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Updated: June 29, 2025
"In the name of the Mayflower and John Alden, and hallowed Plymouth Rock, look, Flash, look! For the love o' Mike look, before he moves and spoils the tableau!" Hogarty lifted his head and looked. Denny Bolton's eyes had returned from their deliberate excursion about the gymnasium just in time to meet halfway that utterly impersonal scrutiny.
Hogarty reached out one long arm and dropped a hand heavily upon Morehouse's shoulder. He was smiling openly now smiling with a barefaced enjoyment which the plump newspaper man had never before known him to exhibit.
But if Sutton failed to note the play of those muscles that bunched and quivered and ran like live things beneath the skin of the boy's back, when Bobby Ogden threw off the enveloping wrap with an ostentatious flourish and knelt to lace on his gloves, that disclosure was not entirely lost upon Hogarty.
"He said that there was a man at that address meaning you that would fall on my neck and weep, if I happened to have the stuff. And he warned me, too, not to think that Jed The Red fought like a school boy, just because he was a second-rater because he didn't, nothing like that!" Hogarty laughed aloud. That sudden, staccato chuckle was almost startling coming from his pale lips.
As soon as you finish dressing Ogden here will show you the rest of the works, if you'd care to look around a little. It is entirely likely that we shall want to talk with you directly." He wheeled abruptly toward Ogden who had been listening without a word, the broad grin never leaving his lips. It was the silk-shirted boy to whom Hogarty addressed the rest of that sentence.
Even since the conference in Hogarty's little office, when he had agreed to the ex-lightweight's plan, it had been vexing him, no nearer solution than it had been that day when he assured Hogarty that there was more behind young Denny's eagerness to meet Jed Conway than the prize-money could account for.
For the boy's body, squatting there, crouched waiting for the bell, was taut in every sinew, quivering with eagerness. "You just failed to place 'em right, I guess," he reassured Boots. "Take a little more time, and get him flush on the bone. You can slow up a little. He isn't even fast enough to run away from you." Again Hogarty nodded to the boy called Legs, and again the gong rang.
And when he began to speak there was nothing but simple interrogation in the almost ponderous voice. "I I reckon," he said slowly, "that you must be Jesse Hogarty Mr. Jesse Hogarty?" Flash Hogarty looked at him, looked at that outstretched hand looked back at his steady eyes and the smile that parted his lips. And Hogarty did a thing that made even Bobby Ogden gasp.
Old Jerry saw him fling fiercely tense words into Hogarty's face, and Hogarty stood back. He knelt before the slack body on the stool and tried to raise the head; he held the bit of bright web before him, but there was no recognition in Denny's eyes. And the old man heard the plump reporter's words, sob-like with excitement: "She sent it," he hammered at those deaf ears.
Hogarty turned it over. "Introducing the Pilgrim," ran the caption in the cramped handwriting of Chub Morehouse's stubby fingers. And, beneath, that succinct sentence which was not so cryptic after all: "Some of them may have science, and some of them may have speed, but after all it's the man who can take punishment who gets the final decision. Call me up, if this ever comes to hand."
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