The Trail of 98 (20 page)

All this seemed to be getting on Locasto's nerves. He was going steadily
enough, trying by every means in his power to get the other man to "mix it up."
He shouted the foulest
abuse at him. "Stand up like a man, you son of a dog, and fight." The smile left
the Jam-wagon's lips, and he settled down to business.

I saw him edging up to Locasto. He feinted wildly, then, stepping in closely,
he swung a right and left to Black Jack's face. A moment later he was six feet
away, with a bitter smile on his lips.

With a fierce bellow of rage Locasto, forgetting all his caution, charged
him. He smashed his heavy right with all its might for the other's face, but,
quick as the quiver of a bow-string, the Jam-wagon side-stepped and the blow
missed. Then the Jam-wagon shifted and brought his left, full-weight, crash on
Locasto's mouth.

At that fierce triumphant blow there was the first dazzling blood-gleam, and
the crowd screeched with excitement. In a wild whirlwind of fury Locasto hurled
himself on the Jam-wagon, his arms going like windmills. Any one of these blows,
delivered in a vital spot, would have meant death, but his opponent was equal to
this blind assault. Dodging, ducking, side-stepping, blocking, he foiled the
other at every turn, and, just before the round ended, drove his left into the
pit of the big man's stomach, with a thwack that resounded throughout the
building.

Once more time was called. The Jam-wagon was bleeding about the knuckles.
Several of Locasto's teeth had been loosened, and he spat blood frequently.
Otherwise he looked as fit as ever. He
pursued his man with savage determination, and seemed resolved
to get in a deadly body-blow that would end the fight.

It was pretty to see the Jam-wagon work. He was sprightly as a ballet dancer,
as, weaving in and out, he dodged the other's blows. His arms swung at his
sides, and he threw his head about in a manner insufferably mocking and
tantalising. Then he took to landing light body-blows, that grew more frequent
till he seemed to be beating a regular tattoo on Locasto's ribs. He was springy
as a panther, elusive as an eel. As for Locasto, his face was sober now,
strained, anxious, and he seemed to be waiting with menacing eyes to get in that
vital smash that meant the end.

The Jam-wagon began to put more force into his arms. He drove in a short-arm
left to the stomach, then brought his right up to the other's chin. Locasto
swung a deadly knock-out blow at the Jam-wagon, which just grazed his jaw, and
the Jam-wagon retaliated with two lightning rights and a nervous left, all on
the big man's face.

Then he sprang back, for he was excited now. In and out he wove. Once more he
landed a hard left on Locasto's heaving stomach, and then, rushing in, he rained
blow after blow on his antagonist. It was a furious mix-up, a whirling storm of
blows, brutal, savage and murderous. No two men could keep up such a gait. They
came into a clinch, but this time the Jam-wagon broke away, giving the deadly
kidney blow as they parted. When time was called both
men were panting hard, bruised and
covered with blood.

How the house howled with delight! All the primordial brute in these men was
glowing in their hearts. Nothing but blood could appease it. Their throats were
parched, their eyes wild.

Round six. Locasto sprang into the centre of the ring. His face was hideously
disfigured. Only in that battered, blood-stained mask could I recognise the
black eyes gleaming deadly hatred. Rushing for the Jam-wagon, he hurled him
across the ring. Again charging, he overbore him to the floor, but failed to
hold him.

Then in the Jam-wagon there awoke the ancient spirit of the Berserker. He
cared no more for punishment. He was insensible to pain. He was the sea-pirate
again, mad with the lust of battle. Like a fiend he tore himself loose, and went
after his man, rushing him with a swift, battering hail of blows around the
ring. Like a tiger he was, and the violent lunges of Locasto only infuriated him
the more.

Now they were in a furious mix-up, and suddenly Locasto, seizing him
savagely, tried to whip him smashing to the floor. Then the wonderful agility of
the Englishman was displayed. In a distance of less than a two-foot drop he
turned completely like a cat. Leaping up, he was free, and, getting a waist-hold
with a Cornish heave, he bore Locasto to the floor. Quickly he changed to a
crotch-lock, and, lastly, holding Locasto's legs, he brought him to a bridge and
worked his weight up on his body.

Black Jack, with a
mighty heave, broke away and again regained his feet. This seemed to enrage the
Jam-wagon the more, for he tore after his man like a maddened bull. Getting a
hold with incredible strength, he lifted him straight up in the air and hurled
him to the ground with sickening force.

Locasto lay there. His eyes were closed. He did not move. Several men rushed
forward. "He's all right," said a medical-looking individual; "just stunned. I
guess you can call the fight over."

The Jam-wagon slowly put on his clothes. Once more, in the person of Locasto,
he had successfully grappled with "Old Man Booze." He was badly bruised about
the body, but not seriously hurt in any way. Shudderingly I looked down at
Locasto's face, beaten to a pulp, his body livid from head to foot. And then, as
they bore him off to the hospital, I realised I was revenged.

"Did you know that man Spitzstein was charging a dollar for admission?"
queried the Prodigal.

"No!"

"That's right. That darned little Jew netted nearly a thousand dollars."

"Let me introduce you," said the Prodigal, "to my friend the 'Pote.'"

"Glad to meet you," said the Pote cheerfully, extending a damp hand. "Just
been having a dishwashing bee. Excuse my dishybeel."

He wore a pale-blue undershirt, white flannel trousers girt round the waist
with a red silk handkerchief, very gaudy moccasins, and a rakish Panama hat with
a band of chocolate and gold.

"Take a seat, won't you?" Through his gold-rimmed spectacles his eyes shone
benevolently as he indicated an easy-looking chair. I took it. It promptly
collapsed under me.

"Ah, excuse me," he said; "you're not onto the combination of that chair.
I'll fix it."

He performed some operation on it which made it less unstable, and I sat down
gingerly.

I was in a little log-cabin on the hill overlooking the town. Through the
bottle window the light came dimly. The walls showed the bark of logs and tufts
of intersecting moss. In the corner was a bunk over which lay a bearskin robe,
and on the little oblong stove a pot of beans was simmering.

The Pote finished his dishwashing and joined us, pulling on an old Tuxedo
jacket.

"Whew! Glad that job's over. You know, I
guess I'm fastidious, but I can't bear to use a
plate for more than three meals without passing a wet rag over it. That's the
worst of having refined ideas, they make life so complex. However, I mustn't
complain. There's a monastic simplicity about this joint that endears it to me.
And now, having immolated myself on the altar of cleanliness, I will solace my
soul with a little music."

He took down a banjo from the wall and, striking a few chords, began to sing.
His songs seemed to be original, even improvisations, and he sang them with a
certain quaintness and point that made them very piquant. I remember one of the
choruses. It went like this:

Every now and then he would pause to make some lively comment.

"You've never heard of the blue snow, Cheechako? The rabbits have blue fur,
and the ptarmigans' feathers are a bright azure. You've never had an ice-worm
cocktail? We must remedy that. Great dope. Nothing like ice-worm oil for salads.
Oh, I forgot, didn't give you my card."

I took it. It was engraved thus:

Turning it over, I read:

I stared at him curiously. He was smoking a cigarette and watching me with
shrewd, observant eyes. He was a blond, blue-eyed, cherubic youth, with a
whimsical mouth that seemed to alternate between seriousness and fun.

He laughed merrily at my look of dismay.

"Oh, you think it's a josh, but it's not. I've been a 'ghost' ever since I
could push a pen. You know Will Wilderbush, the famous novelist? Well, Bill
died six years ago from
over-assiduous cultivation of John Barleycorn, and they hushed it up. But every
year there's a new novel comes from his pen. It's 'ghosts.' I was Bill number
three. Isn't it rummy?"

I expressed my surprise.

"Yes, it's a great joke this book-faking. Wouldn't Thackeray have lambasted
the best sellers? A fancy picture of a girl on the cover, something doing all
the time, and a happy endingthat's the recipe. Or else be as voluptuous as
velvet. Wait till my novel, 'Three Minutes,' comes out. Order in advance."

"Indeed I will," I said.

He suddenly became grave.

"If I only could take the literary game seriously I might make good. But I'm
too much of a 'farceur.' Well, one day we'll see. Maybe the North will inspire
me. Maybe I'll yet become the Spokesman of the Frozen Silence, the Avatar of the
Great White Land."

He strutted up and down, inflating his chest.

"Have you framed up any dope lately?" asked the Prodigal.

"Why, yes; only this morning, while I was eating my beans and bacon, I dashed
off a few lines. I always write best when I'm eating. Want to hear them?"

He drew from his pocket an old envelope.

"They were written to the order of Stillwater Willie. He wants to present
them to one of the Labelle Sisters. You knowthat fat lymphatic blonde,
Birdie Labelle. It is
short and sweet. He wants to have it engraved on a gold-backed hand-mirror he's
giving her.

"How'll that hit her? There's such a lot of natural beauty about Birdie."

"Do you get much work?" I asked.

"No, it's dull. Poetry's rather a drug on the market up here. It's just a
side-line. For a living I clean shoes at the 'Elight' BarbershopI, who have
lingered on the sunny slopes of Parnassus, and quenched my soul-thirst at the
Heliconian springgents' tans a specialty."

"Did you ever publish a book?" I asked.

"Sure! Did you never read my 'Rhymes of a Rustler'? One reviewer would say I
was the clear dope, the genuine eighteen-carat, jewelled-movement article; the
next would aver I was the rankest dub that ever came down the pike. They said
I'd imitated people, people I'd never read, people I'd never heard of, people I
never dreamt existed. I was accused of imitating over twenty different writers.
Then the pedants got after me, said I didn't conform
to academic formulas, advised me to
steep myself in tradition. They talked about form, about classic style and so
on. As if it matters so long as you get down the thing itself so that folks can
see it, and feel it go right home to their hearts. I can write in all the
artificial verse forms, but they're mouldy with age, back numbers. Forget them.
Quit studying that old Greek dope: study life, modern life, palpitating with
colour, crying for expression. Life! Life! The sunshine of it was in my heart,
and I just naturally tried to be its singer."

"I say," said the Prodigal from the bunk where he was lounging, in a haze of
cigarette smoke, "read us that thing you did the other day, 'The Last
Supper.'"

The Pote's eyes twinkled with pleasure.

"All right," he said. Then, in a clear voice, he repeated the following
lines:

Just as he finished there came a knock at the door, and a young man entered.
He had the broad smiling face of a comedian, and the bulgy forehead of a Baptist
Missionary. The Pote introduced him to me.