped to his cheek from a cut over his eye. He heard the Battler's seconds shout to their man to "tear into" him. He watched, his left extended, his right close to his body.
The Battler rushed again, swaying from the hips. John's left fist found its mark. He jabbed--once, twice, three times--and lashed out with his right. The blow glanced off the Mexican's shoulders and they clinched. He felt the Battler's strength in that clinch and he realized it was more than his. The referee called "Break!" and they pushed away from each other.
He must keep his head. The Mexican was fast; he pounced like a panther. Blake's warning came back to him--"keep cool and wait." That was it, wait, wait for a chance to land a blow that would end the fight.
He shot out his left again as the Battler came at him. It missed and the strength he put behind it carried his head forward. Like a flash the Mexican's right crashed to his jaw. John stumbled to his knees. The referee was over him.
He felt his head slowly clearing. What a punch that Mexican had! He must get to his feet and cover.
He found strength to jump up. He saw nothing before him. He heard shouting, miles away, it seemed. His arms were heavy when he lifted them to his head. He tried to set himself. His body reeled as the Battler pounded him, his head, his face, his back.
Back across the ring he staggered until he went down again.
He pushed himself up to his knees.
He got to his feet, his arms hanging loose at his sides. The Battler swung forward on his toes for another rush. He tried to lift his hands. They were like dead things. He tried to run out of the way of that tornado of blows and he tottered back against the ropes.
The gong rang and saved him.
He sank into the canvas camp-chair that was pushed under him in his corner and gulped at the wind fanned into his heaving lungs by the towel flapped up and down by the twisted-nose second. A sharp pain as the cut over his eye was burned with caustic brightened his brain.
"Has he had enough?" he heard the referee ask Blake, who was behind him.
"No, give me a chance," he gasped.
"Let him try another one," Blake said.
The pounding of his heart slowed and his head cleared so that he could make out the figure of the Battler leaning back in his chair, his arms spread along the ropes, smiling.
A second massaged his arms and he felt life coming back into them. Blake whispered in his ear:
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