Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Anyway, he needn't have come paradin' into the front office in his gym suit to show me his nutty theory of how Young Disko landed that knockout on the Australian in the breakaway. "Turn over!" says I. "You're on your back! He couldn't have done anything of the kind." "Couldn't, eh?" growls Swifty. "Ahr-r-r-r chee! Couldn't give him the shoulder on the jaw! Ain't I seen it done?
"Nice-a man, Meester Hama." "Is he?" says I. "Well, you wait here until I see him about this. Wait understand?" With that I skips upstairs, and explains the mystery of our bein' mobbed. "It's a whiskered freak on the top floor they're after," says I. "Swifty, run up and get that Ham and Eggs gent. I'm yearnin' for speech with him.
"Ah-r-r-r chee!" says Swifty. "How do I know?" That's some surprisin' too; for as a rule he ain't strong on drawin' fine distinctions. If they're young and flossy dressed, he calls 'em "fluffs"; but anything over twenty-five, no matter how she's costumed, is a lady to Swifty, even a scrubwoman. So his describin' this visitor as a female party gets me curious.
But she just presses her lips together thin, narrow-gage lips, they was and goes on givin' us that distant, unconcerned look. Meanwhile Swifty, with his face bent towards the floor, ain't gettin' any view at all, and is only guessin' what's happenin'. He squirms impatient. "Say, Shorty," he grumbles, "I got a few bones in me neck, remember. Break, can't you?"
The nearest fellow was "Brooklyn Danny, the Dip"; the next one went by the name of "Buffalo Johnny, the Strong Arm Man"; the fourth responded to "Ohio Jack, the Sneak"; a neat looking fellow who sported a diamond stud upon his shirt bosom answered to the appropriate name of "Diamond Al"; while the criminal tendencies of the sixth were plainly stamped in his nickname, "Niagara Swifty, the Shop Lifter", while the last one, a red-haired, wary-looking chap answered to the rather suggestive name of "Atlanta Jerry, the Hold-Up."
"Swifty," says I, hangin' up the 'phone, "trot around to the Casino and get a lower box for to-night, while I find a florist's and order an eight-foot horseshoe of American beauties." "Chee!" says Swifty, gawpin'. "What's doin'?" "I'm tryin' to celebrate a doubleheader," says I.
There are now no boxing contests in New York. Swifty Bob and his fellows would be shocked at the idea of such a thing. All that happens now is exhibition sparring bouts between members of the club. It is true that next day the papers very tactlessly report the friendly exhibition spar as if it had been quite a serious affair, but that is not the fault of Swifty Bob.
The title under which the Highfield used to be known till a few years back was "Swifty Bob's." It was a good, honest title. You knew what to expect; and if you attended séances at Swifty Bob's you left your gold watch and your little savings at home. But a wave of anti-pugilistic feeling swept over the New York authorities.
Say, Swifty, you go back and tell J. Bayard that if he's got nerve enough to want to see me, it'll be a case of wait. And if he's at all messy about it, I give you leave to roll him downstairs. The front of some folks! Come on now, Dominie! Cover up better with that right mitt: I'm goin' to push in a few on you this time."
"Ahr-r-r-chee!" says he. "That Hamand boob, stickin' up for the Waps and Guineas, he he's a nut, a last year's nut!" "Hardly that, Swifty," says I. "A next year's nut, I should say." "It seemed so absurdly simple at first too," says J. Bayard Steele, tappin' one of his pearl-gray spats with his walkin' stick. "But now well, the more I see of this Gerald Webb, the less I understand."
Word Of The Day