"Yours, Pope. I'll see you later."
And they went out hastily, the old man from beginning to end having ignored me completely. I sank in a chair, my gaze shifting from the ticket to the brandy bottle and cigarettes. I wanted to do something—I didn't know what. I hadn't drunk or smoked for twelve years, but that' night I did both. The brandy steadied, the cigarette quieted my nerves. I sat there alone over the half-cleared dinner table, resolutely impelling calmness. The ticket stared at me, a symbol of Jerry's destiny.... My thought shifted curiously to the placid Miss Gore. Whatever Fate had in store for Jerry, this phase of his life would pass as she had said, the mind would survive. Something told me that tonight would mark a turning point in Jerry's career—how or what I could not know, but for the first time I realized how deeply I was committed to Jerry's plans. I wanted the bout to take place. I wanted to see it—win or lose I was committed to it and to Jerry.
It had grown dark outside. I rose, slowly putting the ticket in my pocket, and went out. The night was sultry. It would be hot there in the ring—but it would be hot for both of them. Muscle for muscle and tissue for tissue, Jerry could stand what another could. I glanced at my watch. It was now nine. The preliminary bouts would be beginning, but I had no interest in these. I walked down town, purposely delaying my steps, but found my footsteps hurrying in spite of me, and it was only half after nine when I entered the building.
I remembered a six-day bicycle race that I had witnessed there years ago, but I was not prepared for the sight of the crowd that had gathered under the enormous roof. The match had been well advertised and the article in the Despatch must have lent an added spice to the attraction. The heated air was already a blue fog of tobacco smoke, through which beyond the glare of the ring, tiny spots of light flared and disappeared like glow-worms—where in the gallery the smokers lighted their tobacco. As I entered I scanned the crowd. Eager, stupid or brutal faces, the washed and the unwashed, the gloved and the ungloved, cheek by jowl, all talking, smoking, cheering, jeering or waiting calmly for the expected thrill. They had paid their money to see blood, and as I found my seat I realized the inevitableness of Jerry's appearance. He could not disappoint these people now.
My seat was in a box, in the second row of boxes, the first row being just back of the press seats which were along the sides of the ring. In this vast crowd I would be lost to Jerry and I was thankful not to be directly under the ring where the sight of my anxious face might have diverted him. A bout was in progress now, of six rounds, between two lightweights, a rapid affair which drew to a conclusion none too quickly for me. The final bout was to take place at ten, but I knew from the long intervals between these preliminaries that the hour would be much later. I thought for a moment of going out and walking the streets for awhile, but realized that I should be even more unhappy there than here; so I sat quietly absorbing the scene, listening to the conversation of my neighbors in the next box, who seemed to have their money on the sailor. One of their comments aroused my ire.
"What's this goldfish their feedin' to the sea lion? Say, that story ain't straight about young Benham bein' Robinson?"
"Sure thing. Clancy will eat him alive—eat him alive," the man repeated, slowly and with unction.
I glanced at the speaker. Squat, stout, heavy jowled—with a neck that pushed over the back of his collar—a follower of the ring, smug, assertive, confident. A prophet? I was not ready to admit that.
After the third bout three women and three men, following an usher, passed along the aisle just in front of me. I recognized her instantly in spite of the dark suit, large hat and heavy veil, for her walk betrayed her. One of the women was Marcia Van Wyck. Followed by the gaze of the men nearest them, they went to a box in the second tier just around the corner of the ring where I could see the girl distinctly. The other women of the party or the men I did not recognize, but Marcia attracted the attention of my neighbors.
"Some dame, that," said one of them admiringly. "Know her, Charlie?"