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He went over to his suitcase and got out the cards and the cribbage board. We played cribbage and he won three dollars off me.. John knocked at the door and came in.
'Want to play some cribbage, John?' Jack asked him.
John put his kelly down on the table. It was all wet. His coat was wet, too. 'Is it raining?' Jack asks.
'It's pouring,' John says. "The taxi I had got tied up in the traffic and I got out and walked.'
'Come on, play some cribbage,' Jack
'You ought to go and eat.'
'No,' says Jack. 'I don't want to eat yet.'
So they played cribbage for about half an hour and Jack won a dollar and a half off him.
'Well, I suppose we got to go eat,' Jack says. He went to the window and looked out.
'Is it still raining?"
'Let's eat in the hotel,' John says. 'All right,' Jack says. 'I'll play you once more to see who pays for the meal.'
After a little while Jack gets up and says, 'You buy the meal, John,' and we went downstairs and ate in the big dining room.
After we ate we went upstairs and Jack played cribbage with John again and won two dollars and a half off him. Jack was feeling pretty good. John had a bag with him with all his stuff in it. Jack took off his shirt and collar and put on a jersey and a sweater, so he would n't catch cold when he came out, and put his ring clothes and his bathrobe in a bag.
'You all ready?' John asks him. 'I'll call up and have them get a taxi.' Pretty soon the telephone rang and they said the taxi was waiting.
We rode down in the elevator and
went out through the lobby, and got in the taxi and rode around to the Garden. It was raining hard, but there was a lot of people outside on the streets. The Garden was sold out. As we came in on our way to the dressing room I saw how full it was. It looked like half a mile down to the ring. It was all dark. Just the lights over the ring.
'It's a good thing, with this rain, they did n't try and pull this fight in the ball park,' John said.
"They got a good crowd,' Jack says. "This is a fight that would draw a lot more than the Garden could hold.' 'You can't tell about the weather,' Jack says.
John came to the door of the dressing room and poked his head in. Jack was sitting there with his bathrobe on; he had his arms folded and was looking at the floor. John had a couple of handlers with him. They looked over his shoulder. Jack looked up.
'Is he in?' he asked.
'He's just gone down,' John said.
We started down. Walcott was just getting into the ring. The crowd gave him a big hand. He climbed through between the ropes and put his two fists together and smiled and shook them at the crowd, first at one Iside of the ring, then at the other, and then sat down. Jack got a good hand coming down through the crowd. Jack is Irish, and the Irish always get a pretty good hand. An Irishman don't draw in New York like a Jew or an Eyetalian, but they always get a good hand. Jack climbed up and bent down to go through the ropes, and Walcott came over from his corner and pushed the rope down for Jack to go through. The crowd thought that was wonderful. Walcott put his hand on Jack's shoulder and they stood there just for a second.
'So you're going to be one of these
popular champions,' Jack says to him. "Take your goddam hand off my shoulder.'
'Be yourself,' Walcott says.
This is all great for the crowd. How gentlemanly the boys are before the fight! How they wish each other luck!
Solly Freedman comes over to our corner while Jack is bandaging his hands and John is over in Walcott's corner. Jack put his thumb through the slit in the bandage and then wrapped his hand nice and smooth. I taped it around the wrist and twice across the knuckles.
I lifted the bathrobe off Jack and he leaned on the ropes and flexed his knees a couple of times and scuffed his shoes in the rosin. The gong rang and Jack turned quick and went out. Walcott came toward him and they touched gloves, and as soon as Walcott dropped his hands Jack jumped his left into his face twice. There was n't anybody ever boxed better than Jack. Walcott was after him, going forward all the time with his chin on his chest. He's a hooker and he carries his hands pretty low. All he knows is to get in there and sock. But every time he
'Hey,' Freedman says. "Where do gets in there close, Jack has the left you get all that tape?'
'Feel of it,' Jack says. 'It's soft, ain't it? Don't be a hick.'
Freedman stands there all the time while Jack bandages the other hand, and one of the boys that's going to handle him brings the gloves and I pull them on and work them around.
'Say, Freedman,' Jack asks. 'What nationality is this Walcott?'
'I don't know,' Solly says. 'He's some sort of a Dane.'
'He's a Bohemian,' the lad who brought the gloves said.
The referee called them out to the centre of the ring and Jack walks out. Walcott comes out smiling. They met and the referee put his arm on each of their shoulders.
'Hello, Popularity,' Jack says to Walcott.
'What do you call yourself Walcott for,' Jack says. 'Did n't you know he know he was a nigger?'
'Listen' says the referee, and he the referee, and he gives them the same old line. Once Walcott interrupts him. He grabs Jack's arm and says, 'Can I hit when he's got me like this?'
'Keep your hands off me,' Jack says. "There ain't no moving picture of this.' They went back to their corners.
hand in his face. It's just as though it's automatic. Jack just raises the left hand up and it's in Walcott's face. Three or four times Jack brings the right over, but Walcott gets it on the shoulder or high up on the head. He's just like all these hookers. The only thing he's afraid of is another one of the same kind. He's covered everywhere you can hurt him. He don't care about a left hand in his face.
After about four rounds Jack has him bleeding bad and his face all cut up, but every time Walcott's got in close he's socked so hard he's got two big red patches on both sides just below Jack's ribs. Every time he gets in close, Jack ties him up, then gets one hand loose and uppercuts him, but when Walcott gets his hands loose he socks Jack in the body so they can hear it outside in the street. He's a socker. It goes along like that for three rounds more. They don't talk any. They're working all the time. We worked over Jack plenty, too, in between the rounds. He don't look good at all, but he never does much work in the ring. He don't move around much, and that left hand is just automatic. It's just like it was connected with Walcott's face and Jack just had to wish it in every time.
Jack is always calm in close, and he does n't waste any juice. He knows everything about working in close, too, and he's getting away with a lot of stuff. While they were in our corner I watched him tie Walcott up, get his right hand loose, turn it, and come up with an uppercut that got Walcott's nose with the heel of the glove. Walcott was bleeding bad and leaned his nose on Jack's shoulder so as to give Jack some of it, too, and Jack sort of lifted his shoulder sharp and caught him against the nose, and then brought down the right hand and uppercut him again.
Walcott was sore as hell. By the time they'd gone five rounds he hated Jack's guts. Jack was n't sore; that is, he was n't any sorer than he always was. He certainly did used to make the fellows he fought hate boxing. That was why he hated Kid Lewis so. He never got the Kid's goat. Kid Lewis always had about three new dirty things Jack could n't do. Jack was as safe as a church all the time he was in there as long as he was strong. He certainly was treating Walcott rough. The funny thing was, it looked as though Jack was an open classic boxer. That was because he had all that stuff, too.
After the seventh round Jack says, 'My left's getting heavy.'
From then he started to take a beating. It did n't show at first. But instead of him running the fight it was Walcott was running it. Instead of being safe all the time, now he was in trouble. He could n't keep Walcott out with the left hand now. It looked as though it was the same as ever, only now, instead of Walcott's punches just missing him, they were just hitting him. He took an awful beating in the body.
'What's the round?' Jack asked.
'I can't stay,' Jack says. 'My legs are going bad.'
Walcott had been just hitting him. for a long time. It was like a baseball catcher pulls the ball and takes some of the shock off. From now on Walcott commenced to land solid. He certainly was a socking machine. Jack was just trying to block everything now. It did n't show what an awful beating he was taking. In between the rounds I worked on his legs. The muscles would flutter under my hands all the time I was rubbing them. He was sick as hell. 'How's it go?' he asked John, turning around, his face all swollen.
'It's his fight.'
'I think I can last,' Jack says. "I don't want this bohunk to stop me.'
It was going just the way he thought it would. He knew he could n't beat Walcott. He was n't strong any more. He was all right, though. His money was all right and now he wanted to finish it off right to please himself. He did n't want to be knocked out.
The gong rang and we pushed him out. He went out slow. Walcott came right out after him. Jack put the left in his face and Walcott took it, came in under it, and started working on Jack's body. Jack tried to tie him up and it was just like trying to hold on to a buzz saw. Jack broke away from it and missed with the right. Walcott clipped him with a left hook and Jack went down. He went down on his hands and knees and looked at us. The referee started counting. Jack was watching us and shaking his head. At eight John motioned to him. You could n't hear on account of the crowd. Jack got up. The referee had been holding Walcott back with one arm while he counted.
When Jack was on his feet Walcott started toward him.
'Watch yourself, Jimmy,' I heard Solly Freedman yell to him.
Walcott came up to Jack looking at him. Jack stuck the left hand at him. Walcott just shook his head. He backed Jack up against the ropes, measured him, and then hooked the left very light to the side of Jack's head and socked the right into the body as hard as he could sock just as low as he could get it. He must have hit him five inches below the belt. I thought the eyes would come out of Jack's head. They stuck way out. His mouth come open.
The referee grabbed Walcott. Jack stepped forward. If he went down, there went fifty thousand bucks. He walked as though all his insides were going to fall out.
'It was n't low,' he said. 'It was a accident.'
The crowd were yelling so you could n't hear anything.
showed on his face. All the time he was thinking and holding his body in where it was busted.
Then he started to sock. His face looked awful all the time. He started to sock with his hands low down by his side, swinging at Walcott. Walcott covered up and Jack was swinging wild at Walcott's head. Then he swung the left and it hit Walcott in the groin and the right hit Walcott right bang where he'd hit Jack. Way low. Walcott went down and grabbed himself there and rolled and twisted around.
The referee grabbed Jack and pushed him toward his corner. John jumps into the ring. There was all this yelling going on. The referee was talking with the judges and then the announcer got into the ring with the megaphone and says, 'Walcott on a foul.'
The referee is talking to John and he
'I'm all right,' Jack says. They says, 'What could I do? Jack would n't were right in front of us.
The referee looks at John and then he shakes his head.
'Come on, you dirty Polack,' Jack says to Walcott.
John was hanging on to the ropes. He had the towel ready to chuck in. Jack was standing just a little way out from the ropes. He took a step forward. I saw the sweat come out on his face like somebody had squeezed it, and a big drop went down his nose.
'Come on and fight,' Jack says to Walcott.
The referee looked at John and waved Walcott on.
'Go in there, you slob,' he says. Walcott went in. He did n't know what to do either. He never thought Jack could have stood it. Jack put the left in his face. There was all this yelling going on. They were right in front of us. Walcott hit him twice. Jack's face was the worst thing I ever saw the look on it. He was holding himself and all his body together, and it all
take the foul. Then when he's groggy he fouls him.'
'He'd lost it anyway,' John says. Jack's sitting on the chair. I've got his gloves off and he's holding himself in down there with both hands.
'Go over and say you're sorry,' John says into his ear. 'It'll look good.'
Jack stands up and the sweat comes out all over his face. I put the bathrobe around him and he holds himself in with one hand under the bathrobe and goes across the ring. They've picked Walcott up and they're working on him. There's a lot of people in Walcott's corner. Nobody speaks to Jack. He leans over Walcott.
'I'm sorry,' Jack says. I did n't mean to foul you.'
Walcott does n't say anything. He looks too damned sick.
'Well, you're the champion now,' Jack says to him. 'I hope you get a hell of a lot of fun out of it.'
'Leave the kid alone,' Solly Freed
'Hello, Solly,' Jack says. 'I'm sorry I fouled your boy.'
Freedman just looks at him. Jack went over to his corner walking that funny jerky way, and we got him down through the ropes and through the reporters' tables and out down the aisle. A lot of people want to slap Jack on the back. He goes out through all that mob in his bathrobe to the dressing room. It's a popular win for Walcott. That's the way the money was bet in the Garden.
Once we got inside the dressing room Jack lay down and shut his eyes. 'We want to get to the hotel and get a doctor,' John says.
'I'm all busted inside,' Jack says. 'I'm sorry as hell, Jack,' John
'It's all right,' Jack says.
He lies there with his eyes shut. "They certainly tried a nice double cross,' John said.
'Your friends Morgan and Steinfelt,' Jack said. 'You got nice friends.'
He lies there; his eyes are open now. His face has still got that awful drawn look.
'It's funny how fast you can think when it means that much money,' Jack says.
'You're some boy, Jack,' John says. 'No,' Jack says. 'It was nothing.'
WHAT IS IT ALL ABOUT?
BY BERNARD IDDINGS BELL
THE first president of the University of Chicago was accustomed to tell freshmen that education consisted not in an accumulation of facts, stowed away in the memory, or in the mastery of some technique whereby one might manipulate nature, possibly to one's own profit; but rather in the formulation of an explanation of things, including one's self. He used to say, 'If a man has reached the age of twenty-five without a fairly good theory about life, or the age of thirty without a settled philosophy of life, no matter how much else that man may know, he is an ignoramus.' Nothing wiser than this, or less in accord with the practice of this present moment, was ever said by an educator: that an educated man is
one who has worked out a way of looking at life which seems to him valid, and, by implication, that the business of an educational institution is to help him to do it. Particularly Dr. Harper believed this to be the function of the college, which deals with men and women at the time when their powers of generalization and synthesis are most freely and competently at work.
We hear a great deal about student revolt, student criticism of education. Most of this talk is uninformed. Unhappily, most students are not in revolt. They swallow what is taught them with a
despair-provoking readiness. With conformity to type they sleep through their college years as a formal preliminary (to be, if possible, alleviated by