There is no Jim Robinson, except in name. The opponent of Sailor Clancy in tonight's fight is no less a person than young Jerry Benham, multi-millionaire and sportsman. It is a matter of regret, since Mr. Benham chose, for personal reasons, to hide his identity under another name, that the _Despatch_ could not keep the matter secret, but the _Despatch_ is in the business of supplying news to its patrons, news not presented in other journals, and so important an item as this, of course, could not be suppressed.
The murder was out. We searched the other papers. Nothing.
"A beat!" muttered Jack. "I'd like to show the fellow what a beating is."
Jack Ballard was merely angry. I was bewildered into a state of helplessness. What should we do? What _could_ we do? The damage was done. Telling Jerry wouldn't help matters and might unnerve him. We disconnected the telephone and dined at the apartment, making a pretense of eating, nervously awaiting the hour when we should go to the Garden. We had reached the coffee, of which we were much in need, when there was a ring at the bell and Ballard Senior came into the room, a copy of the _Despatch_ in his hand.
"We have," said Jack with an assumption of calmness.
The old man raged the length of the room and turned.
"Do you mean that you've let this thing go on without trying to stop it--without letting me know--"
"We did try to stop it. There was no use in letting you know. Jerry's mind was made up."
"Jerry! The fool is ruining himself--and us. The thing must be stopped--at once."
Jack smiled coolly. "I don't see how you're going to do that."
The father stamped the length of the room again. "I'll show you. Where is Clancy?"
"I don't know. You'll find him at Madison Square Garden about ten."
"Well, you must come with me. I've got to find him."
"Buy him off. This match can't take place."
"Do you mean that?" asked Jack with a smile.
"Did you ever know me to waste words?--Come!"
However lenient Henry Ballard had been to his son, at that moment the parental word was law, and Jack obeyed, taking up his hat and gloves, and laying a pink ticket on the table.
And they went out hastily, the old man from beginning to end having ignored me completely. I sank in a chair, my gaze shifting from the ticket to the brandy bottle and cigarettes. I wanted to do something--I didn't know what. I hadn't drunk or smoked for twelve years, but that' night I did both. The brandy steadied, the cigarette quieted my nerves. I sat there alone over the half-cleared dinner table, resolutely impelling calmness. The ticket stared at me, a symbol of Jerry's destiny.... My thought shifted curiously to the placid Miss Gore. Whatever Fate had in store for Jerry, this phase of his life would pass as she had said, the mind would survive. Something told me that tonight would mark a turning point in Jerry's career--how or what I could not know, but for the first time I realized how deeply I was committed to Jerry's plans. I wanted the bout to take place. I wanted to see it--win or lose I was committed to it and to Jerry.