Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 163: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

~ ONLY CHEESE. iated with its twin brother to the side of O’Hern’s head. These two final mastodonic thumps resounded throughout the building like cannon shots concluding the musketry of lesser blows preceding. The round had been Conley’s, but O’Hern retained his confidence and Man- ager Burke was wary. Again, ten seconds before time was up in the intermission be- tween rounds, the manager appealed to Thorpe, his aid at the ringside; and the latter acted. Conley saw presented before him an ob- ject, in shape cylindrical, in color that of jaundice. He recognized it to be a small cheese; but before he could leap out of the ring toward Thorpe, Burke repeated: “ Forget it! Win tis fight first!” Round Three: If the opponents moved more slowly now they were the more in deadly earnest. Fewer hits were recorded, but each one as it landed was heard by the crowd without the building. And steadily Pat Conley seemed to be forging ahead. He hit harder, he was less shaken when he was hit. It was near the middle of the round when Conley got in his famous one, two blow; a right to the body followed by a left to the jaw. O’Hern tried to retain his con- fident smile, but his ribs burned and his head hummed. Here was Conley’s oppor- tunity, it seemed; every Pastime advised him of it, while the assembled sons of Sul- livan warned O’Hern to beware. O’Hern dropped into a crouch and brought up his arms to protect his chin, so that there was little left for Conley to shoot at but the top of a cranium, covered by black hair and considerably harder than the average. This bobbing black mark Conley pursued; drove it into a corner twice, from which it escaped each time by diving and bobbing up again in the middle of the ring behind the pursuer. The round was nearly over and had been overwhelmingly in favor of Conley. But here the unexpected happened. One of O’Hern’s fists separated itself from the O’Hern cranium, which it had been care- fully guarding, and hit the onrushing Con- ley cleanly on the chin. Conley went down, and had not the bell old marking the end of the round rung just then, the fight would have been over. The bell gave him a minute to recover before Round Four, and his seconds dragged him into his corner to make the best of it. O’Hern, opposite, was also shaky and the cunning Manager Martin saw that the out- come of the battle now depended upon which man was in best shape at the begin- ning of the final round. Furiously Burke and his assistant worked on Conley. Cold water was applied, legs and arms were rubbed, towels were swung. At the end of thirty seconds Conley’s eyes were still glassy. In desperation Burke put smelling salts under Conley’s nose trying to clear the muddled head. Fifteen seconds remained, and Conley was no better. Burke reached into his pocket. He drew forth something wrapped in paper. He un- wrapped it and clapped the contents to Conley’s nose. Five seconds remained, and Conley’s eyes widened and he tried to catch his breath. “Limburger!” he finally gasped. “That’s it: Limburger cheese!” hissed Burke. ‘“ And that’s what you'll be the rest of your life if you don’t win this fight!” Burke had applied the incentive at exact- ly the right instant. Had not the bell for Round Four rung just then it is doubtful if Burke could have kept Conley in his corner another moment. Round Four: Conley rushed toward his opponent. O’Hern was courageous, but in his minute of recuperation he had been sub- jected only to the ordinary methods of the prize ring. A lemon-colored specter drove Conley on to fight, and his eyes, ears and nose were full of it. O’Hern kept him busy, yet not so busy but that he was conscious of his yellow peril. It worked upon his imagination. He saw himself passing through the years to come dogged and tortured by it. He knew what people would call him, that they would hold their noses at the mention of his name. The thought put springs in his legs and power in his fists. He was a cyclone, an avalanche, a ton of brick. He was an earthquake. O’Hern was no longer a match for him. John L. Sullivan would not have been. Crushing down. Hern’ Aefe nse