The Preacher of Cedar Mountain Part 39

and he pointed to a room farther back. "But, say, ye ain't in training, are ye?"

"No; are you?"

"No."

"Then come on."

Mike opened the next door and led the way into a larger room, with the fixings of a regular boxing academy, followed by his friends and one or two additional customers from the bar room.

Hopkins followed Hartigan, and was filled, apparently, with strange and mixed emotions. "Really, Mr. Hartigan, as President of the Board of Deacons, I must protest against this whole shocking procedure." Then, in a different tone: "But, as a man, by jinks! I'm going to see it through."

"Why not?" said Jim. "Sure it's simple and easy. In about three rounds, I'll get him or he'll get me; then we'll shake hands and all be good friends ever after. It couldn't have happened better."

Both men stripped to the waist, and the contrast was as great as the resemblance. Broad, equally broad, and superbly muscled, the saloon-keeper was, if anything, heavier, but there was just a suspicion of bloat over all his frame. Jim was clean built, statuesque--a Jason rather than a Hermes. He was by six inches taller, but the other had just as long a reach. And, as the officious patrons of the "pub"

strapped on the gloves and made the usual preparation of wet sponge and towel, it seemed in all respects an even match--in all respects but one; Jim was twenty-odd, Mike was forty-odd.

The small man with a squeaky voice installed himself as timekeeper. He struck the gong, and the boxers met. Jim always smiled and bared his teeth while boxing. Mike was one of the bull-dog jaw; he kept his lips tight shut, and his small eyes twinkled with every appearance of rage.

On the first round, the great experience of the pugilist enabled him to land one or two heavy jolts, and when the gong sounded the time-limit, Jim had got rather the worst of it.

The second round opened much like the first. Jim landed on Mike's under jaw more than once; and Mike got in a body blow that was something to think about.

It was the third round that told the tale. What chance in a fight has forty-five against twenty-five? The extra weight of the prize fighter was mere softness. His wind was gone; and half the time had not pa.s.sed before Jim landed under his left jaw the cla.s.sic punch that Mike had one time given him, and Mike went down like a sack of meal.

In five minutes, he was up and game, but the bout was over. The men shook hands, and Michael, rapidly recovering his spirits, rumbled out of his deep chest: "Bejabers, it's the first time in five years I've been knocked out--and it was done scientific. Say, Hartigan, ye can put me down for a member of your club; or yer church or whatever the dom thing is an' I'll see ye get whatever ye need in the way of protection; an' if ye want to sell any liquor on the sly, that'll be all right. You count on Mike."

Then, with a singular clearing of hate and an access of good feeling--psychological reactions which so often follow in the wake of a finish fight--the men all shook hands and parted in excellent humour.

"By George!" said President Hopkins of the Board of Deacons, "I wouldn't have missed that for a thousand dollars. It was perfectly bully--just what we wanted! I've heard of things like this, but never really believed they happened. It's a new side of human nature for me. I wouldn't have missed it for--no, not for five thousand dollars."

CHAPTER LIII

The First Meeting

The notice on the old tree had been up a week. By Thursday there had been no sign of response; on Friday Jim had had it out with the boss; and Sat.u.r.day morning the community seemed, in some subtle way, to be greatly stirred by the coming event. Sunday afternoon there was a fairly good a.s.semblage of men and women in the large room of the rearranged old house. Bow-legged Mike was not present; but the little man with the squeaky voice--commonly known as "Squeaks"--was there to represent him, as he did in divers ways and on different occasions in the ward.

Hartigan and Hopkins were on the platform. Belle sat at a small table to act as recording secretary. Hopkins opened the meeting by introducing Hartigan, who spoke as follows:

"My friends; we are a.s.sembled to discuss the formation of a club to provide for the residents of this district such things as they need in the way of a convenient social meeting place and whatever else is desirable in a club. We have not fully worked out our plan, but this is the main idea: the club will be called Cedar Mountain House; it will be managed by five governors--two of them appointed by the men who own the building lease; two of them elected by the people who join; these four to elect a fifth as chairman of the board.

"The club is open to men and women twenty-one years of age; their families come in free on their tickets. The dues are to be ten cents a week, or five dollars a year. This covers the gymnasium, the lecture hall, the library, and the baths. Now we are ready for any questions."

A very fat woman, with a well-developed moustache, rose to claim the floor, and began: "I want to know----"

Hopkins interrupted: "As the Chair is not acquainted with all present, will the speakers kindly announce their names?"

The woman made a gesture of impatience--evidently every one should know _her_ name: "I am Dr. Mary Mudd, M. D., of Rush College, unmarried, Resident Physician of the Mudd Maternity Home and the winner of the Mudd medal for an essay on misapplied medicine. There! Now I want to know are women eligible for office in this club?"

To which Hopkins replied: "Since women are admitted to members.h.i.+p and pay dues, they are eligible for all offices."

"Well, now, I'm with you," said Dr. Mudd; and she sat down.

Now arose a thin, dark man with a wild shock of hair, a black beard, a red tie and a general appearance of having _-ski_ at the end of his name. "I vant to know do you hev to be religious your vay in dis cloob?"

"Kindly give your name," said the Chair.

"Veil, I'm Isaac Skystein; I'm a renovator of chentlemen's deteriorated vearing apparel, and I vant to know of dis is a missionary trick, or do it be a cloob vere von can talk de freedom of speech?"

"You do not have to belong to any Church," announced the Chairman.

"Vell; is it to be de religious talk?"

"Once a week, or maybe once a month, there will be a debate in this hall, at which entire freedom of speech will be allowed."

"Dat mean I can get up an' say I doan take no stock in your dern religion? I vant de freedom of de speeches, Ya!"

"It means that, at the proper time, each will have a chance to get up and say exactly what he thinks within the decencies of debate."

"Vell, I tink I'll join for a vhile, anyvay."

Then a red-faced man introduced himself. "I'm Jack Hinks, teamster, and I want to know if any drinks will be sold on the premises."

"No, sir; nothing intoxicating."

"I mean on the sly."

"No, sir: nothing, absolutely nothing."

"Well, Mike Shay tipped me off that it was to be 'wet' on the quiet."

"He made a mistake; this is to be a strictly teetotal club."

"That settles it. What's the good of a club where you can't have no fun?

Good night!" and out he went.

A lanky youth with unhealthy rings around his eyes and brown stains on his thumb asked if there were to be boxing lessons and would Mr.

Hartigan tell them about the sc.r.a.p between himself and Mike Shay.

Mothers asked if a baby corral would be inst.i.tuted, to set the mothers free for a few hours each day. A tall, pale young man with a Southern coo, asked "whether Negroes were to be admitted." The Chair dodged by saying: "That will be decided by the vote of the majority."

A male person, with a beard and a tremulous voice, asked what the club's att.i.tude would be toward the Salvation Army. Before the Chair could reply, little Skystein jumped up and shouted: "Mr. Chairman, ve don't vant 'em; dey's all feelin's an' no brains. You don't see no Chews in de Salvation Army--it's too many emotions; de Chews got too much intellects, ve don't vant----"

"I rule you out of order!" shouted the Chair. "Sit down! Now for your question: The club will welcome the Salvationists as individual members.

It does not recognize them as a body."

A fat, unsuccessful-looking man, asked if it held out any chance for a job; and a red-headed masculine person of foreign design rose to inquire whether the bathing would be compulsory. A preliminary vote was overwhelmingly in favour of the five-dollar dues, though a small minority thought it should be free; a group of four persons believed they should draw compensation for coming.