The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [201]
“Sic ‘em, Keefe!” Kelly said.
They crossed over to the park. The trees and grass were deep green, and they made Studs think of the trees on that day as a kid, when he licked Kelly. People were walking, they seemed contented, as if nothing was bothering them. The only way he would have that feeling was if he could get Lucy.
“Lonigan, that rat Haggerty can’t kid me! He’s pulling his own leg. That bastard thinks he’s going to be sewer-pipe layer, and I was speaking to a friend of mine who’s an assistant engineer down at Grant Park, and he told me I got that job sewn up. That skunk ain’t puttin’ nothing over on anybody but himself,” Barney quietly said.
Studs smiled. He wasn’t able to appreciate things like he had used to. Goddamn Lucy! He shouldn’t let her be bothering him; wasn’t he young, healthy and tough, didn’t he have some-thing to look forward to, hadn’t he even bought himself a couple of stocks that the old man said were hot stuff?
Only.. .
“Well, what are we going to do?” Studs said, feeling restless.
II
Shorty Wolfson, a young chap the size of a bantamweight who worked as a lineman for the telephone company, boxed with Eddie Eastman on the grass in the park. He tore into Eastman and cracked his jaw. Eastman lay down white. Milt Rosensplatz, the referee, counted ten.
“You’re pretty good. There’s a yellow streak all the way down your spine,” Studs said.
Eddie tried to justify himself, and they told him to get away with that BS.
Wils Gillen and Swede Elston boxed like two clowns. Wils grimaced, swung, missed, fell on his face. He jumped up, rubbed his glove across his nose, hunched himself, cocked his hands. Swede toe-danced backwards out of danger. They missed hay-makers, and clinched. They made faces at each other for a three-minute round and didn’t land a blow. Studs told them not to box another round, because they were liable to break their hands on a tree.
Rosensplatz, the husky, flat-footed Jewboy, and Big Nose Jerry Rooney, from Johnny O’Brien’s class at St. Patrick’s, put on the gloves.
“Let there be light and there was light! Let there be Louisa Nolan’s, and there was Three Star Hennessey! Let there be nose, and there was Rooney!” Young Rocky said.
“What battlers these boys are,” Studs said, as they jabbed cautious gloves at one another.
“These punks are all the same. They can all fool around with fourteen-years-old girls, and not make the grade, but they got sawdust in their guts,” Kelly sneered.
“Hey, Rooney, when did you get so good?” asked Doyle.
“I feel like I might go a round with one of the punks,” Tommy said.
“Me too, but we don’t want to hurt them,” Studs said.
“A good stiff punch might wake ‘em up, and they’ll quit flogging the dummy,” Doyle said.
“Hey, punk, I’ll box a round with you,” Red said.
“No slugging,” O’Neill replied.
Red and O’Neill boxed. O’Neill fought defensively, jabbing with straight lefts, blocking Red’s lunges. He caught Red on the nose with a left jab.
“Think you’re tough!” Red said, his nose bleeding.
“It was an accident,” O’Neill apologized.
“Better cut it out, Red, you’re getting sore, and you don’t want to kill the punk,” Doyle said.
“Think you can fight me! Think you’re tough!” Kelly bullied, while Wolfson unlaced his gloves, and Studs held a handkerchief to his nose.
“We were just boxing,” O’Neill said.
“You better say that,” Red said, walking over to the drinking fountain by the boathouse.
“That isn’t anything. Red’s nose always bleeds easy,” Studs said, thinking Red was slipping, remembering how he had given Red a bloody nose in their fight, feeling proud because he knew he was able to stand the gaff when Kelly couldn’t, glad Red had been shown up.
Doyle boxed with O’Neill. Doyle rushed, and O’Neill again boxed defensively, jabbing with his left, blocking, trying an occasional jab to the guts with a right cross.