The Youthful Plimpton Vs. The Wily Moore

But George Brown did not like what was going on at all—I think mostly because of the unpredictable nature of my opponent, whose moods seemed to change as the fight went on. He was evidently not quite sure how to comport himself—clowning for a few seconds, and then the humming, and then a few punches with more authority. In the third and last round, Brown began to feel that Moore, having run through as much of a repertoire as he could devise, was wondering how he could finish things off esthetically. Long after the event, I found out that Brown had reached down and advanced the hand of the time clock, so that the round ended a good minute before it should have. Ezra called us together to raise both our arms and, funning it up, he called the affair a draw. I can remember the relief of its being over, vaguely worried that it had not been more conclusive, or artistic; and I was quite grateful for the bloody nose.

"That last round seemed awfully short," I mentioned to Brown.

He dabbed at my face with a towel. "I suppose you were getting set to finish him," he said.

Part of the crowd moved with us into the cubicle area. In my stall, I was pushed back into a corner. Moore stood in the doorway, the well-wishers shouting at him, "Hey, Arch! Hey, Arch!" There was a lot of congratulating and jabbering about the great Durelle fight.

I heard somebody ask, "Whose blood is that on your shirt, hey, Arch?" and somebody else said, "Well, it sure ain't his!" and I could hear the guffawing as the exchange was passed along the corridors beyond the cubicle wall.

The character of the crowd had begun to change. The word had gone around the area that Archie Moore was in Stillman's and people were coming up the stairs from the fight bars on Eighth Avenue. One of them said, "It's over? What the hell was Arch doin' fightin' in Stillman's?"

"I dunno," said another. "I hear he kilt some guy."

They pushed back into the cubicle area. The cigar smoke rose. I caught sight of Stillman. He was frantic. He had found two women, a mother and daughter, back in the cubicle area, which had flustered him, but the main irritation was that his place was packed with people who had not paid to come through his turnstile. Someone told me that he had become so astonished at the number turning up for the exhibition, at the quantity of coats and ties signifying that they could pay, that finally venality had overcome him; he rushed to the turnstile and the last 20 or 30 people who crowded in had to pay him $2 a head. Later, I heard that he had tried to recoup what he had missed by charging people, at least those wearing ties, as they left.

I sat on my stool, feeling removed from the bustle and the shouting. While I pecked at the laces of my gloves, a man in front of me turned—I had been staring at the back of his overcoat—and he said, "Well, kid, what did you get out of it?"

He was an older black man, with a rather melancholy face distinguished by an almost Roman nose; his ears were cauliflowered, and very small.