LITMIR.BIZ

      CHAPTER XVI.

       TO BREAK AN ENEMY'S WRIST.

       Table of Contents

      Buster Kelley was a character. Professor Kelley he called himself. He claimed to be a great pugilist, and he was forever telling of the men he had put to sleep. But he couldn't produce the papers to show for it. The public had to take his word, if they took anything.

      In fact, he had never fought a battle in his life, unless it was with a boy half his size. He made a bluff, and it went. The youngsters who came to Yale and desired to be instructed in the manly art were always recommended to Kelley.

      To give Kelley his due, he was really a fairly good boxer, and he might have made a decent sort of a fight if he had possessed the courage to accept a match and the self denial and energy to go through a regular course of training.

      But Kelley was making an easy living "catching suckers," and there was no real reason why he should go through the hardships of training and actually fighting so long as he could fool the youngsters who regarded him as a one-time great and shining light of the prize ring.

      He was too shrewd to stand up with any pupil who might get the best of him and permit that pupil to hammer away at him. He kept them at work on certain kinds of blows, so he always knew exactly what was coming. In this manner of training them he never betrayed just how much he really knew about fighting.

      Some of the young fellows who became Kelley's pupils were the sons of wealthy parents, and then it happened that the professor worked his little game for all there was in it. He sold them "secrets," and they paid dearly for what they learned. Some of the secrets were of no value at all, and some were actually worth knowing.

      It happened that he did know how to break a man's wrist in a very simple manner, providing he could find just the right opportunity. It was a simple trick, but the opportunity to practice it could seldom be found in a fight.

      Kelley's eyes, which were somewhat bleary, bulged with greed as he saw Browning count out the money.

      "It's givin' yer der trick dirt cheap—see?" said the professor. "I never sold it less dan twice dat ermount before. Dat's straight. I'll have ter make yer promise not ter tell it ter der odder chaps before I instructs yer."

      "If I buy it it is mine," said Bruce.

      "Come off der roof! You enters inter an' agreement wid me dat yer don't blow dis t'ing, ur I don't tell yer."

      "What if I want to tell a particular friend?"

      "Yer don't tell him. Dat's all. I had ter pay t'ree hunderd dollars ter learn dis, an' sign a 'greement dat I wouldn't give it erway. Jem Mace tort me dis trick w'en I sparred wid him in Liverpool. He says ter me, says he: 'Buster, ye're a boid, dat's wot ye are. If you knowed der trick of breakin' a bloke's wrist dere ain't no duffer in der woild dat can do yer. I'll show yer der crack fer sixty pound.' He wouldn't come down a little bit, an' I paid him wot he asked. Since dat time I've knocked roun' all over der woild, an' it's saved me life fife times. Dat was a cheap trick wot I got from old Jem, dat were. A dago pulled a knife on me oncet fer ter cut me wide open, but I broke der dago's wrist quicker dan yer can spit."

      "Well, here is your money, and now I want to know that trick."

      "Yer 'grees not ter tell it ter anybody?"

      "Yes, I agree."

      "Dat settles it."

      Kelley took the money and carefully stowed it away in his clothes.

      "Strip up an' git inter yer trainin' rig," he directed.

      Bruce went into the back room, and Buster poked himself in the ribs with his thumb, grinning and winking at his own reflection in the cracked mirror.

      "Oh, say! but I'm a peach!" he told himself in a confidential whisper. "If der college perfessers don't git arter me ergin I'll make me forchune right yere."

      Kelley had originally hung out a sign and advertised to instruct young gentlemen in boxing, but the faculty had made it rather warm for him, and it was generally supposed that he had been forced to leave New Haven. He had not left, but he had changed his quarters to the rooms he now occupied, one flight up at the back of a saloon.

      In a short time Bruce called that he was ready, and the professor leisurely strolled into the back room, where there was a punching bag, a striking machine, all kinds of boxing gloves, and other paraphernalia such as a man in Kelley's business might need.

      At one side of the room were several small closets, in which Kelley's pupils kept their training suits while they were not wearing them. The door of one closet was open, and Browning's street clothes were hanging on some hooks inside.

      Browning had got into trunks, stockings, and light, soft-bottomed shoes. He was stripped to the waist.

      Buster walked around the lad, inspecting him with a critical eye, punching here and there with his fingers, feeling of certain muscles and some points where there seemed to be a superabundance of flesh.

      "Well, say!" cried the professor. "I'd like ter know wot yer kickin' erbout! I never seen a feller work off fat no faster dan wot youse has, an' dat's on der dead. Why, w'en yer comes yere yer didn't have a muscle dat weren't buried in fat, an' now dey're comin' out hard all over yer. You'd kick ef yer wuz playin' football!"

      "That's all right," said Bruce, rather impatiently. "I know what I want, and I am paying you to give it to me. Go ahead."

      "Don't be so touchy," scowled Kelley. "Tackle der bag a while, an' let's see how yer work."

      Browning went at the punching bag while the professor stood by and called the changes. He thumped it up against the ceiling and caught it on the rebound thirty times in succession, first with his right and then with his left. Then he went at it with both hands and fairly made it hum. Then, at the word, with remarkable swiftness, he gave it fist and elbow, first right and then left. Then he did some fancy work at a combination hit and butt.

      By the time Buster called him off Browning was streaming with perspiration and breathing heavily.

      "Dat's first rate," complimented the professor. "Yer does dat like yer wuz a perfessional."

      "Great Scott!" gasped Bruce. "I'd never torture myself in this way if I didn't have to! It is awful!"

      He looked around for a chair, but Buster grinned and said:

      "Dat's right, set right down—nit. Youse don't do dat no more in dis joint. Wen I gits yer yere, yer works till yer t'rough—see? Dat's der way ter pull der meat off er man."

      "Well, what's next?"

      "See if yer can raise yer record anoder pound on der striker."

      Bruce went at the striking machine, which registered the exact number of pounds of force in each blow it received.

      "Has any one beaten me yet?" he asked.

      "Naw. Dere ain't nobody come within ninety pound of yer."

      Bruce looked satisfied, but he made up his mind to raise his record if possible, and he succeeded in adding

Скачать книгу