Side-stepping with Shorty

by Sewell Ford

  XII

  TWO ROUNDS WITH SYLVIE

  If it hadn't been for givin' Chester a show to make a gallery play, youwouldn't have caught me takin' a bite out of the quince, the way I didthe other night. But say, when a young sport has spent the best partof a year learnin' swings and ducks and footwork, and when fancyboxin's about all the stunt he's got on his program, it's no more'nright he should give an exhibition, specially if that's what he achesto do. And Chester did have that kind of a longin'.

  "Who are you plannin' to have in the audience, Chetty?" says I.

  "Why," says he, "there'll be three or four of the fellows up, and maybesome of the crowd that mother's invited will drop in too."

  "Miss Angelica likely to be in the bunch?" says I.

  Chester pinks up at that and tries to make out he hadn't thoughtanything about Angelica's bein' there at all. But I'd heard a lotabout this particular young lady, and when I sees the colour on Chesterhis plan was as clear as if the entries was posted on a board.

  "All right, Chetty," says I; "have it any way you say. I'll be upearly Saturday night."

  So that's what I was doin' in the smoker on the five-nine, with my gym.suit and gaslight clothes in a kit bag up on the rack. Just as theyshuts the gates and gives the word to pull out, in strolls the last manaboard and piles in alongside of me. I wouldn't have noticed himspecial if he hadn't squinted at the ticket I'd stuck in the seat back,and asked if I was goin' to get off at that station.

  "I was thinkin' some of it when I paid my fare," says I.

  "Ah!" says he, kind of gentle and blinkin' his eyes. "That is mystation, too. Might I trouble you to remind me of the fact when wearrive?"

  "Sure," says I; "I'll wake you up."

  He gives me another blink, pulls a little readin' book out of hispocket, slumps down into the seat, and proceeds to act like he'd goneinto a trance.

  Say, I didn't need more'n one glimpse to size him up for a freak. TheAngora haircut was tag enough--reg'lar Elbert Hubbard thatch he waswearin', all fluffy and wavy, and just clearin' his coat collar. Thatand the artist's necktie, not to mention the eye glasses with thetortoise shell rims, put him in the self advertisin' class without hissayin' a word.

  Outside of the frills, he wa'n't a bad lookin' chap, and sizable enoughfor a 'longshoreman, only you could tell by the lily white hands andthe long fingernails that him and toil never got within speakin'distance.

  "Wonder what particular brand of mollycoddle he is?" thinks I.

  Now there wa'n't any call for me to put him through the catechism, justbecause he was headed for the same town I was; but somehow I had anitch to take a rise out of him. So I leans over and gets a peek at thebook.

  "Readin' po'try, eh?" says I, swallowin' a grin.

  "Beg pardon?" says he, kind of shakin' himself together. "Yes, this ispoetry--Swinburne, you know," and he slumps down again as if he'd saidall there was to say.

  But when I starts out to be sociable you can't head me off that way."Like it?" says I.

  "Why, yes," says he, "very much, indeed. Don't you?"

  He thought he had me corked there; but I comes right back at him."Nix!" says I. "Swinny's stuff always hit me as bein' kind of punk."

  "Really!" says he, liftin' his eyebrows. "Perhaps you have beenunfortunate in your selections. Now take this, from the Anactoria----"

  And say, I got what was comin' to me then. He tears off two or threeyards of it, all about moonlight and stars and kissin' and lovin', anda lot of gush like that. Honest, it would give you an ache under yourvest!

  "There!" says he. "Isn't that beautiful imagery?"

  "Maybe," says I. "Guess I never happened to light on that part before."

  "But surely you are familiar with his Madonna Mia?" says he.

  "That got past me too," says I.

  "It's here," says he, speakin' up quick. "Wait. Ah, this is it!" andhanged if he don't give me another dose, with more love in it than youcould get in a bushel of valentines, and about as much sense as if he'dbeen readin' the dictionary backwards. He does it well, though, justas if it all meant something; and me settin' there listenin' until Ifelt like I'd been doped.

  "Say, I take it all back," says I when he lets up. "That Swinny chapmaybe ain't quite up to Wallace Irwin; but he's got Ella Wheeler pushedthrough the ropes. I've got to see a friend in the baggage car,though, and if you'll let me climb out past I'll speak to the brakemanabout puttin' you off where you belong."

  "You're very kind," says he. "Regret you can't stay longer."

  Was that a josh, or what? Anyway, I figures I'm gettin' off easy, forthere was a lot more of that blamed book he might have pumped into meif I hadn't ducked.

  "Never again!" says I to myself. "Next time I gets curious I'll keepmy mouth shut."

  I wa'n't takin' any chances of his holdin' me up on the stationplatform when we got off, either. I was the first man to swing fromthe steps, and I makes a bee line for the road leadin' out towardsChester's place, not stoppin' for a hack. Pretty soon who should comedrivin' after me but Curlylocks. He still has his book open, though;so he gets by without spottin' me, and I draws a long breath.

  By the time I'd hoofed over the two miles between the stations andwhere Chester lives I'd done a lot of breathin'. It was quite some ofa place to get to, one of these new-model houses, that wears theplasterin' on the outside and has a roof made of fancy drain pipe.It's balanced right on the edge of the rocks, with the whole of LongIsland sound for a back yard and more'n a dozen acres of private parkbetween it and the road.

  "Gee!" says I to Chester, "I should think this would be as lonesome aslivin' in a lighthouse."

  "Not with the mob that mother usually has around," says he.

  If the attendance that night was a sample, I guess he was right; forthe bunch that answers the dinner gong would have done credit to asummer hotel. Seems that Chester's old man had been a sour, unsociableold party in his day, keepin' the fam'ly shut up in a thirty-foot-frontcity house that was about as cheerful as a tomb, and havin' comp'ny todinner reg'lar once a year.

  But when he finally quit breathin', and the lawyers had pried thecheckbook out of his grip, mother had sailed in to make up for losttime. It wasn't bridge and pink teas. She'd always had a hankerin'for minglin' with the high brows, and it was them she went gunnin'for,--anything from a college president down to lady novelists.Anybody that could paint a prize picture, or break into print in thethirty-five-cent magazines, or get his name up as havin' put the scoopnet over a new germ, could win a week of first class board from her byjust sendin' in his card.

  But it was tough on Chester, havin' that kind of a gang around all thetime, clutterin' up the front hall with their extension grips anddroppin' polysyllables in the soup. Chetty's brow was a low cut.Maybe he had a full set of brains; but he hadn't ever had to work 'emovertime, and he didn't seem anxious to try. About all the heavythinkin' he did was when he was orderin' lunch at the club. But he wasa big, full blooded, good natured young feller, and with the exercisehe got around to the Studio he kept in pretty good trim.

  How he ever come to get stuck on a girl like Angelica, though, wasmore'n I could account for. She's one of these slim, big eyed,breathless, gushy sort of females; the kind that tends out on pictureshows, and piano recitals, and Hindu lectures. Chester seems to have abad case of it, though.

  "Is she on hand to-night, Chetty?" says I.

  He owns up that she was. "And say, Shorty," says he, "I want you tomeet her. Come on, now. I've told her a lot about you."

  "That bein' the case," says I, "here's where Angelica gets a treat,"and we starts out to hunt for her, Chester's plan bein' to make me theexcuse for the boxin' exhibit.

  But Angelica didn't seem to be so easy to locate. First we strikes themusic room, where a heavy weight gent lately come over from Warsaw istearin' a thunder storm out of the southwest corner of the piano.

  The room was full of folks; but nary sign of the girl with the eyes.No
r she wa'n't in the libr'y, where a four-eyed duck with a crop ofrusty chin spinach was gassin' away about the sun spots, or something.Say, there was 'most any kind of brain stimulation you could name bein'handed out in diff'rent parts of that house; but Angelica wa'n't to anyof 'em.

  It was just by accident, as we was takin' a turn around one of theverandas facin' the water, that, we runs across a couple camped down ina corner seat under a big palm. The girl in pink radium silk wasAngelica. And say, by moonlight she's a bunch' of honeysuckle! Theother party was our old friend Curlylocks, and I has to grin at theeasy way he has of pickin' out the best looker in sight and leadin' heroff where she wouldn't have to listen to anybody but him. He has thepo'try tap turned on full blast, and the girl is listenin' as pleasedas if she had never heard anything better in her life.

  HE HAS THE PO'TRY TAP TURNED ON FULL BLAST]

  "Confound him!" says Chester under his breath. "He's here again, ishe?"

  "Looks like this part of the house was gettin' crowded, Chetty," saysI. "Let's back out."

  "Hanged if I do!" says he, and proceeds to do the butt in act about asgentle as a truck horse boltin' through a show window. "Oh, you'rehere, Angelica!" he growls out. "I've been hunting all over the shopfor you."

  "S-s-sh!" says Angelica, holding up one finger and him off with theother hand.

  "Yes, I see," says Chester; "but----"

  "Oh, please run away and don't bother!" says she. "That's a good boy,now Chester."

  "Oh, darn!" says Chester.

  That was the best he could do too, for they don't even wait to see usstart. Angelica gives us a fine view of her back hair, and Mr.Curlylocks begins where he left off, and spiels away. It was a gooddeal the same kind of rot he had shoved at me on the train,--all abouthearts and lovin' and so on,--only here he throws in business with theeyelashes, and seems to have pulled out the soft vocal stops.

  Chester stands by for a minute, tryin' to look holes through 'em, andthen he lets me lead him off.

  "Now what do you think of that?" says he, makin' a face like he'dtasted something that had been too long in the can.

  "Why," says I, "it's touchin', if true. Who's the home destroyer withthe vaseline voice and the fuzzy nut?"

  "He calls himself Sylvan Vickers," says Chester. "He's a poet--asappy, slushy, milk and water poet. Writes stuff about birds andflowers and love, and goes around spouting it to women."

  "Why," says I, "he peeled off a few strips for me, comin' up on thecars, and I though it was hot stuff."

  "Honest, Shorty," says Chester, swallowin' the string as fast as Icould unwind the ball, "you--you don't like that kind of guff, do you?"

  "Oh, well," says I, "I don't wake up in the night and cry for it, andmaybe I can worry along for the next century or so without hearin' anymore; but he's sure found some one that does like it, eh?"

  There's no sayin' but what Chester held himself in well; for if ever aman was entitled to a grouch, it was him. But he says mighty little,just walks off scowlin' and settin' his teeth hard. I knew what wasgood for that; so I hints that he round up his chappies and go downinto the gym. to work it off.

  Chetty's enthusiasm for mitt jugglin' has all petered out, though, andit's some time before I can make him see it my way. Then we has tofind his crowd, that was scattered around in the different rooms,lonesome and tired; so it's late in the evenin' before we got under way.

  Chester and me have had a round or so, and he'd just wore out one ofhis friends and was tryin' to tease somebody else to put 'em on, when Ispots a rubber neck in the back of the hall.

  "O-o-h, see who's here, Chetty!" says I, whisperin' over his shoulder.

  It was our poet friend, that has had to give up Angelica to her maw.He's been strayin' around loose, and has wandered in through the gym.doors by luck. Now, Chester may not have any mighty intellect, butthere's times when he can think as quick as the next one. He takes oneglance at Curlylocks, and stiffens like a bird dog pointin' a partridge.

  "Say," says he all excited, "do you suppose--could we get him to putthem on?"

  "Not if you showed you was so anxious as all that," says I.

  "Then you ask him, Shorty," he whispers. "I'll give a hundred for justone round--two hundred."

  "S-s-sh!" says I. "Take it easy."

  Ever see an old lady tryin' to shoo a rooster into a fence corner,while the old man waited around the end of the woodshed with the axe?You know how gentle and easy the trick has to be worked? Well, thatwas me explainin' to Curlylocks how we was havin' a little exercisewith the kid pillows,--oh, just a little harmless tappin' back andforth, so's we could sleep well afterwards,--and didn't he feel liketryin' it for a minute with Chester? Smooth! Some of that talk ofmine would have greased an axle.

  Sylvie, old boy, he blinks at me through his glasses, like a pollparrot sizin' up a firecracker that little Jimmy wants to hand him. Hedon't say anything, but he seems some interested. He reaches out forone of the mitts and pokes a finger into the paddin', lookin' it overas if it was some kind of a curiosity.

  "Reg'lar swan's down cushions," says I.

  "Like to have you try a round or so, Vickers," puts in Chester, ascareless as he could. "Professor McCabe will show you how to put themon."

  "Ah, really?" says Curlylocks. Then he has to step up and inspectChester's frame up.

  "That's the finish!" thinks I; for Chetty's a well built boy, good andbunchy around the shoulders, and when he peels down to a sleevelessjersey he looks 'most as wicked as Sharkey. But, just as we'reexpectin' Curlylocks to show how wise he was, he throws out a bluffthat leaves us gaspin' for breath.

  "Do you know," says he, "if I was in the mood for that sort of thing,I'd be charmed; but--er----"

  "Oh, fudge!" says Chetty. "I expect you'd rather recite us somepoetry?" And at that one of Chester's chums snickers right out.Sylvie flushes up like some one had slapped him on the wrist.

  "Beg pardon," says he; "but I believe I will try it for a littlewhile," and he holds out his paws for me to slip on the gloves.

  "Better shed the parlour clothes," says I. "You're liable to get 'emdusty," which last tickles the audience a lot.

  He didn't want to peel off even his Tuxedo; but jollies him intolettin' go of it, and partin' with his collar and white tie and eyeglasses too. That was as far as he'd go, though.

  Course, it was kind of a low down game to put up on anybody; butCurlylocks wa'n't outclassed any in height, nor much in weight; and,seein' as how he'd kind of laid himself open to something of the sort,I didn't feel as bad as I might. All the time, Chester was tryin' tokeep the grin off his face, and his chums was most wearin' their elbowsout nudgin' each other.

  "Now," says I, when I've got Curlylocks ready for the slaughter,"what'll it be--two-minute rounds?"

  "Quite satisfactory," says Sylvie; and Chetty nods.

  "Then let 'er go!" says I, steppin' back.

  One thing I've always coached Chester on, was openin' lively. It don'tmake any difference whether the mitts are hard or soft, whether it's ago to a finish or a private bout for fun, there's no sense in wastin'the first sixty seconds in stirrin' up the air. The thing to do is tobore in. And Chester didn't need any urgin'. He cuts loose with bothbunches, landin' a right on the ribs and pokin' the left into themiddle of Sylvie's map; so sudden that Mr. Poet heaves up a grunt wayfrom his socks.

  "Ah, string it out, Chetty," says I. "String it out, so's it'll lastlonger."

  But he's like a hungry kid with a hokypoky sandwich,--he wants to takeit all at one bite. And maybe if I'd been as much gone on Angelica ashe was, and had been put on a siding for this moonlight po'trybusiness, I'd been just as anxious. So he wades in again with as finea set of half arm jolts as he has in stock.

  By this time Sylvie has got his guard up proper, and is coverin'himself almost as good as if he knew how. He does it a little awkward;but somehow, Chetty couldn't seem to get through.

  "Give him the cross hook!" sings out one of
the boys.

  Chester tries, but it didn't work. Then he springs another rush, andthey goes around like a couple of pinwheels, with nothin' gettin'punished but the gloves.

  "Time!" says I, and leads Sylvie over to a chair. He was puffin' some,but outside of that he was as good as new. "Good blockin', old man,"says I. "You're doin' fine. Keep that up and you'll be all right."

  "Think so?" says he, reachin' for the towel.

  The second spasm starts off different. Curlylocks seems to be moreawake than he was, and the first thing we knows he's fiddlin' for anopenin' in the good old fashioned way.

  "And there's where you lose out, son," thinks I.

  I hadn't got through thinkin' before things begun happenin'. Sylvieseems to unlimber from the waist up, and his arms acted like he'd letout an extra link in 'em. Funny I hadn't noticed that reach of hisbefore. For a second or so he only steps around Chester, shootin' outfirst one glove and then the other, and plantin' little love pats ondifferent parts of him, as if he was locatin' the right spots.

  Chetty don't like havin' his bumps felt of that way, and comes backwith a left swing followed by an upper cut. They was both a littlewild, and they didn't connect. That wa'n't the worst of it, though.Before he's through with that foolishness Sylvie turns them long armsof his into a rapid fire battery, and his mitts begin to touch up themspots he's picked out at the rate of about a hundred bull's eyes to theminute. It was bing--bing--bing--biff!--with Chetty's arms swingin'wide, and his block rockin', and his breath comin' short, and his kneesgettin' as wabbly as a new boy speakin' a piece. Before I can call theround Curlylocks has put the steam into a jaw punch that sends Chesterto the mat as hard as though he'd been dropped out of a window.

  "Is--is it all over?" says Chetty when he comes to, a couple of minuteslater.

  "If you leave it to me," says I, "I should say it was; unless Mr.What's-his-name here wants to try that same bunch of tricks on me. Howabout it?"

  "Much obliged, professor," says Curlylocks, givin' a last hitch to hiswhite tie; "but I've seen you in the ring."

  "Well," says I, "I've heard you recite po'try; so we're even. But say,you make a whole lot better showin' in my line than I would in yours,and if you ever need a backer in either, just call on me."

  We shakes hands on that; and then Chetty comes to the front, manfashion, with his flipper out, too. That starts the reunion, and whenI leaves 'em, about one A. M., the Scotch and ginger ale tide wasrunnin' out fast.

  How about Angelica? Ah, say, next mornin' there shows up a younger,fresher, gushier one than she is, and inside of half an hour her andCurlylocks is close together on a bench, and he's got the little bookout again. Angelica pines in the background for about three minutesbefore Chester comes around with the tourin' car, and the last I see of'em they was snuggled up together in the back of the tonneau. So Iguess Chetty don't need much sympathisin' with, even if he was passed acouple of lime drops.