At Start And Finish Part 16

[Ill.u.s.tration: And Every One A Winner]

We are winners. The lobby of the hotel is crowded. Athletes, college men, travellers, and a curious public are well shuffled together. It is the same old pack of cards that I have seen for years, though the faces change. That "know-it-all" by the post is a new man, yet he is telling just how and why we won, like the wiseacres who preceded him, and the others who will follow; for this line of succession never runs out. He is telling how he has foreseen the result for weeks, and can call witnesses to prove his faultless prediction of six months ago. Yes, he can, though we only pulled out by the skin of our teeth, after sitting on the anxious seat all the afternoon; and had not Jim Harding thrown the hammer ten feet farther than ever before, we never should have won at all. But this only makes the "know-it-all's" wisdom more remarkable, and my ignorance as well, for I had thought the team a losing one, though I had, of course, held my tongue.

Bah! Thirty years have not reconciled me to this gentry, with the addled brains and brazen throats.

Most of the college men are gathered in little groups, around which the crowds ebb and flow in a surging tide. That its strongest current is through the swinging door of the bar-room cannot be denied, nor that it shows signs of the source from which it sprang. There are at least three grains of talk to one of listen, which is the regular dose, though the athletes pull the proportion down. They are, as usual, quietest of all.

They have developed other muscles than those of the tongue; and yet even they are a bit talkative to-night, and have an unmistakably festive air about them.

After months of preparation and weeks of strict training, when rigid rules prohibit, and all the pleasant things of life seem labelled "Keep off the gra.s.s," there is a maddening pleasure in being free again,--free to taste that favorite dish, palatable but indigestible; free to inhale the fragrance of a good cigar; free to watch the hands of the clock swing into the small hours; free, as Harry Gardner expresses it, "to do as you darn please once more."

For those who have lost there is the necessity of drowning sorrow, and it is certainly the duty of a good winner to give his victory a fitting celebration. There is not as much difference in the two ceremonies as might be imagined.

Our team has broken training, and some of them are breaking it badly.

There are the long summer months before them, with the leisure hours at seash.o.r.e or mountains, and no more work until the cool winds of autumn begin to blow. Even those of the most regular habits are kicking over the traces, and some of the wilder spirits, that make a trainer's hair gray before its time, to whom the six months' restraint has been a galling yoke, are giving themselves very loose rein. I am sorry to say that this particular team has not a large percentage of either deacons or clergymen, though Jim Harding afterward took holy orders, became an honor to the cloth, and will some day be a bishop. I occasionally attend his church; and when I see his huge form at the desk, and hear his voice, powerful and earnest, as it echoes to the farthest corner, I wonder if he has forgotten the night when we looked for "Paddy's cousin, the copper," when "every one was a winner."

As I enter the hotel lobby, after dinner, on this evening of the games of 188-, I discover Jim standing near the street entrance with Harry Gardner, and a little knot of college friends and admirers. They are smoking like bad chimneys, and between puffs are giving a green reporter some most surprising bits of information, much to their own enjoyment and the delectation of their friends. The little reporter is taking copious notes, which will create a sensation in the morning, if the sporting editor does not discover them before they get into print. Jim is big and blond, and Harry slender and dark; the former has made a first in the "hammer-throw;" the latter, after winning his trial heat in the "hundred" with ease, got away badly in the finals, and had to content himself with adding a single point to our score.

Now, Jim and Harry are particular friends of mine; I shall never handle them again, and I want a last word or two of farewell. They have developed under my care from awkward boys to the finished athletes they are to-night. I have seen the firm, round muscles becoming more and more perfect; the heart and lungs grow equal to more and more severe tests, and the increasing courage and self-reliance (without which there can be no success on the cinder-path) which will help them through many a struggle with the world they are about to enter. It is one of the sad parts of a trainer's life that he must lose such friends.

I force my way through the crowd, getting numberless nods and greetings of a warmer nature, for I am a well-known man in such a gathering. I strike the strong current flowing to and from the bar; but a little patience, and a liberal use of the elbow, brings me to the boys at last.

I give them each a hand, and we exchange a word or two of congratulation. Harry is, I see, a bit sore at his misfortune, for he had been picked as a sure winner. I give him a word of praise for his gallant effort to make up a three-yard loss at the start. There are many sprinters who would not have tried at all, let alone have pulled off the much-needed point. I tell Harding, with a.s.sumed resentment, that he has been sogering all the time, abusing my confidence by playing the sleeper, and that he has always been good for the extra ten feet.

At this Jim gives one of his ba.s.so profundo laughs, and in answer to my question as to what mischief he is plotting, replies that Harry and himself are waiting for Paddy, who has gone with Tom Furness for a little something "to kape the night out," and that they have promised the Irishman to help him look up his cousin "Dinny Sullivan, a copper."

I find that all they know about this cousin is that he is a policeman, on duty somewhere in the Bowery district. The boys admit the scent is not strong, but antic.i.p.ate good sport in the hunt, whether they bag the game or not. There is always fun with Paddy, for though he has become a mighty knowing man on cinder-path and track, and is not as green as when he tackled the "ghostly hurdler," he is a delicious bit still.

He appears a moment after, the "Knight of the Rake and Roller,"

accompanied by Tom; and judging from the aroma that clings to them, the necessary precautions have been taken against the baleful influences of the night air.

Tom is as happy and sanguine as ever, shakes me by the hand as if my arm was a pump-handle in midsummer, and immediately protests that not a step will he take out of the house unless I go with him.

At this they all insist that the party will be incomplete without me. I must go, or I shall break up the party and spoil sport. After considerable resistance, which I admit now was a.s.sumed, I consented at last. The truth was that, while I had not trained as had the boys, I had given many months of care and anxiety to them, and really wanted a bit of a fling myself. I knew very well what the little walk would lead up to, but reasoned that the boys were bound to get into trouble, and that it would be a charity to look after them. In fact, I played the hypocrite in a way for which I should have been ashamed.

Although Tom and the boys gave unmistakable signs of "having dined," and Paddy of his heroic remedies against the night, we all meander to the bar for a last measure of precaution, light fresh cigars, and sally forth.

The clocks are striking eight as the door swings behind us, the stars are beginning to show, and the street lights to s.h.i.+ne. The air is mild, and the pavements seem like a country road after the awful crowd of the lobby. The rattle of the pavements is silence compared with the rattle of tongues which we have left behind us.

We pile into a carriage which Paddy selects from a number drawn up to the curb,--because the driver is a Connemara man. We are not particularly comfortable with three on one seat, and five pairs of long legs interlaced; but our ride is enlivened by Paddy's conversation, no less brilliant than fluent, which is a magnificent compliment.

Occasionally Tom succeeds in getting in a word, but the rest of us are out of it. He is about to give us some reminiscences of "Dinny's"

boyhood when the carriage stops, much to our surprise, for we do not realize the lapse of time.

We alight before a corner drug-store, and Paddy calls the "Connemara man" an "Irish thief" when Tom pays him an exorbitant charge. He is easily placated, however, and goes into the store to inquire after Dinny, while we wait outside. We look through the window, between the red bottle on the right and the blue bottle on the left, and see him go up to the clerk at the soda fountain. The latter, a tall, pale-faced youth, answers shortly, and points to a big directory on a little shelf in the corner. Paddy walks over, upsetting a rack of sponges on the way, opens the directory doubtfully, turns over its leaves, runs his finger down a page or two, looks more and more puzzled, and at last beckons us in.

We enter, and find him looking blankly at an almost unending list of Dennis Sullivans, engaged in many occupations, and several of them "on the force." After a careful examination, befitting the seriousness of the occasion, we p.r.o.nounce the task hopeless, and file out again. Our departure is apparently greatly to the relief of the pale young man, for we had laughed until the bottles rattled when Paddy described his cousin as a "big chunk av a man, wid a taste for gin, an' a bad habit av snorin'."

We halt in the lee of the mortar and pestle, while the crowd surges past, and hold a council of war. Harding suggests that our best plan is to form a rush line, letting none pa.s.s until they tell all they know about "Dennis Sullivan, the copper." This proposition is hailed with delight by all but Tom and me, and though we are in the minority our opposition succeeds. To spread a drag-net across a Bowery sidewalk I believe to be a decidedly hazardous proceeding, and likely to result in the catching of fish too big to land. We finally form, with Paddy ahead, then Jim and Harry, Tom and myself bringing up the rear.

We had not taken a dozen steps before Paddy halts a tough-looking chap with "Do yes know me cousin, Dinny Sullivan?" The prisoner wears a very short sack-coat, plaid trowsers, and a tall silk hat. He has a "mouse"

under one eye, and the other, though lacking the honorable decoration of its companion, is red and angry. His mustache is closely clipped and dyed a deathly black; the cigar in the extreme corner of his mouth is tilted at an acute angle. He blows a cloud of smoke over Paddy's shoulder, and looks us all over suspiciously, each in turn.

Now, we are rather a formidable party: Paddy and Jim as big as houses, Tom tall and angular, myself a rugged specimen, and Harry, though not adding much to our physical strength, evidently spoiling for trouble.

As a rule, the little men are the aggressors, and most dangerous of all if they have a crowd with them.

Paddy's first captive, in deference to our superior force, decides to act the civil, and asks gruffly, "What's his biz?"

"He's a cop," answered Paddy, "a big chunk av a man, wid a scar over the lift eye, under the hair." Identifying a man by a concealed scar is too much for Tom, who breaks into a hearty laugh, and the prisoner himself gives a half smile, when after denying all knowledge of "Dinny" he is allowed to pa.s.s on.

We next halt a couple of young fellows, evidently gentlemen, out on a lark. They recognize in Paddy a character worth cultivating, and keep him talking several minutes, asking fool questions; but they finally admit that "me cousin Dinny Sullivan" is not on their list of acquaintances.

We spent some time in this way, Paddy doing picket duty, the main army close up in support. After questioning a dozen or more we make up our minds that Dinny is certainly not as well known on the Bowery as John L.

or Tony Pastor, and that the success of our mission is doubtful. We had enjoyed the dialogues immensely, particularly that with a good-natured German. The latter understood hardly a word of English, but spoke his own language like a cuckoo clock. Paddy, of course, knew not a single word he said, but stuck to him for several minutes, giving up English at last, and treating us to the cla.s.sic accents of old Ireland.

Nearly all we met had taken the matter good-naturedly, but one or two did not see the joke, and turned ugly. One big fellow talked fight, but the proposition was received by Paddy with such extreme joy, and preparations were made with such alacrity, that he thought better of the plan and withdrew his challenge. This was greatly to Paddy's disappointment, and Harry's as well, the latter offering to take the Irishman's place, though he would have been fifty pounds short weight.

We had been stopping frequently for Paddy to take further precautions to "kape the night out," and the rest of us doctored with the same medicine in smaller doses.

Paddy was now perfectly happy, and he had his reasons. The "byes" had won; he was drinking, under Tom's most learned and experienced tuition, a different new drink every time, and in his heart of hearts was sure of a fight before the sun rose.

What more could an Irishman ask; and a Connemara Irishman at that? His face was growing redder and more smiling every minute, and his feet, although they performed their duties after a fas.h.i.+on, would certainly not have been equal to the "crack in the floor test," as on the night when he encountered the "ghostly hurdler."

But although Pat would have been contented to continue in the same blissful state until the crack of doom, the rest of us began to tire of the quest, and to look around in search of other things beside "Dinny, the copper." The streets were crowded, the stores open, the bar-rooms doing a rus.h.i.+ng business, and the places of amus.e.m.e.nt in full blast.

Suddenly Jim stopped before the bulletin board of a little variety theatre, and began to examine it critically. There was a long list of names in black letters,--singers, dancers, acrobats, boxers, and I know not what else; but Jim's eyes were fixed with great seriousness at the tall red letters at the bottom. They declared, in extremely mixed metaphor, "A Galaxy of Stars, and Every One a Winner."

"I'm going in," said Jim, with much gravity, throwing his cigar away.

"How about Paddy's cousin, the copper?" asked Harry.

"He's as likely here as anywhere," Jim answered; "beside, it says that 'every one's a winner,' and that's the only kind for us to-night."

We were all of us quite ready for a change, so we stepped into the little lobby, Paddy first going up to the ticket office to ask, "Is me cousin, Dinny Sullivan, the copper, inside?"

The ticket-seller, a big, fat fellow, with weak eyes and a Roman nose, thought Paddy was trying to jolly him, and answered "No," quite tartly.

Paddy, of course, resented the incivility, and declared himself to be a gentleman, and he cared not who knew it. He further ventured to doubt whether the man behind the window was in the same cla.s.s with himself, and, gradually abandoning the reproachful accents with which he had begun, became first unparliamentary, and then abusive.

The ticket-seller stood it for a while, and then told Paddy to pa.s.s along, that "Dinny Sullivan" was not inside, but that they had two other policemen who were no relation of Pat's, but would take care of him just the same.

This last threat raised Paddy's anger to the boiling point, so that he first tried unsuccessfully to enter through the locked door, and then reaching his huge fist through the little open place in the window, shook it as near the Roman nose as the length of his arm would permit.

We finally persuaded him to subside, and Harry took his place with a roll of bills to purchase the tickets. He had hardly begun to speak, however, before Harding caught him, and lifted him, despite his struggles, on to the shoulder of a big statue of Terpsich.o.r.e, in the corner, reminding him, gently but firmly, that the invitation was his, and he must be permitted to pay the bills. He obtained five seats in the front row of the orchestra, and parted therefor with two dollars and fifty cents.

We were inspected a trifle suspiciously by the door-keeper, but filed in, and found the little theatre filled with a numerous and enthusiastic audience. The gallery was packed, the cheap seats on the rear of the floor well taken, and only a few of the more expensive ones in the front of the house unoccupied. The air was hot, and full enough of the fumes of alcohol to burn. Before we had adjusted our lungs to the new conditions, a little fellow in a dirty zouave suit took the checks from Jim, and ushered us down the centre aisle to our seats in the front row.

We made considerable noise, for the steps were of uneven depths, and at unequal distances, and Paddy stumbled all over himself at every opportunity.

Harry went in first, followed by Pat, Tom, myself, and Jim, in the order named. We were obliged to squeeze by an old lady and her daughter who occupied the end seats, and the former, sitting next to Jim, resented the necessary crowding by sundry sniffs and looks of disgust. Her displeasure was so evident that Jim felt called upon to apologize, which he did in his most grandisonian manner, and in tones not less loud than those of the singer on the stage, "I beg your pardon, madam; I a.s.sure you it was unintentional; I have tender feet myself, and can sympathize with you."

At this there was a burst of applause and laughter. I looked around and could see a number of college men scattered through the orchestra, evidently ready to encourage any exploit to which such "dare-devils" as Jim and Harry might treat them.