I took an oath for this job. The oath says bring him in. That's what I'll do.
Meanwhile, Charlie was far from being knocked out. He had been hit hard enough to get knocked down and down was where he planned to stay. To make it look good, he made an attempt to get up but quickly collapsed again.
The count of ten seemed to go on forever and when it was over his brothers rushed over to him to help him out of the ring. Charlie could hear the commotion that the sudden end of the fight had bought on. Crabbe would certainly have his hands full calming them down.
Mike and Sam helped him to his feet again just as the music was starting. There was not time to stop and listen as they needed to get out of the ring and the building before anybody thought to check out if he was okay after the supposed knock out. With the help of Mike, Charlie staggered out of the building with his head hung low to make it look like the blow had done its job. Sam went back to grab their gear but had to contend with questions from a few of the spectators.
Outside of the building, Mike and Charlie were met by Matt, who had been in the crowd. He took one look at Charlie, raised his eyebrow and said in a slightly amused tone, "The sooner we get him home the better."
Charlie couldn't agree more. There was only so much acting he could do in one day. When Sam joined them, the four headed towards the home of their parents.
Funny, he honestly didn't think he had him all that hard, it was more a slip when his opponent tried to back up, but Robert stood there then as the referee counted Charlie out. His brothers then raced up to take him away while Robert had his arm raised by the ref acknowledging the victor. The applause was mixed, some booed of course. Obviously Charlie had been more well known than he was, plus Robert was Irish.
Still a win was a win and he was going to make some cash money! He couldn't help but smile at his corner man. Robert had nothing against the other fellow in fact he wanted to shake hands with the guy but he was out of there so fast you'd think he was late for his own wedding. Oh well, too late now.
His cornerman now hissed, "Let's go. You can get dressed and you can get paid....by the grace of God." There was always the possibility of a doublecross.
Robert doubted that though.
**********
Caroline listened with a modicum of sympathy to Crabbe's plea for her to get up in the ring and do an impromptu performance for the crowd due to the faster ending than he had hoped for in the bout. Still, she was not about to do that. She was a professional and she worked as one in the saloon, for pay. She had come here to just relax prior to having to sing and dance as usual this very evening. Nope, this was her time for herself.
Besides she wanted to iron out the details of young and handsome Lt. Greene taking her out to eat sometime. He seemed quite the proper gentleman and yet he was still actually willing to go out in public with a woman like her. Amazing. She had to give him the chance to do just that. It might be real nice. You never knew if you didn't try it.
"Sorry hon, but I am leaving now. I already had to pay for a ticket to get in, you can't seriously expect me to have to perform for free on top of it? And even before you can offer me payment, this is my free time. So no, your event, your problem. Good luck, hon," she smiled and sashayed on out accompanied by the soldier boy....errrr....officer.
Extract from: Wentworth, A.S. & Knightly, F.S. [Ghost Writer], 1917. Sketches of Frontier Life: memoirs of the Territories in the Old West. New York: Palmer and Palmer [Reprinted in facsimile edition, University of Montana Press, 1972], pp. 167-168.
"A journalist once asked me, after I had become a successful actress on the New York stage, where and when I first realised that I could 'hold' an audience. I replied, to his surprise, 'at a boxing match'! Such fights in those days, in the far West, were brutal and barbaric bare-knuckle affairs, this particular one being held in a barn, where men would bet coins, dollar bills and even gold nuggets on the outcome of the scrap.
Ladies were as welcome as men and I had gone along with C______ to watch. An attractive blonde girl, a little older than myself, C_____ was a very good singer of the old saloon style and I was her accompanist at the time. She was a skilled performer who could hold the attention of a saloon full of rowdy men, or a barnful for that matter, and made the thing look so easy that I thought I could do it easily , too.
In this particular bout, the promoter had brought in a 'ringer' from outside the town who finished off the local contender in record time during the second round [sic], leaving the crowd surly and apt to riot. The promoter asked C______ to calm them down with a song, which she refused, walking out of there on the arm of a handsome soldier and with better things to do! The poor promoter had to 'scrape the bottom of the barrel' and get me to stand in the ring and belt one out for them.
I jumped into the ring full of a confidence which suddenly evaporated when I gazed out upon that noisy and inattentive crowd; I was suddenly frozen with terror. A local lad who was to accompany me whispered 'just start singing' and, without really choosing, I started into "Virginia Belle": a tune I usually hummed when I was scrubbing floors at the saloon and which I imaged Mister Stephen Foster had written all about myself! I was no doubt out of key and as 'flat as a pancake', (C______ later taught me some tricks to 'fake' a note you couldn't quite make) moreover, the song was a maudlin and depressing one, but the nostalgic words and my raw, untutored rendering of it seemed to somehow catch the men's attention and quieten them down.
The promoter later slapped me on the back (hard!) and told me 'Muddy' for I was still using my real name in those days 'There wasn't a dry eye in the house! You sure saved my bacon there!" He never did pay me, though."
[End]