Gladiator by Philip Wylie (top reads txt) 📖

“Let’s you and me duck this party and have a little one of our own. I’ve got an apartment not far from here.”

He could hear the pounding of his heart. “Let’s.”

They moved unostentatiously from the room. Outside, in the hall, she took his hand. They ran to the front door.

There was the echo of bedlam in his whirling mind when they walked through the almost deserted street. She called to a taxi and they got in. The lights seethed past him. A dark house and three flights of rickety stairs. The gritty sound of a key in a lock. A little room with a table, a bed, two chairs, a gas-light turned low, a disheveled profusion of female garments.

“Here we are. Sit down.”

Hugo looked at her tensely. He laughed then, with a harsh sound. She flew into his arms, returning his searching caresses with startling frankness. Presently they moved across the room. He could hear the noises on the street at long, hot intervals.

Hugo opened his eyes and the light smote them with pain. He raised his head wonderingly. His stomach crawled with a foul nausea. He saw the dirty, room. Bessie was not in it. He staggered to the wash bowl and was sick. He noticed then that her clothes were missing. The fact impressed him as one that should have significance. He rubbed his head and eyes. Then he thought accurately. He crossed the room and felt in his trousers pockets. The money was gone.

At first it did not seem like a catastrophe. He could telegraph to his father for more money. Then he realized that he was in New York, without a ticket back to the campus, separated from his friends, and not knowing the address of the toastmaster. He could not find his fraternity brothers and he could not get back to school without more money. Moreover, he was sick.

He dressed with miserable slowness and went down to the street. Served him right. He had been a fool. He shrugged. A sharp wind blew out of a bright sky.

Maybe, he thought, he should walk back to Webster. It was only eighty miles and that distance could be negotiated in less than two hours by him. But that was unwise. People would see his progress. He sat down in Madison Square Park and looked at the Flatiron Building with a leisurely eye. A fire engine surged up the street. A man came to collect the trash in a green can. A tramp lay down and was ousted by a policeman.

By and by he realized that he was hungry. A little man with darting eyes took a seat beside him. He regarded Hugo at short intervals. At length he said, “You got a dime for a cup of coffee?” His words were blurred by accent.

“No. I came here from school last night and my money was stolen.”

“Ah,” there was a tinge of discouragement in the other’s voice. “And hungry, perhaps?”

“A little.”

“Me—I am also hungry. I have not eaten since two days.”

That impressed Hugo as a shameful and intolerable circumstance. “Let’s go over there”—he indicated a small restaurant and eat. Then I’ll promise to send the money by mail. At least, we’ll be fed that way.”

“We will be thrown to the street on our faces.”

“Not I. Nobody throws me on my face. And I’ll look out for you.”

They crossed the thoroughfare and entered the restaurant. The little man ordered a quantity of food, and Hugo, looking guiltily at the waiter, duplicated the order. They became distantly acquainted during the filched repast. The little man’s name was Izzie. He sold second-hand rugs. But he was out of work. Eventually they finished. The waiter brought the check. He was a large man, whose jowls and hips and shoulders were heavily weighted with muscle.

Hugo stood up. “Listen, fellow,” he began placidly, “my friend and I haven’t a cent between us. I’m Hugo Donner, from Webster University, and I’ll mail you the price of this feed to-morrow. I’ll write down my name and—”

He got no further. The waiter spoke in a thick voice. “So! One of them guys, eh? Tryin’ to get away with it when I’m here, huh? Well, I tell you how you’re gonna pay. You’re gonna pay this check with a bloody mush, see?” His fist doubled and drew back. Hugo did not shift his position. The fist came forward, but an arm like stone blocked it. Hugo’s free hand barely flicked to the waiter’s jaw. He rolled under the table. “Come on,” he said, but Izzie had already vanished through the door.

Hugo walked hurriedly up the street and turned a corner. A hand tugged at his coat. He turned and was confronted by Izzie. “I seen you through the window. Jeest, guy, you kin box. Say, I know where you kin clean up—if you got the nerve.”

“Clean up? Where?”

“Come on. We better get out of here anyhow.”

They made their way toward the river. The city changed character on the other side of the elevated railroad, and presently they were walking through a dirty, evil-smelling, congested neighborhood.

Another series of dirty blocks. Then they came to a bulky building that spread a canopy over the sidewalk. “Here,” Izzy said, and pointed.

His finger indicated a sign, which Hugo read twice. It said: “Battling Ole Swenson will meet all comers in this gymnasium at three this afternoon and eight to-night. Fifty dollars will be given to any man, black or white, who can stay three rounds with him, and one hundred dollars cash money to the man who knocks out Battling Ole Swenson, the Terror of the Docks.”

“See,” Izzy said, rubbing his hands excitedly, “mebbe you could do it.”

A light dawned on Hugo. He smiled. “I can,” he replied. “What time is it?”

“Two o’clock.”

“Well, let’s go.”

They entered the lobby of the “gymnasium.”

“Mr. Epstein,” Izzie called, “I gotta fighter for the Swede.”

Mr. Epstein was a pale fat man who ignored the handicap of the dank cigar in his mouth and roared when he spoke. He glanced at Hugo and then addressed Izzie.

“Where is he?”

“There.”

Epstein looked at Hugo and then was shaken by laughter. “There, you says, and there I looks and what do I see but a pink young angel face that Ole would swallow without chewing.”

Hugo said: “I don’t think so. I’m willing to try.” Epstein scowled. “Run away from here, kid, before you get hurt. Ole would laugh at you. This isn’t easy money. You may think you’re husky, but Ole is a killer. He’s six nine in his socks and he weighs two hundred and eighty. He’ll mash you.”

“I don’t think so,” Hugo repeated.

“Well, you’ll be meat. We’ll put you second on the list. And the lights’ll go out fast enough for yuh.”

Hugo wrote his name under a printed statement to the effect that the fight managers were not responsible for the results of the combat. The man who led him to a dressing-room was filled with sympathy and advice. He told Hugo that one glance at Ole would discourage his reckless avarice. But Hugo paid no attention. The room was dirty. It smelled of sweat and rubber sneakers. He sat there for half an hour, reading a newspaper. Outside, somewhere, he could hear the mumble of a gathering crowd, punctuated by the voices of candy and peanut-hawkers.

At last they brought some clothes to him. A pair of trunks that flapped over his loins, ill-fitting canvas shoes, a musty bath robe. When the door of his room opened, the noise of the crowd was louder. Finally it was hushed. He heard the announcer. It was like the voice of a minister coming through the stained windows of a church. It rose and fell. Then the distant note of the gong. After that the crowd called steadily, sometimes in loud rage and sometimes almost in a whisper.

In the arena it was dazzling. A bank of noisy people rose on all sides of him. Hugo walked down the aisle and clambered into the ring. Ole was one of the largest men he had ever seen in his life. There was no doubt of his six feet nine inches and his two hundred and eighty pounds. Hugo imagined that the man was not a scientific fighter. A bruiser. Well, he knew nothing of fighting, either.

A man in his shirt sleeves stood up in the ring and bellowed, “The next contestant for the reward of fifty dollars to stay three rounds with Battling Ole and one hundred dollars to knock him out is Mr. H. Smith.” They cheered. It was a nasty sound, filled with the lust for blood. Hugo realized that he was excited. His knees wabbled when he rose and his hand trembled as he took the monstrous paw of the Swede and saw his unpleasant smile. Hugo’s heart was pounding. For one instant he felt weak and human before Battling Ole. He whispered to himself: “Quit it, you fool; you know better; you can’t even be hurt.” It did not make him any more quiet.

Then they were sitting face to face. A bell rang. The hall became silent as the mountainous Swede lumbered from his corner. He towered over Hugo, who stood up and went out to meet him like David approaching Goliath. To the crowd the spectacle was laughable. There was jeering before they met. “Where’s your mamma?”

“Got your bottle, baby?”

“Put the poor little bastard back in his carriage.”

“What’s this—a fight or a freak show?” Laughter.

It was like cold water to Hugo. His face set. He looked at Ole. The Swede’s fist moved back like the piston of a great engine into which steam has been let slowly. Then it came forward. Hugo, trained to see and act in keeping with his gigantic strength, dodged easily. “Atta boy!”

“One for Johnny—dear!” The fist went back and came again and again, as if that piston, gathering speed, had broken loose and was flailing through the screaming air. Hugo dodged like a beam of light, and the murderous weapon never touched him. The spectators began to applaud his speed. He could beat the Swede’s fist every time. “Run him, kiddo!”

“It’s only three rounds.”

The bell. Ole was panting. As he sat in his corner, his coal-scuttle-gloves dangling, he cursed in his native tongue. Too little to hit. Bell. The second round was the same. Hugo never attempted to touch the Swede. Only to avoid him. And the man worked like a Trojan. Sweat seethed over his big, blank face. His small eyes sharpened to points. He brought his whole carcass flinging through the air after his fist. But every blow ended in a sickening wrench that missed the target.

The third round opened. The crowd suddenly tired of the sport. A shrill female voice reached Hugo’s cold, concentrated mind: “Keep on running, yellow baby!”

So. They wanted a killing. They called him yellow. The Swede was on him, elephantine, sweating, sucking great, rumbling breaths of air, swinging his fists. Hugo studied the motion. That fist to that side, up, down, now!

Like hail they began to land upon the Swede. Bewilderingly, everywhere. No hope of guarding. Every blow smashed, stung, ached. No chance to swing back. Cover up. His arms went over his face. He felt rivets drive into his kidneys. He reached out and clinched. They rocked in each other’s arms. Dazed by that bitter onslaught of lightning blows, Ole thought only to lock Hugo in his arms and crush him. When they clinched, the crowd, grown instantly hysterical, sank back in despair. It was over. Ole could break the little man’s back. They saw his arms spring into knots. Jesus! Hugo’s fist shot between their chests and Ole was thrown violently backward.