"Cathewe's going to the fight, you say? Humph!" The general scratched his ear thoughtfully.
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.