Gladiator by Philip Wylie

placidly, “my friend and I haven’t a cent between us. I’m Hugo Danner, from Webster University, and I’ll mail you the price of this feed tomorrow. I’ll write down my name and—”
    He got no further. The waiter spoke in a thick voice. “So! One of them guys, eh? Tryin’ to get away with it when I’m here, huh? Well, I tell you how you’re gonna pay. You’re gonna pay this check with a bloody mush, see?” His fist doubled and drew back. Hugo did not shift his position. The fist came forward, but an arm like stone blocked it. Hugo’s free hand barely flicked to the waiter’s jaw. He rolled under the table. “Come on,” he said, but Izzie had already vanished through the door.
    Hugo walked hurriedly up the street and turned a corner. A hand tugged at his coat. He turned and was confronted by Izzie. “I seen you through the window. Jeest, guy, you kin box. Say, I know where you kin clean up—if you got the nerve.”
    â€œClean up? Where?”
    â€œCome on. We better get out of here anyhow.”
    They made their way toward the river. The city changed character on the other side of the elevated railroad, and presently they were walking through a dirty, evil-smelling, congested neighborhood.
    â€œWhere are we going, Izzie?”
    â€œWait a minute, Mr. Danner.”
    â€œWhat’s the idea?”
    â€œYou wait.”
    Another series of dirty blocks. Then they came to a bulky building that spread a canopy over the sidewalk. “Here,” Izzie said, and pointed.
    His finger indicated a sign, which Hugo read twice. It said: “Battling Ole Swenson will meet all comers in this gymnasium at three this afternoon and eight to-night. Fifty dollars will be given to any man, black or white, who can stay three rounds with him, and one hundred dollars cash money to the man who knocks out Battling Ole Swenson, the Terror of the Docks.”
    â€œSee,” Izzie said, rubbing his hands excitedly, “mebbe you could do it.”
    A light dawned on Hugo. He smiled. “I can,” he replied. “What time is it?”
    â€œTwo o’clock.”
    â€œWell, let’s go.”
    They entered the lobby of the “gymnasium.” “Mr. Epstein,” Izzie called, “I gotta fighter for the Swede.”
    Mr. Epstein was a pale fat man who ignored the handicap of the dank cigar in his mouth and roared when he spoke. He glanced at Hugo and then addressed Izzie. “Where is he?”
    â€œThere.”
    Epstein looked at Hugo and then was shaken by laughter. “There, you says, and there I looks and what do I see but a pink young angel face that Ole would swallow without chewing.”
    Hugo said: “I don’t think so. I’m willing to try.”
    Epstein scowled. “Run away from here, kid, before you get hurt. Ole would laugh at you. This isn’t easy money. It takes a man to get a look at it.”
    Izzie stamped impatiently. “I tell you, Mr. Epstein, I seen this boy fight. He’s the goods. He can beat your Ole. I bet he can.” His voice caught and he glanced nervously at Hugo. “I bet ten dollars he can.”
    â€œHow much?” Epstein bellowed.
    â€œWell—say twenty dollars.”
    â€œHow much?”
    â€œFifty dollars. It’s all I got, Epstein.”
    â€œAll right—go in and sign up and leave your wad. Kid,” he turned to Hugo, “you may think you’re husky, but Ole is a killer. He’s six nine in his socks and he weighs two hundred and eighty. He’ll mash you.”
    â€œI don’t think so,” Hugo repeated.
    â€œWell, you’ll be meat. We’ll put you second on the list. And the lights’ll go out fast enough for yuh.”
    Hugo followed Izzie and reached him in time to see a fiftydollar bill peeled from a roll which was extracted with great intricacy from Izzie’s clothes. “I thought you hadn’t