Winner Take All

"He's out, I tell you!" Hamilton was saying. "He's out standing on his feet!"

So he was even fooling his own seconds! Out standing on his feet? Why, he'd been out for rounds and rounds! He didn't quite know how many. But that didn't make any difference—but then Hamilton didn't know much about the boxing game—he was just a sports writer!

"What round is it?" he asked. "Sixteenth!" Liars! Or maybe they were joking. Anyway, he knew better. The tenth or eleventh, perhaps, but never the sixteenth.

Was that the bell? No, he'd just kicked the water-pail? Shouldn't have a tin pail in the ring, not even a new one. Ought to be a wooden bucket. Well, they could just tell him when the bell did ring, and give him a little shove in Holliday's direction, if they would. That was it—all right—and the roof came down!

He found a way to remedy that; he'd hold it up. Hang onto Holliday's arms, that was it. They were awful sticky, yet slippery, but he'd try. And getting up was a slower business now in spite of himself. But if they couldn't see that he'd taken quite a bit of punishment and had a right to be a little dizzy, let 'em sit and sulk. They weren't shouting any more, that was certain; they weren't even groaning happily when Holliday hit him. And damn that roof! Or was it the floor? It certainly had been under the chin that time. Got to get up—and it didn't seem possible—didn't seem as if he could. Was that English holding him? Round was over? "Pardon me. Didn't hear the bell. They'd ought to have a siren!"

And so back to his riddle. It wasn't a brick roof—ah, there was the key to the whole puzzling problem. Let him once solve that—you just let him get clear on that point—and see!

The bell! Holliday certainly was polite. He'd come all the way across the ring in one leap to meet him. Saved him staggering miles and miles toward the other corner. And thud! The roof—but it wasn't a thud. It was a crash—a tinny clangor. Shouldn't have a tin pail—might have cut himself. He got up, and promptly ran into something and sat down again. It was easier to think, however, in that position. Tin! Tin! A tin roof? That sounded more like it. Only it wasn't tin; it was—it was—

"Got it!" he shouted—he thought he shouted, while men thought he was coughing blood. "Got it! Got it! Solved!"

And now that he knew the answer he could put his mind on this fight.

What round? The eighteenth? They'd lost count probably, but anyway it had gone far enough. He'd finish it now. He had hardly hit Holliday at all; he'd hit him now. Where was he? He groped, and then he found him; found him by the simple process of noting from which quarter Holliday's last blow came. Right there in front of him, standing there and measuring him and driving it into his unprotected face.

It must look queer to the crowd, him not keeping his guard up or anything. They'd think he was letting Holliday knock him out. He'd better get it over with; he was consumed with eagerness, anyhow, to tell Hamilton and English the joke about the roof, the joke which was on himself.

So he swayed with the next blow and rocked lightly back. He'd sit down no more. He swayed with the next one, but this time he snapped forward, glove and arm and shoulder. This time, on the rebound, he put all he had into it; and that after all was what a champion really was: A guy who had something always left to call on, a guy who could shoot it all, when the crisis came.

And even Holliday must have been unwary and fooled and thought he was out standing up. For this time he did not miss. Nor did the floor rise. Nor Holliday. Tough on Holliday. Solved!

He allowed the referee to hold aloft his hand; good referee,—square. He fell out of the ring—clumsy!—and passed down miles and miles of aisle between pale faces. What were they goggling at? Of course he was a little cut up and bruised; what did they expect? He'd taken some punishment. They'd say now, he supposed, that he had no skill.

But they drew back and looked away, or dropped their eyes; they acted almost shamed. Well, some of them had been mistaken; they'd called him yellow. He wanted to stop and tell 'em it was not so, but he couldn't spare the time just now. He had to hurry to his dressing-room and tell Hamilton and English the joke,—this joke at his own expense.

English had an idea apparently that he was helping him, holding him up. Well, he wasn't. He'd bet it was fourteen feet from his neck to his ankles. But the joke—had they closed the door? Then listen!

"The roof! I thought it was the roof that fell on me! Can you beat that? First a brick roof—then a tin one—" He thought it was laughter which doubled him up.

"And do you know what it really was?" He gave them ample time but received no answer. So he shouted it aloud; he thought he shouted:

"Not the roof at all! Not brick—not even tin! Pots and pans! Pots and pans! Aluminum! Dozens! A whole set of 'em!"

He thought it was laughter which doubled him up; then found he was deathly sick. Was this the floor he was lying upon, or a table? Because if it was the floor he'd have to get up; he didn't know whether he could make it again or not but he'd be a game guy and try. They were holding him? All right, let it go at that. Holliday'd not got up either. He could see Holliday just as plain—just as clear!—unconscious on the canvas. Then the fight must be over—he was glad of that …

He came to crying weakly.

CHAPTER XII

WINNER TAKE ALL

His first conscious thought was of his great need to go to her quickly, yet he waited several days to give his marked face time to heal, Hamilton and Jack English waiting with him. And at length, on the way north, he shyly opened his heart to them; he told them of his plan. Because he was urgent about it, and more than a little panicky, they promised they would see him through with it; when they parted at Grand Central it was to be for only an hour or two.

"You'll not fail me?" he asked anxiously.

Hamilton made game of him, a little.

"We'll be there," he answered. "Where's your nerve, man? We'll be there with our hair in a braid."

"We'll be there," echoed English soberly. "We'll be in your corner."

He very nearly missed her; and yet afterward she always insisted that she was sure he would come, even in that last minute while she stood looking about to be certain that she had overlooked nothing in the apartment which she could no longer have afforded to keep even had she wanted to. Therefore her start at his appearance upon the threshold did not equal his surprise at the sight of her dressed for traveling, her belongings already packed.

For it fairly demoralized him. Like every good tactician he had coped with as many details as could be handled in advance, but against this moment his preparation had been none too thorough. Desperately, once or twice, he had tried to drill himself for it, practicing a line or two which he hoped he could remember.

"I'm not her kind; I'm different from what she is," he had told himself, "and I will tell her that. But I'll tell her, too, that I'll not stay different any longer than it can be helped. I am no dunce; I'll learn to be her kind."

But, slipping away too happily into thoughts of how different she was from everyone else in the whole world, beyond that he had not found it easy to go. None too steadily he had decided to rely upon inspiration. And now at the sight of her in a scant blue suit and tiny hat, bag in hand before him, every last syllable of his rehearsals basely failed him.

He looked from her inquiring eyes to the stripped room. She believed she understood that survey.

"Felicity's gone," she said in a voice that he hardly recognized as her own. "She went with Dunham, the afternoon of the day you left for the South. I did not tell you then because—"

It seemed too obvious, so she left it unsaid.

At that he reddened and was a little ashamed and humbler than ever at heart. But he'd not thought of Felicity for weeks; he'd never thought of her like this.

"Oh," was all he could manage. "Oh. And you—?"

She thought she understood his blankness.

"I was just going myself."

"Where?" He was suddenly afraid that it was too late for his plan,—that it had always been too late.

"I don't know," she answered. "Home, maybe—where I used to live. It doesn't much matter—anywhere."

Her eyes had not once left his face. And now he saw that they were as changed as her voice. He would have said, had they been other than hers, that they were bitter; no, not bitter; sardonic and mocking. Temporarily like Felicity's. And she must be very tired, judging from her voice, even more tired and wan than she looked.

The phrases which he had rehearsed deserted him treacherously.

"Then—then, why not come with me?" he labored over it. "I've a drawing-room on the Lake Shore on the five o'clock. I knew about Felicity; that wasn't why I came back. I came because I thought maybe we could go out—you and I—and look around together."

He knew it was a poor thing of weak words and not what his inarticulate heart would have uttered. Yet he was not prepared for her reception of it.

She laughed up into his face, a hard little, crisp little laugh.

"Why not?" she said. "Why not?"

And when he took her in his arms and kissed her it was not as he had dreamed it would be. Her body was slack, her lips not merely passive but cold against his own. His heart heavy for reasons which he could not name, he set her quickly free.

"I'll be back for you, then, at three," he said. "Will you be ready?"

As casually, it came to him, just as calmly he might have discussed his plan with any man.

"At three," she repeated. "I'll be ready."

He left her, not as happy as when he had sped up the stairs; left her demoralized now. In the interlude before his return she sat motionless, her mind a tumult of doubt.

She too had dreamed what that embrace would be; she had wanted always to be near him, yet she had just shrunk from it.

"Who am I to dictate such terms to life?" Felicity had demanded.

"And who was she," in all that long month Cecille had been asking of herself, "who was she? And what was she waiting for?"

Even a percentage of happiness, Felicity had preached, would be less unendurable than no happiness—ever—at all; and she had at last convinced herself that this was so. Yet now she shook with doubt. Was this dead thing the actuality which at any price she had hoped to save?

Once she was very close to flight; more than once, more childishly than she knew, she wished that she would die.

But she kept to her promise and waited; she was ready and went with him at three, though after he had put her in the taxi and climbed in beside her, she found it difficult to breathe. She could not have forced words from her throat had she wanted to, and he was as silent as she. For at the end of hours he had hit upon an explanation of this mood of hers, her trouble, and it was troubling him deeply, too. Two or three times, watching her still face and quiet hands, it had been upon the tip of his tongue to tell her that after all they could still abandon his plan.

He had not offered to kiss her again, nor even reached for her hand, and she had been grateful for this, almost hysterically grateful as she recalled the little opportunities which she had once contrived for just such contacts. And the taxi was not merely stifling; it was like a trap. The seat was far too narrow. Even though she huddled into her corner the six inches of clear space which separated them was all too brief.

So they rode south, both unhappier with every turn of the wheels, till suddenly he saw her hands tighten into fists, and her lips begin to move.

"I can't," was what he made of that whisper. "Oh, ask him to stop—please—please!"

He did not question her; her face was enough. The cab pulled up to the curb. She flung open the door and started to get out. But she could not go like this—not without a word—not without some explanation—even if she had to brave his rage.

"I can't," she told him. The voice was tired, but not beaten—no. "I thought I could, because I loved you oh—so—much. But I can't. I know it now; I've known it all along."

But he didn't seem angry; he seemed only gentle and sorry. And his voice sounded sorry, and kind.

"I think I knew it, too," he was saying, slowly; "knew it was wrong, all the while. But I didn't realize how wrong till I saw it was making you sad. At first it seemed to me that this would be the finer way, quiet and soon over, no fuss nor any crowd. I have seen weddings that were ribald and not sacred, and I wanted ours to be none of that. Just you and I and the minister, with Hamilton and English standing by; and then just you and I going away together, leaving no wise winking, no meaning whispers behind. And that was right,—but only half right; I have been selfish with you. It is a sober step for a girl like you; she wants her folks at such a time. We will wait now for your people."

She had paused to wait for his answer—his anger—with one foot upon the running board, one foot on the curb. But slowly, as his voice went gravely on and on, she turned and faced him and listened, incredulous. The words were distinct enough; they drummed at her ears, but they did not penetrate, not even after he had finished, until she stared about her and saw how far they'd come. They were far south of Grand Central and Forty-second Street. Then it went reeling through her.

He would have stepped out, but she pushed him back and followed him inside.

"Where were we going?" she gasped. But she knew—she knew! She wanted to laugh, and wanted to cry, and didn't know which to do.

"We have to get a license, you know," he told her soberly.

She decided then to cry, not much, just a little. But she made him smile.

"We've lost a lot of time," she sniffed brokenly. "You'd better tell him to hurry."

The driver had been disappointed; he had expected more of her. But then you couldn't never tell about them dames with real class. But he was deferential; he had recognized his fare.

"Where to, Mr. Blair?" he opened the door at that moment to ask. "We gotta step on 'er, if you still want to make it."

Perry ordered him to step on 'er.

Then the miracle came to pass. She found the worn seat yards too wide, the mean interior cathedral.

And Hamilton and Jack English did not fail them. They were waiting. They were "in his corner" as they had promised to be. They accompanied the bride and groom to the station. And while Hamilton was shaking hands with her husband, Jack English found opportunity for a word with his wife.

"Didn't I tell you?" he asked. "Didn't I say you'd picked a game guy?"

She was dewy of lip, star-eyed.

"You told me," she said.

He studied her with peculiar intentness.

"This game will never hold him," he at last went on. "He'll want to take you far, so his fight has just begun. You believe in him. You'll be proud of him, some day."

She dropped her eyes; she was too honest with herself not to admit that she had wondered about that, often hoped and therefore feared she might not be.

"I mean to," she answered, her voice not large. "And I'm proud enough, right now."

But not until hours after did she realize how proud. Hours later as she sat in their drawing-room on the Lake Shore Limited and watched her husband, just outside the open door, talking with a senator and a prominent divine, her tiny disloyalty punished her a little. How hard and clear cut his profile was—his nose was rather large! And how man-sure, and boyishly diffident. She'd be secure, her whole life through—and she hated men who boasted. She suffered some for her snobbish wonder; but she was conscious of a new, great joy.

"My lad!" she tried it aloud. "My lad!"

She laid her fingers to her throat. A pulse throbbed there.

How eager they seemed for his company; how interested! And there was no patronage in their manner; rather they sought to establish equality; they sought to be approved. This game would not hold him—and their chance was equal to any. They were both young, very young—though she was extremely mature for twenty years! Maybe—she didn't lean exactly toward the ministry—but perhaps a senator—

Her eyes grew misty and veiled; she was lost to all but her dreams.

And then the train stopped and she heard the senator talking, his voice very loud with no din of motion to drown it.

"I snapped my right over"—it punctured her blissful gossamer of fancy—"I snapped my right over—and he made no more trouble for anyone, in that town."

She heard her husband answer, but could not make out the words. But apparently the prominent divine had been champing on the bit; the senator, she thought, must have interrupted him.

"—a bully, the town bully, and an extremely powerful man. But that did not deter me. I was outraged, you see—righteously indignant. So I hooked with my left—I believe, sir, that that is the correct term—"

The absurd, fat things! She heard her husband assuring him that it was. Her husband!

So later he returned to a very bright-eyed wife. He dropped into a seat and she was happier still at the happiness in his eyes. For a time he was quiet; then suddenly he slanted his head at her. He began to tell her about the pots and pans.

"Some battle!" he drawled at the finish of it. "Champion—winner take all!"

Nor had he been able to keep down a little note of pride. It was quite as if, still humbly, in his own plains' talk, he had assured her, "Your husband is no dub."

And so she started that soon to become better acquainted with him. He was no braggart with others; to his own wife he would boast a little. Husbands were likely to, she realized—she loved him more.

And the words had started a thought in her own head. She had lost that phrase of Felicity's, and searched for it, and was glad to find it again.

"Some battle," she echoed softly. "Some battle—winner take all."

Then she rose and went to him.

"Perry, lad," she murmured, "I'm not sure but what there are two champions, right here in this very car!"

CHAPTER XIII

BLUE FOR A BOY

"But would she have been happy?" A critic whose sex is indicated by her usage of the pronoun she instead of they once raised the question.

"Why not?" I asked unguardedly.

Obviously such stupidity as my counter-question evinced was worthy of some pity.

"Why, she was an—ah—superior sort of a girl; breeding, you know, and all that, or so I have gathered, while he—"

But I stayed no longer to listen. What was the use? There was not merely a little of snobbishness in her. I did not even insist that "she" might have been, or add that it was really true. But I went West promptly to see.

Perry Blair had scarcely guessed at the possibilities of that valley. There were five dozen, or five hundred white-faced Herefords under fence; or five thousand. I forget which, for I was not curious concerning these.

But having cornered her at last I put the question bluntly.

"What about that career?" I wanted to know. "There's a crying need just now for good senators—plain statesmanship handled neatly."

She colored a little.

"Wel-l-l," she was going to slide out of it if she could, "Perry's awfully busy right now, it's so hard to get trustworthy men. And—and then, anyhow, I'm not so sure I'd care to have him enter politics, as they are at present—even if—"

"Don't blame you," I concluded. "Wise decision. But what about the ministry—how about that?"

Here, however, she would have rallied and protested hotly that she had never been keen about the ministry—not at all!—when an occurrence just outside the open door saved her the need.

Perry Blair—Blue Jeans, with no rent in his shirt and a nonsensically expensive hat—had been driving a nail into the wall. The nail had dodged and he had struck his thumb, and was commenting upon it plainly, though with no great heat, aloud.

And she grew pinker still.

"You are a hypocrite," I complained with scorn. "You should blush!" And dropped the matter there.

But I was less concerned with the question of their happiness. And that evening, when a puncher brought a pasteboard box in the mail and all innocently they opened it before me, I became very sure.

For the box held a pair of those inadequate articles of apparel known, I believe, as bootees, designed and executed in knitted silk for an expected new arrival. And they forgot me, forgot that this expectation was supposed to be a secret, in exclaiming over the mystery of who had found them out.

Then she came upon the card. There was no name or address; just one line:

"Winner take all!" it read.

Yes—Felicity.

After a long period of grave silence which had come upon them:

"See!" she exclaimed softly. "Pink! A girl! Haven't I been telling you so, all along?"

"How does that signify?" Quickly he took up the challenge. Clearly here was a matter which had seen much discussion.

"Pink for a girl, and blue for a boy," she explained with conscious superiority.

But she couldn't continue to tease him. His face had become long.

"Perhaps not, dear," she murmured. And then, with a little air:

"Anyway, they'll be very useful, I'm sure. They are exceedingly fine and dainty, and it is not easy to get things good enough, away out here."

But there he put his foot down. She had not been very keen about politics! Or the ministry! Indeed!

"Pink for a girl?" he asked. "That's straight?"

"That's straight."

"Then he'll not wear them, ever. No son of mine shall be made a sissy of, while he's still too helpless to prevent."

But there they started and grew red at my presence which they had forgotten, for I had to laugh.

Happy? I didn't answer the amateur critic, but I don't mind saying so here. And somehow I feel that I should know.

I'm Hamilton.