Evening Star Newspaper, June 7, 1931, Page 84

STU A Story of the Wrestling Ring and the Magic Power of Fame. BY SAMUEL MERWIN Pictures by Rex Maxon ILDRED'S cheeks made him think of rose petals. For a cent he'd reach cut and stroke them. Right across the restaurant table. It wouldn’t do, of course. Even had they been alone somewhere. She wasn't that sort. The aloofness of her cobalt eyes, darkly fringed eyes, back in there under the curving brim of her hat, was disheartening. Did she suspect the state he was in? Girls were said to be smart about those things. But she didn’t give a sign. Quite at her ease, she was. Always that way. He'd never be able to put his turbulent feelings into words. And he couldn’t talk about anything else. That was what made him so gloomy, of course. Rotten poor company. It was a wonder she could stand him at all. They were sup- posed to be pretty thick. Together almost evdty day lately. People coupled their names. She couldn't help knowing that. “You're going on with that course?” she asked. He nodded grimly. She smiled. “It seems odd.” “0Odd?” “I mean with all you've done.” “What have I done?” “0Oh, come, George! eWenn o . . 2" “You're pretty famous. People still point you Put. “There goes George Wilbur.’” “That foot ball stuff!” He almost snorted it. “Really, George . . . after all, it's something to make the all-America. With simply all the newspapers raving about you.” “Maybe. But I'm . . . I'm thinking of some- thing a lot more important than that.” There, he'd almost said it. Surely she'd catch it now. But she didn't. “Oh well,” said she in her, serene way, “we won't be so silly as to quarrel about nothing.” Then, with a quick, fresh turn of interest, “Oh, I meant to tell you. There's a newspaper girl helping us on the press work.”™ (This would be for that Junior League show.) “You must have heard of her. Barbara Betts.” short-story Don’t pose.” E shifted his big frame in the chair. The name was familiar. But what of it? She had the darndest way of switching topics. “She's a sob sister, you know. Quite well known. Does murders and all. Airplanes. Prize fights. Oh, everything . . . George, she's a pe¥son!” Crudeness came over him. He'd almost got it out. Couldn’t stop now. “You don’t think much cf this writing idea? Of my fighting it out, I mean?” “Oh, I didn’'t mean that. Writing must be awfully interesting.” “But?” “Oh, where people have time for it. But with all your vigor I should think you'd want to go in for someothing important.” “Selling bonds?” “George!” Her father was president of Pierce-Pettijohn, the biggest investment bankers in town. Her brothers and all her imposing friends. . . . But he’d broken loose. Couldn’t stop. “I swore, when I left college, I wouldn't do that.” “Of course, if a person could be famous . . . collected editions and receptions in your honor and a big following.” . . . “Yes, money!” Curious he should blurt that out so roughly. What was all this, anyway? What were they rowing about? Thoughtfully, gently, she spoke (chin on hands): “There is something about the bank- ing business . . . something important. Oh, you know how we look up to the men that suc- ceed in it . . . they're the big men.” “They handle the money.” It was like a quarrel. He'd supposed he was going to ask h-r to marry him. Remotely he gelt that h> h-_. actually asked her and that they’d been discussing it. And had clashed. Whe switched the topic again. Then they Wwalked out to her roadster. _ “Can I drop you somewhere, George?” “No, thanks.” “See you this evening?” He appeared to be thinking painfully. He~ gave a start and straightened up. He'd hit ou something. “No . . . there’s something I . . . I don’t believe I can talk about it now. There was something I meant to . . . I may not be . . . imay not be around for a while, | . Work something out.” : on earth was he trying to say? Stand- thg there, a big, handsome thing, convulsively Bwallowing ? “#jt’s"a ‘phiony country!” This was an qut- The gong. They were at it, coolly groping. Mildred found herself on the edge of her chair, her breath short, her knees burst. “Trick stuff! Sell your personality! Airplanes! Movies! Press agents! Swim the Channel! Oh, I know what's important! I'll show you!" He rushed away. She stood, the prettily chiseled lips parted a little, gazing after him. ‘Then stepped into the roadster and started up the motor; but sat musing. . . . Probably, in time, this bolshevik mood could be twisted into something a little nearer sense. It would have :; be, of course. Or she’'d simply have to drop She drove home. ECAUSE “Terrible Tim"” Burke was booked for the star bout at the Arena—against Lad Waniscek, the “Lion of Lithuania”—the Planet people sent Barbara Betts to occupy a ringside seat and write one of her spirited stories. The promoter was delighted. Squire Bassett that would be, the “Old Squire” of local sporting tradition. He’'d had all that pro- motion business under his hat for a couple of decades. That is, around Boston. The papers hadn’'t been kind to professional wrestling. For years the business had exhaled an unattractive odor. But this Burke was a new note. Down in New York and out West he'd won sorething like 40 consecutive bouts, nearly all of them in startlingly quick time. Cynical old-time observers of the sport even admitted that he might be straight. The cham- pion, “Rough Red” Cahoon, was openly dodging a meeting. And so, Barbara Betts, with a bored reporter at her elbow, limped down a long aisle and sat in a kitchen chair directly against the 24-foot platform and almost under the three ropes of red plush. The news trickled down into the dressing and rubbing rooms. This while the preliminary matches were on. “A lot she’ll know about wrestling,” said Gus Gotch, the scissors-hold expert from Canton, Ohio. “Great for business, though, boys,” remarked Sweeney Todt, the press agent. Burke, when he came into the ring, wore a quiet look. But the Lion'd better look out. Speced and strength, that was Terrible Tim. He beat 'em to it. Not so much of this slow milling around, pawing for holds. Just dove into ’em. Up there in the ring they were ballyhooing now. Anncuncement stuff. There he stood, Burke, his blue bathrobe swinging open, lean- ing quietly back in his corner with his big hands on the top ropes. Over across from him the Lion towered and beetled. Like a mad gorilla. His regular stuff. Scaring ‘em to death. But it didn't go with Burke. He wasn't even looking. Once his clear gaze strayed dcwn to where that slender, bright-eyed girl sat among the coatless reporters. Liitle Betts of the Planet. Funny game, sending her. Now the blue robe was off. The referee had ’'em in the middle of the ring. Pat MacMann was referee. A wrestler himself. And he'd trained with the Lion. They'd done a brother act around the smaller cities for years. Burke was sure taking an awful chance. Pat wauldn't give him a thing. He'd have to murder the Lion a ccuple of times to get the decision. If he did it, though— if he was really as good as that—then Rough Red Cahoon would have to come through. The bell. There was the Lion, pulling his fright stuff, No gcod. As they were reaching he tried a sudden blow with the heel of his hand. Ah-h-h! No. Burke beat him to it. Knocked his face up, then cuffed him half round the ring. Say, the-boy was good! The Lion looked indignant in a confused way. Shook his head and deliberately stepped half through the ropes. Trying to clear that cuffed head. The crowd was yelling with delight. : Pat was ordering him back in, but not hurrying him. But Burke, it began to ap- pear, knew all about Pat. He leaped . . . the quickest thimg! . . . caught the suy- prised Lioa by the head and yanked him in himself. Just with his hands. Burke actually gave him a whirl, sort of waved him around by the head. Wow! Tossed him to the ficor with a thump. But he didn’t jump on him. Just backed to the ropes and waited in that quiet way. .. Slowly, warily, the Lion ,got himself wp. They were jeering and boeing him now..Jeer- shaking. ing the Lion of Lithuania! If Burke'd give him time. And he seemed to be giving it, 0. . . . No, he dove! Straight for that rock-ribbed stomach. The Lion had just wit enough, at the moment, for a stumbling side slip. If Burke'd hit him full he'd 'a’ knocked him into the ticket office. Burke was out. Through the ropes. Some chairs banged down. Quite a mix-up. Ex- cited people untangling themselves. Every- body yelling their heads off. Now he was up. His turn to shake his head. Wonder he hadn’t cracked his skull on a typewriter or something. But he was climbing slowly back. - The Lion rushed, of course. Reached for s head hold. But Burke dodged. Ran across. Another rush and another dcdge. A third rush. This time. . . . Gosh! Wow! A bang. A hundred and eighty hats sailing through the tobacco smoke. You couldn't hear yourself talk. It wasn't like yelling or cheering, it was just a steady roar. This time Burke, turning like _a panther, had caught him full and hurled him flat on his back. Well, that was the first fall. Two out of three, you know. They were still milling round there at the press table where Burke had fallen. Something not right. Mr. Sweeney Todt wormed in there. The little girl from the Planet had passed out—cold. Tough. A cop carried her to Squire Bassett's office. They had to help that poor Lion back for the second fall. He was through for the evening. Burke laid him like a piece of linoleum. Sixteen seconds. What price Rough Red Ca- hoon now? One other unexpected incident was to stand out in Mr. Todt’s memory cf the evening. Burke, when he was dressed, looked him up. A handsome fellow. Some dresser, too. A new sort in this weird racket. He said in his quiet way, “Was that girl hurt?” “Oh, she came round pretty well. The Squire sent her home in his car.” “Do ycu know who she is?” “Do I know? Sure! Barbara Betts of the Planet.” An odd expression flitted for an instant across the uncommunicative face. But Burke only said, “Oh!” And then, after a minute, “Where does she live?” “Haven't an idea. Call up the Planet.” “I see. Thanks.” And the big fellow walked quietly out into the night. Sweeney Todt stared after him. OU couldn’'t term it an apartment. Not quite. Not when you'd walked up four flights of dim stairs, and then into a crowded, very small living room. Hardly even a flat. The local term was suite. But that was highfalut- ing. There was a thin little older woman. Ap- parently the girl's mother. The girl herself lay propped up on a sofa, with an old-fashioned afghan over her knees. There were books on the sofa and on the floor. A typewriter on & sort of tabouret at her elbow. And sheets of paper that had fallen here and there to lie unheeded. The funny thing was the way they stared at each other. When he’d taken her hand, that was. The face surprised him. A delicate oval. Framed in bobbed hair, rather brown, that seemed to fly out around on its own. A cheer- ful face. The hazel eyes were wide and open and humorously alert. During this odd little space of time in which nothing whatever was sald he failed to observe that she was staring too. Taking him in, bewil- dered. She was the first to catch it. She colored. The hazel eyes sparkled. “How wonderful of you to look me up! Do sit down.” “I can't tell you how very sorry I am.” . .. Coming out in the taxi, he’d put those words together as a decent introductory remark. But she interrupted. “Heavens, you mustn’t be! I've seen plenty of men go through the ropes.” He slowly turned his hat between his hands. She fingered the typewriter. At the same in- stant they looked up, their eyes met full, and they: spoke as.one: . #Who en -earth ;o' ™ . TR “How on earth . . * Naturally they laughed; and then felt less constraint. “What was yours?” said he, *“No, yours first.” “Well, I think I was just going to ask how on earth you ever came to be doing this soré “Perfectly simple. I was trying to write fiction when my father died and something had to be done. I pestered every newspaper in town until finally the Planet took me on. “I jumped at every chance they gave me and one day I awoke to the fact that I'd classified myself as a sob sister with a side line in sports. But I'm determined to write a great novel some day. And there you have Barbara Betts, Not much in very little. . . . Now for mine!"” She had a way of wriggling about as she talked. Used her graceful little hands a good deal and kept shifting her position. Abruptly she leaned out on the typewriter. Looked straight at him. “This was it—Who on earth are you?” He took his time about thinking out what he'd say. “You may have noticed that last night was my first appearance here in Boston.” He hesie tated. . . . “Well, I arranged that on purpose. I seemed to feel that the time had come when . . .oh, there's no need of going too deeply into the story, but . . . I took it for granted some- body or other'd recognize me. Here. Looked for #t in the papers this morning. But there wasn't a word. Just Burke. The ‘Terrible Tim’ stuff. Tl confess I was puzzled.” “Then you came up here expecting your story —whatever it is—to break last night?” “Yes. In a way. Well—yes. I had a sort of private purpose in mind.” “Who are you?” “The name is Wilbur. George Wilbur. “Not—not—" The hazel eyes biazed up. *“You're a college man! You played foot ball!” He nodded. “How perfectly amazing! ‘Terrible Tim’ is George Wilbur! The next heavyweight wres- tling champion!” “Perhaps.” “Everybody says so. « + o« Mr. Wilbur, will you give me this story?” “If you want it.” “If Twant it! . . . of a private purpose—a reason for coming up here.” “If you don’'t mind, I won't go into that. I Tell me—you spoke went into this thing ., , . well, please leave all that out.” “The money would explain a good deal.” “Well ., . . yes. In a way that's part of it He paused. “And it's pretty surprising. I've made about $40,000 in a little over six months. If I can throw Cahoon and hold the championship for, say, a year, I'll be able to do what I really want.” “What do you really want to do?” “Write.” “Write?” She laughed out loud. “Porgive me, but it's perfectly bewildering. I'm afraid I'll wake up. What a story!” Mrs. Betts brought in tea at this point. She apologized for the chipped teapot. But Bar. bara apologized for nothing. Indeed, the girl was so inspiriting that when he was leaving he asked her to lunch with him the following day at the hotel where he was stopping. The story of George Wilbur was spread over three columns of the Planet that next morn- ing. He read it at breakfast, with mixed feelings. At 1 he went down to the lounge to meet the girl. And there found himself face to face with Mildred. They would have met, of course. One way or another. It was more than seven months since he'd left her, outside here, by her road- ster. He'd been considering, since reading over Barbara Betts' story, calling her up. She knew now. She'd have to know. The cobalt eyes were bent upon-him. But not smiling.. You could see that she was dis- turbed. An odd thing was that they hadn't shaken hands. Not yet. A feeling' that she might not approve of professional wrestlers kept his hands at his side. The Pierces were extremely correct people—her brothers and all. His tongue had seemed to freeze. He'd better say something. | Why not the truth? 3+ “k didn't - snswer ‘ ypur: ‘notes,' Mildred, Be-