But, strangest of all, the private secretary’s old time beauty was marred by a discoloration of the right eye, poorly disguised with powder, by several small cuts upon his face and by certain bandages on his hands.
Obadiah gave Mr. Jones a sweeping glance which failed to grasp details essential to a clear understanding of a subordinate. “What do you mean, loafing in here at noon?” he demanded most inaccurately, “I pay you to get here at nine o’clock. What does this mean?” The cruel glance of Obadiah’s eye pierced the optic of Mr. Jones as if to plumb the depths of his soul and wrest his innermost secrets forth to be exposed, naked and ashamed, in the pitiless light of publicity.
The mill owner’s efforts to read the stenographer’s mind through the eye were futile. Had he succeeded, the result of his research would have shocked him. Believing himself to be peeping into the eyes of a turtle dove, he would have become aware that he might, with greater safety, have attempted to stare down the baleful glare of a Bengal tiger.
Lacking in the ability to read the human mind, Obadiah could not know that Fate, seeking a recipient for her favor, had plucked a peaceful soul from in front of a typewriter and made it fierce.
Had the manufacturer been able to view Mr. Jones’s mind as the scenes of a movie, he would have beheld thrilling events taking place upon the previous evening. He would have observed his stenographer simply arrayed in trunks, socks and shoes, with eight ounce gloves laced upon his hands, give battle for the feather-weight championship of the Fifth ward, before a multitude of wildly excited male citizens.
Had Obadiah by similar means reviewed the mind of Kelly, he would have watched the battle as through the eyes of a second. He would have seen, beneath the electric lights, the muscles of the little fighting men play, panther like, under the healthy pink of their skins. If one drop of red blood remained in his anæmic old body, the mill owner would have thrilled as Mr. Jones, his arms playing smoothly as well oiled connecting rods, treading upon his toes softly as a cat, advanced, retreated and side stepped, ever warily studying the face of his opponent. He would have perceived that his stenographer ducked and dodged with incredible swiftness, his gloved hands playing always to feign, to ward and to deliver blows which resounded with the thud of leather against quivering flesh. Obadiah’s eyes would have recognized the rich red of blood smearing the marble of human flesh, and he would have tingled at the excitement of the spectators when, rising from their seats, they tumultuously applauded the giver of a lucky blow.
Through five gruelling rounds of fighting the manufacturer would have followed the fortunes of his private secretary until that final moment when, panting and heaving, he stood over the prone form of his adversary, counting the motions of the referee’s hands, whose voice could not be heard above the thunderous applause which acclaimed him victor.
But no picture of this battle could have told Obadiah that in the moment of triumph the spirit of Mr. Jones was reborn; that from the building, into the portals of which he had been almost dragged by Kelly, he had come forth a red-blooded fighting man whose gore had mixed with that of his antagonist.
Ignorant of these happenings, Obadiah angrily awaited an answer from his unpunctual servants.
The smile had faded from the face of Mr. Jones at Obadiah’s rough greeting. He failed to behave in accord with the best usages among private secretaries. Squaring his shoulders, he took a deep breath, thereby greatly straining a gusset only recently let into the back of his vest. Suddenly he shoved his head forward. As his face advanced, it changed into an ugly countenance with a nasty eye, such an one as would make its recipient ill at ease. This was Mr. Jones’s fighting face, developed with care under the kindly advice of Kelly. Sporting characters considered it a valuable asset.