The Harlem
Hurricane
Continued from Page 3
said for a while, and then he looked
up at me suddenly.
‘‘You know,” he said, *‘I think
you’re right. I’m gonna try, any
way.”
"That’s half the battle,” I
' (rinned.
The Hurricane did try. He knew
that Chuck Holt was very near the
top of the ladder; knew that a
victory over this whit? boy meant
immediate recognition and prestige
for himself. He knew, too, for I
reminded him of it often enough,
that there was a purse of two thou
sand dollars for the winner. Half
of that was his by rights if he
won; Billy Allen offered to make
it three-fourths if he scored a
knockout
"Fifteen hundred dollars!” he
whistled to himself, and I could see
that he was thinking of Martha and
her promise to marry him when he
had his first ten grand tucked safe
ly in the bank. ‘That’s a lot of
money,” he said.
n s an yours, i grinned. uu ui
there and take it.”
And it was all his. For although
the white boy put up one of the
finest exhibitions of pugilistic skill
and sheer grit I've ever witnessed
that night in Madison Square Gar
den, it was the Harlem Hurricane
*who stepped in as the eighth round
drew to a close and delivered a
stunning right uppercut that start
ed from the floor and rocked
Chuck's long body back against
the ropes, then follow- - with a
steaming straight left which bashed
Chucks face and sent blood spurt
ing from his nose and mouth to
the canvas. Holt made a desperate
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effort to hoist himself up by the
ropes, but his legs buckled under
him and he went down as the gong
ended the frame.
His seconds worked over him
frantically during the intermission,
but when the bell sounded for the
ninth, Chuck was too far spent to
answer it. He tried to come out
■of his corner but stopped short,
staggered, then drooped, face down
| ward, tc the resined canvas. The
Hurricane's constant pummelling in
I the early rounds had had its ef
fect, for the white boy was now
definitely out. The referee called
it a technical knockout, and a few'
days later the Hurricane added fif
teen thousand more to his little
pile in the bank, which was fast
approaching the half-way mark.
* * *
CHAPTER IV
The Hurricane drew a few days
of vacation after his splendid vic
tory over Chuck Holt, and while he
was resting and having a good
time, Billy and I \.ere trying to
figure c it what we should do with
him next. It was Billy w’ho sug
gested the idea that we finally
adapted. "Let’s take him on a tour
of the sticks,” he said. ‘Tt’ll give
him the experience he needs and we
ought to be able to rake in a few
shekels for ourselves in the mean
time. We can get bouts in Chicago
and St. Louis, a return match with
Chubby Cutler in Kansas City, and
then we'll keep right on out to the
coast. We can come back through
New Orleans and the South if we
want to.”
■'Swell idea.” I chimed in. “We
ought to get quite a long record
:ut of it for the Hurricane. It'll
boost his stock around here, too.
when we get back.”
And so it was that two weeks
later we left New York for Chi
cago and points west. Billy had
arranged everything in advance,
the Hurricane being scheduled to
fight in ten of the most important
cities of the West anO South as
we swung around the circuit. He
had picked opponents that wouldn't
be too hard on our boy, but who
would be sure to draw big gates
when they appeared. Yet there
wasn't a set-up among the whole
bunch of them.
In Chicago the Hurricane defeat
ed Youn_- Kid Wills after six rounds
of hard slugging. Wills had been
a runner-up in the Chicago Golden
Gloves and although he wasn't as
well known as some men Billy
might have gotten, he had a fol
lowing which was large and en
thusiastic. His defeat at the hands
of the Hurricane didn’t lower his
prestige in his home town one bit,
because it was quite evident from
the start that the New York boy
was bigger and huskier and more
experienced than he.
Prom Chicago we jumped to St.
Louis, where the Hurricane battled
Mickey Logue, another promising
heavy, ten rounds to a draw de
cision. The bout was fast and fu
rious, but neither man seemed to
gain the slightest advantage as it
progressed. At the end of the tenth
they were still on their feet, pum
melling away almost as fast as they
had been at the opening gong. The'
point-score amounted to an abso
lute tie, so there was nothing to
do but to call the thing a stale
mate.
Chubby Cutler, the Kansas City
behemoth, was vanquished In the
return bout which was the next on
our program. The Hurricane, hav
ing fought him once before, was
wise to most of his tricks, and to
gether we had mapped out an air
tight defense to meet them. Every
thing clicked surprisingly well, and
in the fourth frame Cutler went
down and didn't get ud again.
Prom Kansas City we continued
our barnstorming t:ur west, finally
landing in Los Angeles. In that
city the Hurricane was matched
against Whipper Burns, one of the;
speediest black heavyweights on the|
coast. The Whipper was, like
Chubby Cutler, a behemoth. He had
the biggest muscles in nis arms;
and legs that I’ve ever seen on a
man, and I’ve seen plenty of men.
His face was heavy-set and pugna
cious, and he reminded me of noth
ing so much as a big gorilla.
The two men battled in the ring
six rounds without noticeable effect.|
Then, in the seventh, the Whipper
attempted to step out ahead. He
slammed rights and lefts to the
Hurricane's body and face in quick
succession, pushing forward all the
time and forcing the pace. The
Hurricane retreated ragily, ducking
and side-stepping the bigger man's
blows. The crowd was going wild,
rooting for its favorite, the Whipper !
And he was showing everything he
had just at that moment.
But I saw, as I watched from the
Hurricane's corner, that the Whip
per's speed was only a desperate
spurt; that he realized tliat if he
failed to down the Hurricane in
that frame or the next, he would
be too far gone in the eighth or
ninth to accomplish anything of
value. So when the Hurricane came
back to his corner at the end of
the sixth, I told him that the best!
thing to do was to play a waiting
game.
"Keep out of this boy's way as
much as you can," I whispered into
his ear. "He's wearing himself
out now. end there isn't a way in
the world he can last another three
rounds. Make him go the limit
this frame, and then you'll have!
him just about where you want
him for the slaughter in the
eighth."
The advice proved sound. The!
Hurricane let the Whipper set the
pace in the eighth, and the Whip
per, battling with desperation in
his beady black eyes, set a mighty1
fast one. But he was practically
exhausted when that round ended,
and when the bell sounded for the
next frame, he was staggering as
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he came out of his corner.
"Now go in there and mop him
up,” I yelled to the Hurricane.
And that was exactly what the
Hurricane did. In that ninth round
he tore into the huge black boy
and pounded him for all he was
worth, it rocked him back against
the ropes and tied hfm up therej
jabbing his ribs and crashing his
jaw with short, straight uppercuts
The Whipper was groggy before the
first minute of the round was up
The Hurricane retreated and let the
behemoth stagger after him out to
the center of the ring. Then sud
denly *e unleashed a swing that
had every ounce of the strength1
he possessed behind it. It started!
at his heels, rippled up his leg and
back muscles to his shoulders, and!
down hi arm to his wrist It, land
ed squarely on the big boy's solar
plexus. With a gasp the Whippei
crumpled up, then dropped heavily
to the canvas. It was all over but1
the shouting.
That night we celebrated. We
went over to Hollyw:od and pri?d
the lid off one of the most cele
brated an dexclusive night clubs:
there. And what a hand we got!
from the crowd! The Hurricane's
fame had traveled far ahead ol
him. and he was one of the most
popular fighters ever to don the
gloves. The vhole crowd wanted to
shake his hand one by one. and
the autograph seekers started pes
tering him ever before we could
get seated. Before we left we had
met many of Los Angeles's most
prominent people, inluding not. a
few movie pctors and actresses, and
several directors, ^ut we hadn't
actually been initiated into the
mysteries r Hollywood. We got
our first taste of that when the
next mornings paper appeared.
Billy Allen brought it in to me,
and he was red ir the face and
hopping mad.
"Who put this out?” h? wanted
to know.
I looked at the paper. Emblazoned
across the top of its theatrical page
was a raring headline: “FIGHTER
TO WED ACTRESS,” and then, in
the first column, it continued:
"Hurricane, Victorious Over
Whippe Burns ’ ,st Night,
Announces Engagement”
“EDNA MASTERS TO BE BRIDE'
“Edna Masters!” I cried. “Who
is she, anyway?”
"I'm not sure,” said Billy, “but 1
think she's one of that crowd we,
met at the club last night. But J
who let such a story as this out?!
The Hurricane couldn’t have; ll
don't think he knows Edna Mas-'
ters any better than we do.”
"It's got me stumped,” I ad
mitted.
The Hurricane engaged!
What’s happened anyway?
And what about Martha, wait
ing for him back in Harlem?
I>on’t mis* next week's install
ment,
-o-—
WHAT TO WEAR
Summer Frocks
Reach Shops Daily
They arrive with commendable
regularity at all the smart shops.!
boxes and boxes of these crisp, cool,
washable frocks that every one
lives in during the summer.
Not much change in fashion tem
peratures when it comes to stripes
of slender silhouettes with normal
waistline effects and wide shoulders
. cottons are made simply with
emphasis on belts and epaulet
shoulders . . . lines are Impeccably
tailored and of course the first
linens to find their way Ipto your
summer wardrobe are the suits and
dresses which are fashio. c 1 of that
new linen with a shantung texture
that flatly refuses to wrinkle.
-O-;-— „
AFRICANS SAY:
•'Africans have much In common
with us as wit and wfadom eapressed
In thetr proverbs show. It ts time
for us to yet away from the notion
that they are In an Inferilr and bar
baric state. In more than one sense,
we Americans are less civilized and
more barbaric than they.”—C. J.
BENDER.
A bloodsucker will always live
one way or the other.
Bright Sayings
of the Children
What Do Yours Say? ••
Send them to us: wa'll be glad
to publish them.
- - - - J-jrr—!
Rosa, coming home from the
photographer's, boastfully held out
her picture to her little sister.
Janie.
‘ What do you think of my pic
ture?” she asked.
Janie looked it over thought
fully and answered, "Well, you
look your age.” —A. R. C.
* * *
One day 4-year-old Max found
a piece of old clothsline and im
mediately tried to skip rope with
it. When he saw all his attempts
were in vain, he called to me,
"Mother, can you lift up mv leRS?”
* -=-J.'E. D
f called.
He came in frowning, “I’m not a
baby doll.”
I looked at him sadly, thinking
how quickly he was growing up.
"Mother's big man,” I corrected,
smiling.
“I'm not a big man,” Junior
shouted, getting somewhat provok
ed.
' Well, what are you?" I laughed.
"Aw." he thought for a mo
ment, “I guess I'm in the middle.'*
—Mother.
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