2 TOWN WEEKLY MAGAZINE SECTION
You never can tell when you sign up for a fight
just how it is going fo turn out . .. especially
when you're meeting a guy like Butch Bultfinch
“Miss Blake is betting on me,” Lindsley said ironically.
was before she knew I was going to fight,” Butch Bullfinch
ASPYRIGHT 1938, EACH WEEK, INC., 52 $7. PAUL ST., ROCHESTER, N. Y.
“But that
boomed,
“THE THING is,” said Bill Corkrum,
president of the Delts, “you got to get
into some extra-curricular activities.”
Lindsley Eagles Smithson sighed. Mr.
Corkrum, who believed that the Delts
ought to be the most active fraternity
on the Warwick campus, was harping
continually upon this theme.
“It was all right for you to sit around
on the lead keel when you were a
Frosh,” Bill conceded. “We don’t expect
much of a first-year man, usually. But
here you are a Sophomore, and you have
not done anything.”
“I been studying,” mentioned Lindsley.
Mr. Corkrum appeared pained. “Sure.
Your grades are all right—but that’s not
what I mean. Look what it will say in
the yearbook next sping under your
picture.”
As the Warwick yearbook would not
be issued for at least another two
months, Lindsley found it difficult to
look. However, Bill Corkrum proceeded
to interpret the crystal ball for him.
“It'll say, ‘Lindsley Eagles Smithson—
YOU G
Sophomore—Delt—Majoring in Econom-
jes.’
“Well,” said Lindsley with simplicity,
“that’s all there is to say.”
“That’s what I'm trying to get into
your knot. Look at Dannie Loop. He's
only a Sophomore, but under his name
there’ll be football, Dramatic Club, Oval
Club, and Sophomore debate. A man like
that makes it look as if the Delts were
active.”
“I don’t want to be a dud,” Lindsley
said, “but I'm no athlete, and no actor,
and I can’t make a speech, So what?”
“I got it figured out. At the Spring
Stag you're going to enter in the 135-
pound class.”
Mr. Smithson’s eyes popped wide.
“What do you mean, the 135-pound
class?”
“I mean you're going to cop a boxing
trophy for the Delt mantelpiece.”
“But I can’t box,” said Lindsley.
“That’s okay,” soothed Mr. Corkrum.
“When you get representatives of rival
fraternities together in the ring there’s
not much boxing. At the Spring Stag
fights they sock for a knockout. And you
got a sock. You proved it down there be-
hind The Cabin last week.”
“Oh...” Now Lindsley Eagles Smith-
son saw the reason for Mr. Corkrum’s
sudden renewal of interest in him. Four
days ago, in a sudden fit of temper,
Lindsley had knocked down Butch Bull-
finch. Nobody had been more astonished
than Mr, Smithson,
Butch Bullfinch was a Warwickton
character. Once he had been the best
fullback Warwickton High School had
ever known. But fate, or possibly
Butch’s disposition, worked against him
and he did not proceed on to Warwick
College. A town tough, he delighted in
intimidating whichever Warwick student
would intimidate and there were a great
many.
Four nights ago had been Lindsley’s
first encounter with Butch. He had some-
how never heard of him and, when Butch
had walked into The Cabin and insolent
ly pulled Lindsley’s necktie from his
sweater, young Mr, Smithson had re-
monstrated.
“Who you talkin’ to?” Butch Bullfinch
had demanded.
“From here,” Lindsley had said with
no hesitation, “it’s hard to make out.
But my guess is—a baboon.”
There had been a collective gasp there
in Warwick’s favorite confectionery. But
Mr. Smithson had missed its meaning.
Butch Bullfinch invited him outside, be-
hind The Cabin. And there, fighting mad
and still unimpressed, Lindsley had
knocked him down. Whereupon the two
were pounced upon and held apart.
Lindsley had chosen to forget the ine
eident. And now, here, Bill Corkrum was
fo
bringing it up again. “You got a sock,”
he repeated. “The Zetas are going to put
Sam Whittemore. And the Betas’ll enter
Bob Fowler in the ring. The Phis got
Lefty Dutton. You got a cinch.”
“But I've never been in a prize fight
ring. Those fellows are all good boxers.
I've seen them in the gym working out.”
“Let ’em box,” insisted Mr. Corkrum.
“You walk in and knock ’em down. And
anyhow, you don't have to fight them
all.”
“No?” Lindsley was net mach come
forted.
“No. They draw to see who's matched
with who, and there’s two trophies, both
equal.”
“But—"
“This morning,” interrupted Bill, “I
entered you as the Delts’ man. So you're
all set. It’s on the b¥lletin board down at
Memorial Hall. Course you don’t have
to do it unless you want to. Only it'd
look queer if you took your name off the
the bulletin board. Somebody might
think you got chicken,”
OT TO
LIFE’S darkest periods, say the philosos |
phers, have their compensations. Lindse
ley encountered one of his in the doors
way of The Cabin whereto he had ree
paired to smother his feelings in a choco«
late soda.
“Hel-lo, Lindsley!” He turned to see a
scant five feet of coed—a very special
brand of coed named Nancy Blake. Pose
sibly Mr. Smithson had been attracted
because she possessed maize hair and
wide cerulean eyes. Or because she was
so small and delectable, a Freshman girl
anxious for the superior advice of a
second-year man. At any rate, he liked
her. In fact, in recent weeks he had be
gun to believe that perhaps he loved her
with that deep, undying love known only
to great artists of the past—and Sophoe
mores. {
“Hullo, Nancy. Join me in a soda?”
“I'd like to. But—aren’t you in traine
ing?”
“Training?” He recovered himself,
Nancy must have been looking at the
bulletin board. “Oh, sure. I was figuring
on a lemonade myself. Lemons are good
for—for boxets.”
In the booth at the rear of The Cabin
she regarded him with patient awe. “I
think it’s wonderful that you're an athe
lete. And I think that boxing is se—so
much more individual than being on the
football team or the basketball squad.
Just two men alone up there in the ring,
with no help.”
“Sure,” said Lindsley. “Just two men
alone up there.” He reached into his
pocket for a cigaret, then remembered
his wind.
“I've. got several bets on you,” Nancy
confided. ¢
“Bets?” tia
She nodded. “Yes. The girls at Pren<
tiss Hall always bet on the Spring Stag
fights.”
“Okay,” said Lindsley. “I'll see you
don’t lose any money.” But somehow his
lemonade tasted flatter than it should.
When he had walked with Nancy Blake
to the doorway of Prentiss, he turned
uncertainly toward the gymmasium. Af-
by
NARD
JONES
ot