Kerensky, The Fighting Flea

by Ernest Hemingway

an historical article

published in The Kansas City Star, Page 3C, December 16, 1917

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Kerensky, The Fighting Flea

Ernest Hemingway

October 21, 2022

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Read the text of “Kerensky, The Fighting Flea”

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thus, we begin...

Somehow, although he is the smallest office boy around the place, none of the other lads pick on him. Scuffling and fighting almost has ceased since Kerensky came to work. That’s only one of the nicknames of Leo Kobreen, and was assigned to him because of a considerable facial resemblance to the perpetually fleeing Russian statesman, and, too, because both wore quite formal standing collars. In size, Leo is about right for spanking. But that never will happen to Leo. Although he is inches short of five feet, there is a bulkiness about his shoulders that gains respect even from those Cossacks of the business world, the messenger boys.

In fact, it was a messenger, coming in blusteringly, who first made it known that Leo possessed a reputation. Almost politely the cocky young fellow handed a yellow envelope to the office bantam.

“Why it’s Kid Williams,” he said, “Are you going to fight at the club Saturday night, Kid?”

“I should have known it,” the boss said, “Kerensky has all the characteristics of a prize fighter. After a short round of work doesn’t he retire to a corner and sit down?”

Then some of them remembered Kid Williams in preliminary bouts... One of those boys who scrap three rounds before the big fighters enter the ring. That’s Kerensky.

You may have thrown some loose change into the ring at the final gong. How you laughed to see the two bantams push each other about and scramble fiercely each to pick up the most. Sometimes they couldn’t wait to get their gloves off. All the fight fans roared at them trying to pick up thin dimes in their padded fists.

“That’s all hippodrome stuff,” Kerensky says. “The men like to see us quarrel over the money, but win or lose, we split it fifty-fifty. My half of the pickup runs form $1.50 to $2.50.”

The worst thing about the fight game, take it from Kerensky, is the smoke. He has even considered retiring from the ring because it is so upsetting to take a deep breath of tobacco fumes.

“But of course I haven’t quit,” he explains. “Right now if I knew some of the clubs downtown had a smoker on and they offered me $2, of course I’d get in and fight.”

How would Kerensky advise a young man to open a pugilistic career? Well, he just picked up his skill. For several years he sold papers, and you know how one thing leads to another. There is a newsboy rule that if one boy installs himself on a corner no other can sell there. A full grown man used to cry the headlines on a certain Grand Avenue crossing. Poachers bothered him.

“It wouldn’t look right for a big fellow to hit a little kid,” says Kerensky, “so he let me sell there, too, and sicked me on all the strange boys. I always ran them away. He liked me and called me Kid Williams, after the bantamweight champion.”

Kerensky’s last street fight was to a big gate. A newsboy of larger growth was the victim. They clinched and fell to the sidewalk. A crowd gathered, but the crossing patrolman turned his back till the battle was over. Then he came over and said: “Leo, I guess you’ll have to cut this out.”

After that, when Leo wanted to fight, somebody had to hire a hall. He began going into the gymnasiums to sell papers. There he watched the big men train for their Convention Hall bouts. Sometimes the proprietors would let him come in and work out beside Thorpe or Chavez for nothing. It costs the ordinary citizen a dime, Leo says, to get in and work at the pulleys and weights at times like these.

His opportunity came to go on in a newsboy bout at a smoker in Cutler’s gymnasium. The kid glows yet at the mention of that bout.

“It was the best fight of my career,” he says. “I went in mad, and gave the fans their money’s worth. But I was awful green, and was almost knocked out in the last round. Now I know how to study’em, and I don’t have to work as hard.”

After hard days in old Russia, the life is full of joy for Leo, and who can say that he is not making the most of his opportunities? When he talks of the past it is of a program. That Christmas season the workmen in a sugar refinery near Kiev made a cross of ice and set it up on the frozen river. It fell over and they blamed the Jews. Then the workmen rioted, breaking into stores and smashing windows. Leo and his family hid on the roof for three days, and his sister fell ill of pneumonia. One studies to change the subject and asks:

“Leo, do they ever match you with a bigger boy?”

“Oh no,” he says, “the crowd wouldn’t stand for that. But sometimes I catch one on the street.”

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