At Start and Finish

by William Lindsey

Tom had lost patience when he saw Paddy staggering like a bullock under an axe, and though I told him we could do nothing to help, he insisted we should at least be with the rest of the party. So the minute the bell rang for the end of the round, we crowded along the seats, and hurrying through the door, I was just in time to reach Paddy's corner before he started in for the third and last round. Now, of all men on earth Paddy believed in me; Jim and Harry were all right, and doing all possible for him, but when he felt my hand on his arm, and heard my whisper in his ears, his heart, almost gone, came back to him. He turned his swollen face up to me, and with a new light in his eyes he said, "Tell me what I'll do, Misther Brown; tell me, darlin', an' I'll lick the nager yet."

There was something wonderfully pathetic in his blind confidence, and I never cared so much for the big-hearted Irishman as I did that minute. To tell the truth, I had been half willing to see him knocked out after his foolish persistence against my advice. Then again I knew it was not at all a serious matter to one with his strength and vitality, and a dash of cold water would leave him no worse memories than a sore head and a few bruises. But after his appeal I felt very different. I racked my brain, but though I had been studying his opponent from the beginning, trying to find his weak point, he was so very shifty on his feet, and Paddy was so deathly slow, I could think of nothing. Pat had been swinging at his opponent's head, from the very start, the same old blow, landing never. He had not tried for the body once, and I made up my mind just before the bell rang, and whispered, "Never mind his top-knot, Paddy; wait until he leads, then step in, and hit him in the ribs; and hit him hard."

The third round started much like the others, but now on Paddy's face was not the foolish smile of the first, nor the dubious look of the second. "Misther Brown" had told him what to do, he was supremely confident in my wisdom, and had no doubt of the result. His mouth was firm and his eyes clear as he faced his opponent and waited for his opportunity.

I could see that Johnson did not half like the change. He was altered too, his face had grown cruel, his eyes fierce, and he came in like a tiger crouching for a spring. The joke was all gone out of the game now; he must knock Paddy out in the next three minutes or the fifty dollars would be forfeited. Nothing but a blow in the right spot would be of any use, and it must have the full swing of the body behind it. I could see plainly by his high guard that he feared nothing from Paddy but a swing on the head, and I doubt if he thought of much else beside how he could land on the point of Paddy's jaw just the right blow. As I knelt between Jim and Harry, peering through the ropes, I made up my mind that Paddy had good enough advice if he knew how to use it.

As usual, Johnson stepped in, leading with his left a light tap, meant only to open up Paddy's guard, so he could swing on him. As usual, he landed on Paddy's nose, the blood starting freely; but instead of answering with a blind swing as before, this time Paddy took the blow coming on; indeed, he started in before he was hit, and the blow did not stop him at all. The result was, he found himself, for the first time, almost, since he had put his hands up, at a good striking distance. With a fierce grunt he smashed his huge fist full on the mark where the ribs branch, just above the belt. It was a terrible blow, unexpected, given with all the good intentions that a sense of debt could foster, and with the impetus of their two weights, for Johnson was coming in himself.

It doubled his antagonist up like a frog, and Paddy was kind enough to undouble him with a straight push in the face that straightened him up again. Harry could not refrain from calling, "Now's your time, Pat!" for which he was very properly warned by the referee; but Paddy really did not hear him, and needed no advice. Science was forgotten, and in the mix-up that followed, Paddy showed a ready hand, cultivated by many a boyish fight and youthful set-to. Johnson was now not so much interested in putting Paddy out, as in saving himself; he was fighting blindly, hugging and clinching when he could; keeping away as much as possible, and growing more and more groggy under the shower of blows that were rained on him. Time was nearly up when, after a break away, Paddy stepped back, gathered himself, rushed in, and swung his huge right hand with all the strength of his powerful body. It was a half hook, and it landed on Mr. Johnson's jaw, and he went down like a felled tree, falling with stiff knees, and striking nothing until his face reached the floor with a thud. He made no effort to rise, and Paddy was so wild that, had I not called to him, I think he would have gone into Johnson's corner for a fresh antagonist among his handlers. Johnson lay on the floor while the ten seconds were ticked off, and then Mr. Foley stepped to the footlights, and, announcing that Mr. O'Malley had won the bout, handed him the fifty-dollar bill.

Paddy hesitated a moment, for he had not thought once of the money; then he drew from his hip pocket an old-fashioned leather folding wallet, much worn and discolored, and with a chuckle put the big bill safely away. The audience had risen as one man to cheer Paddy when the decision was given, and now the tumult broke out again, and he was forced to bow his acknowledgments from over the footlights. Even this was not enough, and he finally cleared his throat, and made a short speech, of which I could distinguish nothing but the last words, as he gave a comprehensive sweep of his gloved hand, including our whole company, and yelled, "An' ivery wan a winner." He would have spoken longer had not the manager, with rare presence of mind, dropped the curtain in front of him. Johnson had come to himself very quickly with the assistance of his handlers, and now stepped up to Paddy with very honest congratulations, and the contestants shook hands with mutual respect and no ill will.

We were delayed a few minutes by our inability to get the boxing-glove off of Paddy's big right hand; the left he had removed himself on receipt of the bill. We finally cut it off him, formed in line of march, and threading our way through the wings, joined the last stragglers of the audience as they filed out. I tried hard to subdue the spirits of my companions, but with little success. Jim and Harry were greatly elated, and Tom (who of all men enjoys winning) was now as bad as the others, and deserting me, left the conservative vote in a very decided minority.

There was certainly nothing lacking in the perfect success of the evening but the fact that "Dinny, the copper," the great object of our search, had evaded us. I voted to give him up and go back to the hotel; the others hesitated, but Tom, who never despairs,—Tom still declared that Dinny would yet appear. Tom is a man who has faith that a ball team will win with the score five to one against in the ninth inning, two out, and a weak hitter at the bat.