Fling this heterogeneous, bankrupt, vindictive mass across the border, and the Revolution was on.The custom house, the northern ports of entry, would be captured.Diaz could not resist.He dared not throw the weight of his armies against them, for he must hold the south.And through the south the flame would spread despite.The people would rise.The defenses of city after city would crumple up.State after state would totter down.And at last, from every side, the victorious armies of the Revolution would close in on the City of Mexico itself, Diaz's last stronghold.
But the money.They had the men, impatient and urgent, who would use the guns.They knew the traders who would sell and deliver the guns.But to culture the Revolution thus far had exhausted the Junta.The last dollar had been spent, the last resource and the last starving patriot milked dry, and the great adventure still trembled on the scales.Guns and ammunition! The ragged battalions must be armed.But how? Ramos lamented his confiscated estates.Arrellano wailed the spendthriftness of his youth.May Sethby wondered if it would have been different had they of the Junta been more economical in the past.
"To think that the ******* of Mexico should stand or fall on a few paltry thousands of dollars," said Paulino Vera.
Despair was in all their faces.Jose Amarillo, their last hope, a recent convert, who had promised money, had been apprehended at his hacienda in Chihuahua and shot against his own stable wall.The news had just come through.
Rivera, on his knees, scrubbing, looked up, with suspended brush, his bare arms flecked with soapy, dirty water.
"Will five thousand do it?" he asked.
They looked their amazement.Vera nodded and swallowed.He could not speak, but he was on the instant invested with a vast faith.
"Order the guns," Rivera said, and thereupon was guilty of the longest flow of words they had ever heard him utter."The time is short.In three weeks I shall bring you the five thousand.
It is well.The weather will be warmer for those who fight.
Also, it is the best I can do."
Vera fought his faith.It was incredible.Too many fond hopes had been shattered since he had begun to play the revolution game.He believed this threadbare scrubber of the Revolution, and yet he dared not believe.
"You are crazy," he said.
"In three weeks," said Rivera."Order the guns."He got up, rolled down his sleeves, and put on his coat.
"Order the guns," he said.
"I am going now."
III
After hurrying and scurrying, much telephoning and bad language, a night session was held in Kelly's office.Kelly was rushed with business; also, he was unlucky.He had brought Danny Ward out from New York, arranged the fight for him with Billy Carthey, the date was three weeks away, and for two days now, carefully concealed from the sporting writers, Carthey had been lying up, badly injured.There was no one to take his place.Kelly had been burning the wires East to every eligible lightweight, but they were tied up with dates and contracts.
And now hope had revived, though faintly.
"You've got a hell of a nerve," Kelly addressed Rivera, after one look, as soon as they got together.
Hate that was malignant was in Rivera's eyes, but his face remained impassive.
"I can lick Ward," was all he said.
"How do you know? Ever see him fight?"
Rivera shook his head.
"He can beat you up with one hand and both eyes closed."Rivera shrugged his shoulders.
"Haven't you got anything to say?" the fight promoter snarled.
"I can lick him."
"Who'd you ever fight, anyway!" Michael Kelly demanded.Michael was the promotor's brother, and ran the Yellowstone pool rooms where he made goodly sums on the fight game.
Rivera favored him with a bitter, unanswering stare.
The promoter's secretary, a distinctively sporty young man, sneered audibly.
"Well, you know Roberts," Kelly broke the hostile silence."He ought to be here.I've sent for him.Sit down and wait, though f rom the looks of you, you haven't got a chance.I can't throw the public down with a bum fight.Ringside seats are selling at fifteen dollars, you know that."When Roberts arrived, it was patent that he was mildly drunk.
He was a tall, lean, slack-jointed individual, and his walk, like his talk, was a smooth and languid drawl.
Kelly went straight to the point.
"Look here, Roberts, you've been bragging you discovered this little Mexican.You know Carthey's broke his arm.Well, this little yellow streak has the gall to blow in to-day and say he'll take Carthey's place.What about it?""It's all right, Kelly," came the slow response."He can put up a fight.""I suppose you'll be sayin' next that he can lick Ward," Kelly snapped.
Roberts considered judicially.
"No, I won't say that.Ward's a top-notcher and a ring general.
But he can't hashhouse Rivera in short order.I know Rivera.
Nobody can get his goat.He ain't got a goat that I could ever discover.And he's a two-handed fighter.He can throw in the sleep-makers from any position.""Never mind that.What kind of a show can he put up? You've been conditioning and training fighters all your life.I take off my hat to your judgment.Can he give the public a run for its money?""He sure can, and he'll worry Ward a mighty heap on top of it.
You don't know that boy.I do.I discovered him.He ain't got a goat.He's a devil.He's a wizzy-wooz if anybody should ask you.He'll make Ward sit up with a show of local talent that'll make the rest of you sit up.I won't say he'll lick Ward, but he'll put up such a show that you'll all know he's a comer.""All right." Kelly turned to his secretary."Ring up Ward.Iwarned him to show up if I thought it worth while.He's right across at the Yellowstone, throwin' chests and doing the popular."Kelly turned back to the conditioner."Have a drink?"Roberts sipped his highball and unburdened himself.