In and Out Page 2

  CHAPTER II

  Theory's Victim

  Johnson Boller looked. And, looking, the pleased grin which had solately suffused his features faded out swiftly--because the unknownreally seemed to be with them.

  Far down the mob, an attendant of the place was indicating their generaldirection to a shortish man in a long storm-coat; and now he of the coathad nodded and was pushing his way down the narrow aisle toward them,staring at the sea of faces as he moved along slowly and seeming alittle uncertain in his movements.

  "Anthony!" Johnson Boller said suddenly.

  "Well?"

  "Don't speak to this guy! I don't like his looks!"

  "Bah!"

  "And this gang behind us is doing everything but watch the fight," Mr.Boller whispered on. "If you try anything funny on this fellow that'scoming, he's likely to put up a yell of some kind--and once a fightstarts in this box these three behind are coming in."

  "Johnson, don't be absurd," Anthony smiled. "Get over in the odd seat; Iwant the chap next to me so that I can have a good look at him."

  "Will you remember that I said you were going to start trouble?" Johnsoninquired hotly.

  "I'll remember anything you like, only get over into that odd seat," Mr.Fry muttered, as the stranger came closer. "Ah, he's hardly more than aboy."

  "Yes, he's a young thug!" Johnson Boller informed him in parting. "He'sa young gang-leader, Anthony--look at the walk! Look at the way he hasthat cap pulled down over one eye! Look at----"

  Anthony Fry, obviously, would have heard him as well had he been seatedon the steps of Colorado's State capitol. Intellectual countenancealight, the mildly eccentric Anthony--really the sanest and mostdelightful of men except when these abstract notions came to him--waswholly absorbed in the newcomer.

  Rather than stare directly he turned toward the ring as the young man inthe long coat crowded into the box and settled down with a little puff,but one who knew him as well as Johnson Boller could feel Anthony's eyeslooking past his lean right cheek and taking in every detail of theory'sprospective victim.

  Not that he was a particularly savage-looking creature on closerinspection, however. The cheap cloth cap and the shabby long coat--heavyenough for a typhoon when there was the merest suggestion of drizzleoutdoors--gave one that impression at first, but second examinationshowed him to be really rather mild.

  He seemed to be about twenty. His clothing, from the overcoat to thetrousers and the well-worn shoes, indicated that he came from no veryelevated plane of society. His features, which seemed decidedly boyishamong some of the faces present, were decidedly good. His hair neededcutting and had needed it, for some time, and he was tremendouslyinterested in the star bout. Elbows on the rail, cap pulled down toshade his eyes, the youngster's whole excited soul seemed centered inthe ring.

  So at a rather easy guess Mr. Boller concluded that he was a mechanic ora janitor's assistant or an elevator boy or something like that. Thebuyer of his seat, finding himself unable to come at the last moment,had given the kid his ticket and he was having the time of his life.

  Johnson Boller hunched down again with a sad little grunt. He had meantto enjoy this star bout; only a week ago, in fact, before the Montrealhorror loomed up, he had been considering just how an evening might besnatched from the happy home life without disturbing Beatrice--who,ignorant of modern pugilism, disapproved prize-fighting on the ground ofbrutality. And now it was ruined, because Johnson Boller's next halfhour would have to go to the devising of means by which Anthony could besteered from his idiotic experiment, whatever it might be in concreteform.

  Anthony meant to offer this youngster opportunity--how or in what formAnthony himself doubtless did not know as yet. But he did intend tospeak to him and, unless Johnson Boller's faculty for guessing was muchin error, he meant to lead the youngster hence, perhaps to feed him in arestaurant while he talked him full of abstract theory, perhaps even totake him home to the Lasande.

  But whatever he intended, it wouldn't do. Johnson Boller really neededAnthony this night. He needed Anthony to listen while he talked aboutthe absent Beatrice, and recalled all her beauty, all her fire, all heradorable qualities; he needed Anthony at the other side of thechessboard, over which game Johnson Boller could grow so profoundlysleepy that even Beatrice _en route_ to Siam would hardly have disturbedhim. And he needed no third person!

  Toward the end of the fifth round, however, Johnson Boller grewpainfully conscious that he had as yet concocted no very promisingscheme. Indeed, the lone inspiration so far included whispering to thekid that the gentleman on his other side was mildly insane and thatflight were best, should the gentleman address him; but Anthonypersisted in leaning so close to the youngster that whispering wasimpossible.

  Also, it occurred to Johnson Boller that he himself might be takenviolently ill--that he might clutch his heart and beg Anthony to leadhim to the outer air. There was little in that, though; the chances weremore than even that Anthony, if his enthusiasm as to the victim stillpersisted, would request the youngster's assistance in getting him out.

  And the enthusiasm seemed enduring enough. They were in the tenth andlast round now and Anthony, with his strange smile, was turning to theyoung man and--ah, yes, he was speaking:

  "Pardon me!"

  The boy started with undue violence and stared at him, drew back alittle and even looked Anthony up and down as he said:

  "Speaking to me?"

  "I am speaking to you, young man," Anthony smiled benignly. "May I speakto you a little more?"

  This, very evidently, was a sensitive boy, unaccustomed to chatting withreally elegant, palpably prosperous strangers. The startled eyes ranover Anthony again and a frown came into them.

  "What's the idea?" he asked briefly.

  "There is a very large idea, which I should like to make clear to you,"Mr. Fry went on smoothly. "I should like to have a talk with you, youngman--not here, of course, but when the fight is over--and it will be toyour considerable advantage----"

  "I don't want to buy anything," the canny young man informed him.

  "And I don't want to sell you anything," Anthony laughed, "but I do wishto present to you a proposition which will be of much interest."

  This time, possibly not without warrant, the boy shrank unmistakablyfrom him, hitching his collar a little higher and his cap a littlefarther down.

  "It wouldn't interest me," he said with some finality. "I'm--just a poorlad, you know, and I haven't a cent to invest in anything."

  "But you have an hour to invest, perhaps?" Anthony smiled.

  "Nope!"

  "Oh, yes, you have," the owner of Fry's Imperial Liniment persisted. "Itis for no purpose of my own, save perhaps to justify a small contention,but I wish you to come home with me for a little while."

  "WHAT?" said the boy.

  As Johnson Boller observed, sighing heavily and shaking his head as heobserved it, the young man was downright scared now. An older citizenwould have spoken his candid thoughts to Anthony Fry, doubtless, andchilled him back to reason; but this one drew away from Anthony until hebumped into Johnson Boller, turned hastily and asked the latter's pardonand then gazed at Anthony with eyes which, if not filled with terror,certainly held a quantity of somewhat amused apprehension.

  He shook his head determinedly and seemed to be seeking words, and as hesought them a new element entered the situation. The red-faced personjust behind Anthony Fry, having gazed suddenly from the youngster to themaker of theories, lurched forward suddenly and spoke:

  "Let that kid alone!"

  "Eh?" Anthony said amazedly.

  Johnson Boller leaned forward quickly.

  "Stop right there, Anthony!" he hissed. "Don't answer him!"

  "Why on earth shouldn't I answer him?" Anthony snapped.

  "You keep out of it, young feller!" the red-faced one told JohnsonBoller, and one saw that his honest rage was rising fast. "He's gotterlet that kid alone!"

  "Well, confound your impudence, sir!" Ant
hony began. "I----"

  "None o' that stuff!" the total stranger said hotly. "You cut outpicking on the kid or I'll step on your face."

  And here his redder-faced companion leaned forward and demanded thickly:

  "Woddy do ter kid, Joe? Huh? Wozzer matter--huh? Wozzer trouble 'thyou--huh?"

  Johnson Boller was on his feet and in the aisle, perturbed and stillable to see how the unexpected had been planned for his especialbenefit.

  "This is where we get off, Anthony," he said briefly, "I could smell itcoming. Come along."

  "Is there going to be a fight here?" the boy in the chair between asked,with a quantity of eager excitement.

  "If I know the signs, ten seconds hence this spot is going to look likea detail of the Battle of the Marne," said Mr. Boller. "And you want toget out of it quick or you'll be hurt, kid. You scoot right down thatway, the way you came, and get clear of the crowd before it starts."

  He pointed. He waited. But the boy did not start.

  Who, in the calmer afterward, shall explain just how these gunpowdersituations develop, grow instantaneously incandescent, and explode?

  The atmosphere was one of physical battle; the red-faced gentlemen werefilled with alcoholic spirits; yet who shall say just why the red-facedman, his friend stumbling against him, gained the impression thatAnthony Fry had struck him a coward's blow from behind? Or why, with aroar of incoherent fury, he aimed a dreadful punch at Anthony himself,standing there quite collected if somewhat paler?

  That is what happened, although by no means all that happened. Theunfortunate spot came three seconds later when Anthony, side-steppingthe alcoholized jab, threw up his hands to fend off the jabber's wholeswaying person--threw them, all unwittingly, so that his right fistsettled squarely on a red nose, drawing therefrom a magic spurt ofblood!

  After that, for a little, nothing was very clear. Three sets of fistsbegan to hammer in Anthony's general direction; three throatsshouted--and three hundred took up the shout.

  Men came tumbling toward Box B and into it. A large person in brightblue shirt-sleeves, with a derby on the back of his head, received thethird blow intended for Anthony and returned it with interest, just asthat startled person was jammed against the rail.

  From three different points, high-held night-sticks were pushing throughthe surging crowd; and Johnson Boller, looking quickly at the stormcenter, counted no less than eleven separate couples pounding oneanother, and smiled as he jerked Anthony bodily over the rail andhissed:

  "Come on, you poor lunatic! Come on!"

  "Johnson, upon my soul----" Anthony began.

  "Never mind your soul! Get your body out of here before the cops find itand club it to death for starting this rumpus!" Mr. Boller criedagitatedly. "Look at that sergeant, Anthony! He's got his eye on you andhe's fighting his way over here! Now, you scoot down there, kid! Move!Quick, before----"

  "No! Come with us, boy!" Anthony said, somewhat disconcertingly.

  "What for?" the boy inquired. "I want to watch this."

  "You stay and watch it by all means!" Johnson Boller smiled quickly."You're perfectly safe, youngster; I was only fooling. Now you come thisway, Anthony, and----"

  Anthony, unperturbed, laid a kindly hand on the youngster's shoulder.

  "You'd better come with us, my son," said he. "They'll run you in for awitness and you may be locked up for a week unless you have friends toget you out."

  This time he had startled the young man. Wide eyes turned and stared athim and there was a distinct note of fright in the voice that said:

  "What do you mean? Arrest me?"

  "Of course, if you stay here," Anthony said. "Come with me and I'll takecare of you."

  And then Johnson Boller had caught his arm and was dragging him away;and Anthony, catching the willing arm of the boy, was dragging himafter. Around the side of the ring they sped, where an interested groupof fighters and trainers watched the melee; and, veering, on through asmall side door and into the night.

  "Here's where the taxis wait," Mr. Boller said quickly. "Now, you beatit straight down the street, kid, and----"

  "We'll take this one," Anthony interrupted, as he jerked open the doorand thrust his bewildered charge inward. "Tell the man to take us home,Johnson."

  Johnson Boller complied with a grunt, slamming the door viciously as heplumped into his own seat. The kid, prospective victim of Anthony'slatest notion, was still with them--and he seemed contented enough to bethere for the present. The possibility of arrest had jarred theyoungster more than a little, and he hunched down on the little forwardseat and breathed quite heavily. And now Anthony's deep, kindly voicewas addressing him with--

  "You'll come home with me for a little while, youngster?"

  Mr. Boller drew a long, resigned breath and prepared to back the boy inevery objection his doubtless normal mind should offer--but they chancedto pause by an arc lamp just then and he caught the boy's expression.

  It was really a queer thing to see. No fear was there at all now, butonly the overwhelming, innocent curiosity of youth, mingled with aninscrutable something else. One might have called it a daredevil light,breathing the young craving for adventure, but Johnson Boller, with anunaccountable shudder, felt that it was not just that.

  To save him, he could not have named the quality; he sensed it ratherthan actually saw it, but it was there just the same--an ominous,mocking, speculative amusement that had no place at all in the eye of anelevator boy when looking at the wealthy, dignified Anthony Fry. Theboy's fine teeth showed for a moment as he asked:

  "Pardon me, but what's it all about? Why under the sun should I go homewith you?"

  "Because I want to talk confidentially to you for an hour."

  "You're not judging from these togs that I'm a criminal, are you?" theboy grinned, and it seemed to Johnson Boller that the tone was far toocultivated for the clothes.

  "What?"

  "I mean, you don't want any one murdered, or anything of that kind?"

  Anthony laughed richly.

  "By no means, my dear boy. As to what it is all about I'll tell you whenwe get there. You'll come?"

  "I think not," the boy said frankly.

  "But----"

  "Nix! I don't know why, but I don't like the idea. I think it's a littlebit too unusual. Who are you, anyway?"

  "My name is Fry, if that tells you anything," smiled its owner.

  "Fry?" the boy repeated.

  "Anthony Fry."

  "Eh?" the youngster said, and there was a peculiarly sharp note in hisvoice.

  "He makes Fry's Liniment," Johnson Boller put in disgustedly, yethappily withal because it was plain that the boy would have no part inspoiling his chess game and the little chat about Beatrice. "He has alot of theories not connected with the liniment business, kid, and hewants to bore you to death with some of them. They wouldn't interest youany more than they interest me, and you're perfectly right in refusingto listen to them."

  "Umum," said the boy oddly.

  "And now I'll tell you what we'll do," Johnson Boller concluded quitehappily. "You tell me where you live, and when the man drops us I'll payyour fare home. Some class to that, eh? Going home in a taxicab aftersitting in a ten-dollar seat at a big fight! You don't get off on ajamboree like that very often, I'll bet!"

  "No," the boy said thoughtfully.

  "So here's the little old Hotel Lasande where Mr. Fry lives," Mr. Bollerfinished cheerfully, "and where shall I tell the man to set you down,kid?"

  He had settled the matter, of course. Never in this world could thelittle ragamuffin resist the temptation of returning to his tenementhome, or whatever it was, in a taxi. Johnson Boller, rising as thevehicle stopped, laid a kindly hand on his shoulder.

  "Now, you sit over in my seat and stretch your legs while you ride,kid--and here! Have a real cigar and feel like a real sport! Don't youknow how to bite off the end?"

  "I--I don't want to bite off the end yet," the boy muttered.

  "Sink your tee
th in it. Now I'll get you a match."

  He felt for one, did Johnson Boller, and then ceased feeling for one.That sudden low laugh of the young man's was one of the oddest sounds hehad ever heard; moreover, as the Lasande doorman opened the door of thetaxi, he caught the same odd light in the boy's eye--and now he, too,had risen and pulled the disreputable cap a little lower as he said:

  "I won't smoke it now, thanks. I'm going upstairs and listen to Mr. Fryfor a while, I think."