“Please be careful, James,” Muireall said steadily. “If you’d like, I’ll have Robert wake me when you come home. Hopefully, you won’t need a stitch or three.”
James kissed her cheek and smiled down at her. “I’ll be fine, Muireall. I’m not one of your chicks. Anyway, I’ll have MacAvoy with me. He’ll make sure I’m well taken care of.”
“That man,” Aunt said. “Who are his people, James? What county did he come from? He never says!”
“No one cares much about that sort of thing these days,” James replied and kissed her cheek.
“Of course they care. What a ridiculous thing to say. How is anyone to know what sort of upbringing a person had? Who their parents and grandparents were? You mustn’t be stringing along with just any potato hoer, James. You’re a Mac—a Thompson and worthy.”
Muireall stood quickly. “Come now. Let’s clear these dishes for Mrs. McClintok.”
“Good luck, James!” Payden shouted to his brother’s retreating figure and punched the air, one fist after another. “He won’t need luck, though! He’s the best boxer in Philadelphia!”
“What are you doing?” Elspeth hissed at Kirsty as she stepped out of the water closet under the steps to the attic near eleven that evening. Kirsty jumped.
“You scared me,” Kirsty whispered.
“Where are you going? Why are you wearing a pair of pants?”
Kirsty looked around and pulled her sister into her room. “I’m going to watch James’s fight.”
“What?”
“Keep your voice down. Muireall would have a fit if she knew.”
“Of course she would and rightfully so. Take those pants off and get into bed.”
Kirsty shook her head. “No. I’m going to see James fight. I decided a while ago I wanted to see our brother win a bout, and this one is close by. I’m going down the steps and out the kitchen door. Don’t lock it behind me. I’ll be home in two hours if I time this right. I just have to pull my hair up and pin it, and I’ll be gone.”
Elspeth hurried to her room to pull on her robe and wake Aunt and Muireall. They would be able to talk some sense into Kirsty or just forbid her to leave. And then what would they do to keep her at home? Tie her to her bed? She took a deep breath and resigned herself to the role she’d taken on years ago when everyone else was focused on arriving and setting up a household and left a grieving and confused five-year old to Elspeth’s care. She quickly dug in the back of her clothes press for the pair of trousers that she wore under her skirts in lieu of petticoats when cleaning or doing other dirty jobs.
Once in a plain dark shirt, old boots, and a short jacket, she crept into Payden’s room and took his flat cap, then hurried down the stairs to the canning kitchen and pulled the door closed behind her. On the street, she could faintly see her sister ahead. “Kirsty,” she hissed, and the figure stopped.
“What are you doing, Elspeth? Muireall will be furious with you.”
“And not you?” she said and hurried to keep up with her sister’s pace.
“You’re the responsible one. I’m the one always in trouble. It’s expected of me, you know.”
Elspeth laughed. “Where is the fight being held?”
“Not more than two more blocks away at the warehouse on the corner across from the veterans’ home.”
Chapter 8
Alexander paid his fee and stepped into the warehouse, now teeming with men of all ages. He was hatless, with no waistcoat, just an old jacket he’d borrowed from his stable master over a plain shirt and dark pants. He blended in perfectly with this crowd of mostly working men. He saw the stakes were written in chalk on a slate board as he shouldered his way to the betting table. Odds were twenty to one in Thompson’s favor, and paper money was changing hands faster than he could follow. He put twenty dollars on the favorite, slipped his chit in his inside pocket, and moved toward the ring.
A warm-up fight had just finished, and that crowd was now up and moving around, stretching their legs in preparation for the main event. He went around the ring to the side facing the door and found an empty spot on the next to the top tier of seats. Alexander had never been to a bare-knuckle fight before, had only heard about them from Bert Kleinfeld. Bert was convinced this would be a great fight, memorable and evenly matched, but Alexander wasn’t so certain, considering the odds. Still, he wanted to see James Thompson fight.
The crowd was boisterous and half-drunk if the number of flasks that were visible in coat pockets were any indication. Plus he’d watched a loud drunken man thrown out a side door. The two who did the throwing did not look or act like random bystanders but more like paid henchmen for the promoter. There was going to be no side fights or bets at this event from the looks of things. Men, and even young boys, were still piling into the warehouse, and it was clear that by the time the fight started it would be standing room only.
Alexander’s eyes stopped briefly on two boys who’d just come through the door, their eyes down, their hats pulled tight on their heads. There was something familiar about them, even though he could not see them clearly through the smoke and only caught an occasional glimpse of them as others stepped in front of them. They were inching around the perimeter of the room, hoping for a vantage point, he imagined.
Where do I know them from? But he had no longer to think on those two boys as James Thompson’s opponent came through a side door to the roar of boos and jeers from the crowd. The seats were filling in all around Alexander, and he was assailed with the strong odors of cheap liquor, filthy clothes, sweat, and cabbage, of all things. Tony Padino was the opponent’s name, he heard from the bear of a man to his left, now leaning over and crowding him in his seat. Padino walked around the crudely built ring, spectators hanging over the ropes taunting the pugilist, laughing and swigging from flasks.
Then the place erupted in a deafening noise, and Alexander was pulled to his feet by virtue of how smashed he was against the men to his right and left. The whistles from the men behind him were deafening and he was sweating from the heat of the bodies and the depth of the crowd. But he found himself clapping and shouting just the same as the men around him as James Thompson made his way from an opposite door to the ring, bending down to slip through the ropes several men held up for him to enter.
Thompson was a fierce-looking competitor, and Alexander was thankful he was not the one to be meeting him in a ring. He was bare chested, wearing only a pair of close-fitting pants with a red sash holding them at his waist and tight leather flat-soled boots. He was muscular and thick chested. His hair was slicked back, and his skin shone, glistening in the light of the room.
“Thompson rubs hisself up with kitchen grease,” the man to Alex’s left was shouting to a man sitting a few rows ahead. “Make the punches slide off his skin, they say.”
“Is that allowed in this here match?” the man shouted back.
“Red Chambliss makes the rules be whatever he can and still get the fighters to come fight. If the grease makes the punches slide, then the bout is longer and Red makes more money,” another man said. “He’s always in favor of that!”