The Bruiser (12 page)

A Sunday newspaper with Hot and Cold Daily's syndicated account of the heavyweight championship fight between Bangor Lang and Harry Sully came to Rolling River Farm.

Sully had knocked Lang out.

“For twelve rounds,” Shane read, “the fight was a great one, a fight that sent tingles up your spine and kept you sitting on the edge of your chair, eyes glued to the ring. It was a bitter, punching battle, with Sully forcing the going and punishing Lang but with the latter lashing out with his right continuously. Sully walked right into him as the brawl started, smashing his right to the body. At long range he jabbed and hooked lefts to Lang's head. And when the end came, the lion-hearted Lang slumped to the canvas. When ten was counted, his seconds carried him to his corner.

“He was limp as a rag. Once seated on his stool, he immediately slid off, and then, in a sort of spasm, began kicking and squirming until his befuddled handlers stretched him out on the ring floor and the boxing commission's physician went to work on him. He remained there for a half hour while the thousands who attended the fight gathered about the ring and craned their necks to watch him and the restorative measures being employed to bring him around. Finally he was lugged off to his dressing-room, where several doctors
worked over him for another hour before he was taken from the building.”

The lure of the ring returned.

Lang was a better man than most, a real sport.

After Shane's bad luck in their fight, he remembered Lang had said, “I'm sorry, Shane. If I can help, let me know—it's all in the racket. Even if you win—you lose.” And now Bangor had lost.

Bangor knew when to laugh. The night he knocked Cotton Socks Lubin out, a drunken man entered Lubin's room by mistake. The defeated fighter was resting beneath many towels.

“Bangor, my lad—I'm glad you knocked hell outta that Hebe.”

Lubin jumped from the table and chased him from the room.

Shane smiled in memory.

A voice yelled, “Hey, you fellows—they want the paper up at the house!”

A laborer hurried away with it.

“It was a dinger of a fight,” he said, handing the paper to Lyndal. She took it to her room.

She read the description and turned the page. Before her was a picture of Roaring Shane Rory. Beneath it were the words, “Where now is the mighty Shane Rory?”

Never before had anything touched her so completely. Shane Rory, “the boy,” was a prize-fighter.

Why had he given up the ring?

She crossed the yard to the living quarters of the men and called, “Shane!”

She went with him to her father.

“We're going to Grainsville—you don't mind, do you, Daddy Denmark?”

“Not at all.”

A short distance down the road, she said, “I saw your picture in the paper this morning…. So you're a prize-fighter?”

“Yes.”

Her manner was gentle.

He became silent.

“Why did you leave the ring?”

“I had to.” He hesitated— “I was afraid—”

“Afraid—”

“Of going slug-nutty—crazy.”

She stopped the car in the shadow of a grove; then touched his powerful hand. “Tell me, Shane,—what's wrong?”

“Nothing—I'm broke inside.”

“What caused it?”

“Everything.”

“You can talk to me—” —she looked in his eyes—“and trust me. I see so much in you—besides—”

He began slowly, “Well, I went to see Jerry Wayne, a great fighter, in the insane asylum. I couldn't get him out of my head—then I fought Sully, who's now champion, and lost— I remember wantin' to come here. Then I passed out and still remembered when I came to—that's how I happened to get here. Once before, when I had my jaw broke, I started to write you a letter, but I gave it up— Something happened to me, anyhow, after I'd seen Jerry Wayne at the asylum.
That made everything sharper—and brought a lot of things back that happened when I was a kid.”

“Didn't you have a home—or a father and mother, like other boys?” she asked.

It was several minutes before he answered.

“I did for a little while—then things happened fast. My dad was laid up for six months one time—and we didn't have any money. My sister was five years older'n me—we stayed home with him, and my mother went to work at night, scrubbin' the floors of a big office building. One night on her way home, she was pushed off a moving street car. She never came to, and died that morning. The conductor said the man who pushed her off was drunk; anyhow, he got away.”

Lyndal gripped the wheel.

“Well, that was that.” He made an effort to lighten his tone. “People were kind—I've got to say that for 'em. The street car company gave us a hundred dollars. I can remember more'n anything going around among a lot of coffins with my sister—and remember her payin' eight dollars for one— Sis would cry at night with me—but never in the daytime when anyone was watchin'.

“The shock did something to Dad. He braced right up. He was a stone-mason when he worked; so he got a job on the Panama Canal and went there. He left us behind with some neighbors. We were everybody's kids, and soon we were nobody's.

“I'll never forget how happy we were when my sister got a letter from him sayin' he was comin' home. He sent her fifty dollars to pay on furniture. So she got a little place all fixed up—and the day the boat came
in we were both awake before daylight. I've never seen anything like it comin' in— We watched all the people get off. Then the captain came up to tell us as easy as he could that our father had died and was buried at sea.”

Lyndal gasped slightly.

“Well, there we were in a spot. The furniture company was decent and gave us back the fifty—and the woman didn't charge anything for the apartment. I don't like to tell everything that happened. Things are never with kids like they are in story books.

“My sister was never very strong. She used to tell me I was like my father—he could bend a dime with his fingers. They wanted him to be a fighter when he was young—but he wouldn't. Mother was Norwegian. I can remember hearin' her cough in the morning after she'd come home from work. We just lived like sparrows. I got fourteen dollars one week settin' up pins in a bowlin' alley—a lot of teams were playin'—I was about thirteen then. I gave it nearly all to Sis, and she turned around and bought me a lot of things. She was like that. She was everybody's drudge—all she ever did was work—the one thing I most remember was her waitin' on Dad. She had to be doin' somethin' for people or she wasn't happy. She died quick of gallopin' consumption—and there I was again.”

He turned to Lyndal. “I had to take it. It's funny—I don't know why—nobody ever thinks a boy has any troubles—but he has—plenty. There was a man with a bowlin' team that liked me. He had a place in Cleveland. I took a freight train there. I could tell you a lot
about that—but I won't—pretty soon I was runnin' errands for a lot of fighters around a gymnasium.

“I learned to box hangin' around there. I slept in the poolroom, on one of the tables, next to the bowlin' alley—and the first thing you know, I was a fighter. The thing I can't figure out is why I didn't start fightin' sooner—I don't remember ever learnin' to box like most kids—”

Lyndal clasped his hand. “I can't tell you how much I admire you. Just to survive and be so decent after all that is a great deal.”

He did not move.

“Remember,” she said, “how we caught the Canadian wild goose so exhausted in the barnyard that summer—and how it stayed for a week until it was strong again—then one morning we watched it fly toward the sun, and circle to the west—honking goodbye forever.” She moved closer to him. “That was the way you left.”

She yielded to his embrace.

“I'm sorry,” he said, trembling.

“You needn't be.”

The doleful whistling of the Fargo Express could be heard across the fields.

“There's everything here,” she said. “I own my grandmother's farm—we can be happy watching things grow.” She listened for a moment to the birds in the grove. “I love it here—the land is so restful-each spring is a new beginning—and with you here—it's too wonderful.”

In her heart was unutterable longing.

When they reached home, she kissed him impulsively.

She remained long in his arms. All the rough years of his life were worth this moment. The enormous hands that had battered so many men now held her against him. He tried to say something. The words choked in his throat. Several minutes passed. She made an effort to move away. His tremendous shoulders became taut, as though in a clinch with Sully.

“Don't crush me, dear,” she said— “heavens, what strength.”

“I didn't mean to—I, I.”

“I know,” she brushed her hair back, “I was thinking of something just then, Shane—you're so nearly like Daddy—it's no wonder we both liked you right away.” There was a pause during which her hands tried to encircle the muscle of his arm. “I believe,” her words were vibrant, “that you can whip any man in the world.” Her hands reached up to his immense jaws, the smooth fingers rubbing them, “And I want you to—remember, dear—Daddy didn't run when the locusts came.”

She patted his cheek and was gone.

It was long before Shane, bewildered and confused, could say to himself, “Well I'll be damned.”

Late into the night the force of Shane's story still throbbed in her heart.

So many men had tried to caress her. And she had caressed him.

Before, she had been fond of him. Now—a great admiration came. He had carried everything within him. Events that would have marred others for life had made him strong.

He had not called his sister by name. She surged with feeling for the dead girl. Where had she read—the meaningless futility of human life?

What odds he had fought against! No wonder his jaws were set—his eyes so firm and old.

Her mother was astonished next morning as she entered the room, and walked toward Shane's picture.

“What will be next—is he
a prize-fighter now?”

“And a good one,” answered Lyndal. “I'm still very fond of him.”

Her mother turned in alarm. “Tell me, Lyndal—you couldn't throw yourself away—oh, you couldn't, you couldn't—what do you know about him?”

“As much as you did of Father.”

“But your father was not a—a—hobo.”

“Neither is he—exactly—he has told me everything—I believe him.”

“Have you told your father?”

“I don't have to tell him—he has known for a long time.”

“But you are hardly out of college.”

“You were only a year older when you married Father—besides—nothing has been said—he's very hurt—he needs someone with understanding—he's still quite a baby.”

“I'd say a rather rough baby.” Her mother looked grimly at the newspaper.

“You didn't find wings on Father.”

Mrs. Lund looked admiringly at Lyndal. “What a lovely girl you are—what a prize for someone—but not for him.”

“I'll be the judge of that.”

“Why, Lyndal.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“You wouldn't do anything against my wishes.”

“Don't be too certain.”

“After all these years—a common hobo.”

“I wouldn't say ‘common,' Mother. He has a lot of character. He's never had a chance.”

“He should make his chance.”

“He's doing it.”

Lyndal stood before her. “Mother—I've never done anything to hurt you—and I hope I never will. I've never been awfully fond of anyone before. I don't see much difference between him and my father—and I can't say more for him. He doesn't pretend—and he's sincere—that means a lot to me.”

She looked in the mirror and began to brush her hair.

“Your lives have been so different,” said her mother.

“That may be—but I'm never so happy as when I'm with him—and I remember Daddy Denmark saying long ago that it didn't make much difference where you were—it was according to who was with you.”

“All right.” Her mother left the room hastily.

“Something's happening to Lyndal,” she said to her husband.

“What?” asked Peter Lund.

“She's still interested in young Rory.”

“Why, that's all right—I've always liked him.”

“But,” pursued Mrs. Lund, “we know nothing about him.”

“What do you want to know? He's a good worker—that's enough—I've been watchin' him. She might go further and do worse. He's a better man than that bug-catcher over'n Fargo you're so hot about.”

“Why, Peter!”

“I believe in letting her alone. I have faith in her. You can't make beds for people if they don't want to sleep in 'em.” He looked at his bewildered wife. “No one wanted you to marry me, did they—and I was fifteen years older'n you—cheer up, Mother—she's never caused us an hour's worry yet.”

“I know,” she said, “it would break my heart if she began now—besides—we knew each other—we were part of everything.”

“They know each other.” Old Peter glanced at the clock— “Let her live her own life—she's the best damn man around here.”

“Don't be profane, Peter.”

“Oh, hell!”

“Why, Peter!”

“Hell again!”

Mrs. Lund spoke quickly. “Suppose they married—and had a child—and he ran away.”

“Who—him or the kid?” Peter Lund grinned.

“No good can come of it—no good—no good,” she half sobbed.

“She's of age,” reminded her husband— “She's got Grandmother's money. What can you do about it?”

A thought came to Mrs. Lund.

She sighed with relief.

There was to be a class reunion in Grand Forks. Lyndal would go.

Her mother was right.

Lyndal had another reason for going to Grand Forks.

A great decision had come to her. Professor Rogers would understand.

She had tried to love him. Once, when she had gone to her father, bewildered about him, he had said, “His head's full of echo wisdom.” She had not forgotten.

“I'll be back Sunday,” she said to Shane.

He watched her powerful roadster go down the road.

She had never been so happy.

Soon after she had gone, Mrs. Lund sent for Shane.

Quite casually she brought the conversation around to Lyndal.

“It seems like only yesterday she was a little girl,”
she said, “and now she is on her way to be married to a young man in Grand Forks.”

No blow in the ring had been so hard.

“She's known Professor Rogers so long—he taught her in school. They have so much in common. I'm sure she would never be happy with anyone else—”

He turned away. There was no anger. It was not his world. He knew it years before.

What difference did it make—slug-nutty or not, he would return to Silent Tim Haney and the ring.

Alert with anticipation, Lyndal drove swiftly toward home.

The farm was never more serene when she arrived.

Norway and Sweden followed her to the headquarters of the hired men.

“Is Shane there?” she asked.

“No, Miss Lund, he left yisterday.”

She took a quick breath, and hurried to her mother. “What has happened?”

“I don't understand.”

“He has gone—are you sure?”

She saw her daughter's expression. “He left suddenly—that is all I know. One can never tell about such men—they come and go like the wind.”

“Mother,” her voice broke, “I'll never—” a look of desolation stopped the words. Her lips trembled. Her hands went to her eyes. The words ended in a sobbing torrent. “He was like Daddy—strong and simple and sweet.”

The mother looked at her daughter.

“Did you see Professor Rogers?”

“Yes. I told him it was over—”

Before her mother could recover her surprise, she was gone.

A light gleamed from her father's room.

His arm went round her in that enormous sympathy born of understanding. “I don't know what to say. Nothing's worth your tears.”

Heat lightning cut the sky. Under its slow flare the fields glistened a more vivid yellow. Thunder rolled with slight noise, like far-away empty wagons going down hill.

The harvest was soon over, and the harvesters gone their roving ways again.