Seated on one of the rustic benches, his white tennis shoes resting
against the lower iron of the railing, a Bavarian dachel snoozing
comfortably across his knees, was a man of fifty. He was broad of
shoulder, deep of chest, and clean-shaven. He had laid aside his Panama
hat, and his hair was clipped closely, and was pleasantly and honorably
sprinkled with gray. His face was broad and tanned; the nose was tilted,
and the wide mouth was both kindly and humorous. One knew, from the tint
of his blue eyes and the quirk of his lips, that when he spoke there would
be a bit of brogue. He was James Harrigan, one time celebrated in the ring
for his gameness, his squareness, his endurance; "Battling Jimmie"
Harrigan, who, when he encountered his first knock-out, retired from the
ring. He had to his credit sixty-one battles, of which he had easily won
forty. He had been outpointed in some and had broken even in others; but
only once had he been "railroaded into dreamland," to use the parlance of
the game. That was enough. He understood. Youth would be served, and he
was no longer young. He had, unlike the many in his peculiar service,
lived cleanly and with wisdom and foresight: he had saved both his money
and his health. To-day he was at peace with the world, with three sound
appetites the day and the wherewithal to gratify them.
True, he often dreamed of the old days, the roped square, the lights, the
haze of tobacco smoke, the white patches surrounding, all of a certain
expectant tilt, the reporters scribbling on the deal tables under the very
posts, the cheers as he took his corner and scraped his shoes in the
powdered resin, the padded gloves thrown down in the center of the canvas
which was already scarred and soiled by the preliminaries. But never,
never again; if only for the little woman's sake. Only when the game was
done did he learn with what terror and dread she had waited for his return
on fighting nights.
To-day "Battling Jimmie" was forgotten by the public, and he was happy in
the seclusion of this forgetfulness. A new and strange career had opened
up before him: he was the father of the most beautiful prima donna in the
operatic world, and, difficult as the task was, he did his best to live up
to it. It was hard not to offer to shake hands when he was presented to a
princess or a duchess; it was hard to remember when to change the studs in
his shirt; and a white cravat was the terror of his nights, for his
fingers, broad and stubby and powerful, had not been trained to the
delicate task of tying a bow-knot. By a judicious blow in that spot where
the ribs divaricate he could right well tie his adversary into a bow-knot,
but this string of white lawn was a most damnable thing. Still, the
puttering of the two women, their daily concern over his deportment, was
bringing him into conformity with social usages. That he naturally
despised the articles of such a soulless faith was evident in his constant
inclination to play hooky. One thing he rebelled against openly, and with
such firmness that the women did not press him too strongly for fear of a
general revolt. On no occasion, however impressive, would he wear a silk
hat. Christmas and birthdays invariably called forth the gift of a silk
hat, for the women trusted that they could overcome resistance by
persistence. He never said anything, but it was noticed that the hotel
porter, or the gardener, or whatever masculine head (save his own) was
available, came forth resplendent on feast-days and Sundays.