Une Soirée de Swat

The Fair Women of Society Take Up the Manly Art of Self-Defense

GEORGE S. CHAPPELL

LADIES! Have you a box for the boxing season? Are you au courant of the latest pugilistic news? Can you call the world's best wrestlers by their first names? In short, are you an enrolled member of society's most modish fad, a sporting club? If not, you are like the late unlamented W. Hohenzollern—in the world, but not of it.

Let me illustrate my point by a personal experience, which, while perhaps over-confidential will, I know, be accepted with the discretion it deserves.

There is a charming married couple in New York who are my most intimate friends. In this article I shall call them the Van Asterisks. I was long a suitor for Mazie Van Asterisk's hand, but dashing Arthur won out. As his most intimate friend and the second beau to Mazie's string, I was the logical candidate for best man at the wedding, a position which I filled with mournful competence. Thenceforward my metamorphosis into the tried and trusted family friend was orderly and logical. I am today not only the sharer of their joys and the god-father of their son, but I am also called upon to exercise the much more difficult functions of judge, or arbiter, in the inevitable arguments which arise in the life of every happily mated twain. It may be surmised by those who have made a study of domesticity that these little differences of opinion have tended to become more and more frequent as time rolls on. These differences are the price paid by the triumphant groom, just as the settlement of them is the reward of the unsuccessful suitor.

I was, therefore, hardly surprised to receive an impetuous note from Mazie, summoning me to her salon, where she simultaneously unfolded her story and a letter, with the brief exposition: "Well, Arthur and I have had another argument; read this." I read:

"Arthur G. Van Asterisk, Esq.,

"97 E, 57th Street,

"New York City.

"Dear Sir:

"As you perhaps know, I have taken over the lease of the old Dykeman Arena property for a period of years. The famous old ridingring is being renovated, its seating capacity enlarged and numerous improvements looking to the comfort of the public are being made.

"Commencing this fall, I shall inaugurate a series of the highest class entertainments in championship boxing and wrestling matches. These entertainments will be conducted at all times under my personal supervision.

"I have incorporated, under the name of the Murray Hill Sporting Club. Necessarily I must limit the membership, and am therefore approaching only those gentlemen who, I am led to believe, are keenly interested in the 'game' for its own sake, and who might desire to cooperate with me in making the old 'Arena' the real sporting center not only of the United States—but of the world.

"If you are interested, will you kindly make use of the enclosed card, which you may sign and return.

"Thanking you for your kind attention, "Very truly yours, KID MCFEE."

As I finished reading the letter I glanced up at Mazie. Her face was glowing like a lantern.

"Isn't it sweet!" she murmured. "Dear old Kid! But . . . her expression darkened. "Arthur?" I ventured.

"He says it's an extravagance . . . only $500 for an initiation fee and $250 a year dues. He doesn't seem to realize that we owe it to ourselves. Why, everybody's joining. To be without a sporting club nowadays is like being without a motor, or a golf club. Not only are all the smartest people going to boxing matches,—they are actually taking up the exercise themselves. Have you seen Mrs. Debevoise since she bought her punching-bag ?

. . . She has lost pounds! You will help me, won't you, old dear?"

The Duties of a Family Friend

WITHIN a few days, good natured old Van had signed along the dotted line with the express stipulation to his wife that he should not have to attend Mr. McFee's select 'entertainments'.

"You know my tastes, old boy," he said. "Opera, old furniture, pictures, yes . . . but boxing! You'll have to take her you know."

I tried to look resigned.

Within the week I escorted Mazie to the premiere of the Murray Hill Sporting Club.

Literally, everyone was there. As I gazed about the boxes and ring-side seats, I felt as if the Social Register had come to life. Mingled with the black and white of the men's dress was the soft glow of rich evening gowns, the gleam of polished shoulders, the sparkle of jewels and the hum and frou-frou of well-bred conversation. And when I saw the wheelchair of that august matron and queen of society, Mrs. Bellamy Vandergriff, being trundled into a stage box, I knew that the evening was a success. Society had done its part.

On his side, I must say that Mr. Kid McFee had acquitted himself nobly. The old Arena was literally transformed. At the heading of the beautifully lettered programs, which were handed to us by young lady ushers dressed as Watteau Shepherdesses was printed Mr. McFee's slogan: 'Say it with flowers'.

This had evidently been his watchword in the entire scheme of decoration. Great masses of roses screened the glare of the overhead arclights. Roses, roses, everywhere! On the four posts of the 'squared circle' American-beauties nodded their stately heads. Twined about the enclosing rope, crimson ramblers harmonized gorgeously with the dark green rug which covered the platform, from beneath which a stringorchestra poured forth the strains of an intoxicating—if I may be allowed the expression—waltz. Evidently the entire Arena, including the old stables beneath it, had been sprayed with Pizot's 'Eau de Rose'.

While marvelling at this exquisite setting, so suited to the conservatory quality of the spectators, I could not help wondering if the same note of daintiness could be maintained in the 'entertainments' themselves. Could it be done? Would it be effective? I doubted it."

But my fears were groundless. Here, indeed, the master-hand of McFee showed itself for, when the contestants in the first preliminary bout appeared, Spike Slattery of Hoboken, and Tony the Wop of Brooklyn,— one great convulsive gasp arose from the audience and then silence. Anything like these two specimens of humanity, who were euphemistically introduced as 'boys', had never before met the gaze of America's fairest and bravest citizens, and they were appalled. The two combatants seemed not so much to have faces or heads as mere blunted humps between their shoulders in and on which were a number of apertures and gashes. Their contrast to the well-groomed audience was really dazzling, and again I bowed to the master-mind of McFee.It was their utter unhumanity which gave them their uncanny interest.

Though introduced as separate individuals, the two boys, from the moment the gong sounded, were indistinguishable. Chosen from the two great joke-towns of America, Hoboken and Brooklyn, they flew into each other's orbits like comets of hate and long pent-up resentment. They were one. They were Cosmic Conflict, simple and abysmal.

The Fight

I WILL not go over the program in detail. It was a crescendo, each feature more scientific and more deadly than its predecessor. During the finale, a slashing ten-round affair between two lightning fast middle-weights, it was plain that the entire mental attitude of the multitude had changed. Their blood was up. Stirred from their conventional placidity by the first elemental encounter, they grew more barbarous as the battlers became more murderously civilized, greeting each sounding body-blow or cross-to-the-nose, with cries, screams and exhortations. In those last furious five minutes, when the green velvet was spotted with crimson, I understood why Kid McFee had chosen rose-red for his colour-scheme, and when, in the last round, the victor delivered a lethal clout to his opponent's sinister optic, and Mrs. Bellamy Vandergriff threw her lorgnette, chain and all, into the ring, I too rose with the crowd and howled with delight.

Mazie and I spoke little on our way home; we were too much moved by what we had seen.

When we met, after two weeks, there was a new light in her eyes. Instinctively I sidestepped, feeling as if I were about to be attacked, but she was very peaceful.

"Yes," she said, when I spoke of our evening together,—"it was very wonderful. It has changed everything for me. We have taken up boxing, you know,—that is, all the younger set. Mama found it a little too much for her heart, so she has joined the matrons wrestling class; they have mattresses and lie on each other."

"Why the mattresses?" I asked,—but a gleam in her eye stopped me and I began afresh: "How does Arthur like it?"

"I don't know," she replied, "but I've noticed one thing. Since I took up boxing, he doesn't argue any more. Feel that." She extended and flexed her right arm.

As I felt the knotted muscle a horrible thought assailed me. Have I, in introducing Mazie to the fistic world, euchred myself out of my delectable post of family pacifier?