Title: Tales of the Ring and the Camp
Author: Arthur Conan Doyle
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eBook No.: 0701141.txt
Language: English
Date first posted: November 2007
Date most recently updated: November 2007
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Production notes:
This text was prepared from an August 1951 reprint of a volume
that was first published in June 1929, titled The Conan Doyle
Stories. It was published by John Murray, Albemarle Street, W.,
London, and printed in Great Britain by Lowe & Brybone Printers
Ltd., London, N.W.10.
As mentioned in the preface the volume is a collection of what
were originally six books. This text contains the stories from
Tales of the Ring and the Camp.
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Title: Tales of the Ring and the Camp
Author: Arthur Conan Doyle
TALES OF THE RING AND THE CAMP
BY
A. CONAN DOYLE
PREFACE
These stories have already been published in six separate volumes,
which subdivided them roughly into those which dealt with the sea,
with sport, with war, with the preternatural, with medicine and
with history. They have been received in this form with so much
kindly appreciation by the public that my publisher and I hope
that they may get a permanent home on many bookshelves when issued
under a single cover and at a moderate price. I am occasionally
asked which of these varied subjects and styles represents my own
particular choice. The answer is that I am interested in many
aspects of life, and try to write only of that which really
attracts me, but that if it were needful to discriminate, and if
all my work were to be destroyed save only that one single section
which I might elect to preserve, my choice would certainly be
those short historical pictures which come under the heading of
"Tales of Long Ago."
Arthur Conan Doyle.
April 26, 1929.
PREPARER'S NOTE
This text was prepared from an August 1951 reprint of a volume
that was first published in June 1929, titled The Conan Doyle
Stories. It was published by John Murray, Albemarle Street, W.,
London, and printed in Great Britain by Lowe & Brybone Printers
Ltd., London, N.W.10.
As mentioned in the preface the volume is a collection of what
were originally six books. This text contains the stories from
Tales of the Ring and the Camp.
CONTENTS:
TALES OF THE RING
THE CROXLEY MASTER
THE LORD OF FALCONBRIDGE: A LEGEND OF THE RING
THE FALL OF LORD BARRYMORE
THE CRIME OF THE BRIGADIER
THE KING OF THE FOXES
THE BULLY OF BROCAS COURT
TALES OF THE CAMP
A STRAGGLER OF '15
THE POT OF CAVIARE
THE GREEN FLAG
THE THREE CORRESPONDENTS
THE MARRIAGE OF THE BRIGADIER
THE LORD OF CHÂTEAU NOIR
TALES OF THE RING
THE CROXLEY MASTER
I
Mr. Robert Montgomery was seated at his desk, his head upon his hands,
in a state of the blackest despondency. Before him was the open ledger
with the long columns of Dr. Oldacre's prescriptions. At his elbow lay
the wooden tray with the labels in various partitions, the cork box,
the lumps of twisted sealing-wax, while in front a rank of empty
bottles waited to be filled. But his spirits were too low for work. He
sat in silence, with his fine shoulders bowed and his head upon his
hands.
Outside, through the grimy surgery window over a foreground of
blackened brick and slate, a line of enormous chimneys like Cyclopean
pillars upheld the lowering, dun-coloured cloud-bank. For six days in
the week they spouted smoke, but to-day the furnace fires were banked,
for it was Sunday. Sordid and polluting gloom hung over a district
blighted and blasted by the greed of man. There was nothing in the
surroundings to cheer a desponding soul, but it was more than his
dismal environment which weighed upon the medical assistant.
His trouble was deeper and more personal. The winter session was
approaching. He should be back again at the University completing the
last year which would give him his medical degree; but, alas! he had
not the money with which to pay his class fees, nor could he imagine
how to procure it. Sixty pounds were wanted to make his career, and it
might have been as many thousands for any chance there seemed to be of
his obtaining it.
He was roused from his black meditation by the entrance of Dr. Oldacre
himself, a large, clean-shaven, respectable man, with a prim manner
and an austere face. He had prospered exceedingly by the support of
the local Church interest, and the rule of his life was never by word
or action to run a risk of offending the sentiment which had made him.
His standard of respectability and of dignity was exceedingly high,
and he expected the same from his assistants. His appearance and words
were always vaguely benevolent. A sudden impulse came over the
despondent student. He would test the reality of this philanthropy.
"I beg your pardon, Dr. Oldacre," said he, rising from his chair; "I
have a great favour to ask of you."
The doctor's appearance was not encouraging. His mouth suddenly
tightened, and his eyes fell.
"Yes, Mr. Montgomery?"
"You are aware, sir, that I need only one more session to complete my
course."
"So you have told me."
"It is very important to me, sir."
"Naturally."
"The fees, Dr. Oldacre, would amount to about sixty pounds."
"I am afraid that my duties call me elsewhere, Mr. Montgomery."
"One moment, sir! I had hoped, sir, that perhaps, if I signed a paper
promising you interest upon your money, you would advance this sum to
me. I will pay you back, sir, I really will. Or, if you like, I will
work it off after I am qualified."
The doctor's lips had thinned into a narrow line. His eyes were raised
again, and sparkled indignantly.
"Your request is unreasonable, Mr. Montgomery. I am surprised that you
should have made it. Consider, sir, how many thousands of medical
students there are in this country. No doubt there are many of them
who have a difficulty in finding their fees. Am I to provide for them
all? Or why should I make an exception in your favour? I am grieved
and disappointed, Mr. Montgomery, that you should have put me into the
painful position of having to refuse you." He turned upon his heel,
and walked with offended dignity out of the surgery.
The student smiled bitterly, and turned to his work of making up the
morning prescriptions. It was poor and unworthy work--work which any
weakling might have done as well, and this was a man of exceptional
nerve and sinew. But, such as it was, it brought him his board and £1
a week, enough to help him during the summer months and let him save a
few pounds towards his winter keep. But those class fees! Where were
they to come from? He could not save them out of his scanty wage. Dr.
Oldacre would not advance them. He saw no way of earning them. His
brains were fairly good, but brains of that quality were a drug in the
market. He only excelled in his strength; and where was he to find a
customer for that? But the ways of Fate are strange, and his customer
was at hand.
"Look y'ere!" said a voice at the door.
Montgomery looked up, for the voice was a loud and rasping one. A
young man stood at the entrance--a stocky, bull-necked young miner, in
tweed Sunday clothes and an aggressive necktie. He was a
sinister-looking figure, with dark, insolent eyes, and the jaw and
throat of a bulldog.
"Look y'ere!" said he again. "Why hast thou not sent t' medicine oop
as thy master ordered?"
Montgomery had become accustomed to the brutal frankness of the
Northern worker. At first it had enraged him, but after a time he had
grown callous to it, and accepted it as it was meant. But this was
something different. It was insolence--brutal, overbearing insolence,
with physical menace behind it.
"What name?" he asked coldly.
"Barton. Happen I may give thee cause to mind that name, yoong man.
Mak' oop t' wife's medicine this very moment, look ye, or it will be
the worse for thee."
Montgomery smiled. A pleasant sense of relief thrilled softly through
him. What blessed safety-valve was this through which his jangled
nerves might find some outlet. The provocation was so gross, the
insult so unprovoked, that he could have none of those qualms which
take the edge off a man's mettle. He finished sealing the bottle upon
which he was occupied, and he addressed it and placed it carefully in
the rack.
"Look here!" said he, turning round to the miner, "your medicine will
be made up in its turn and sent down to you. I don't allow folk in the
surgery. Wait outside in the waiting-room, if you wish to wait at
all."
"Yoong man," said the miner, "thou's got to mak' t' wife's medicine
here, and now, and quick, while I wait and watch thee, or else happen
thou might need some medicine thysel' before all is over."
"I shouldn't advise you to fasten a quarrel upon me." Montgomery was
speaking in the hard, staccato voice of a man who is holding himself
in with difficulty. "You'll save trouble if you'll go quietly. If you
don't you'll be hurt. Ah, you would? Take it, then!"
The blows were almost simultaneous--a savage swing which whistled past
Montgomery's ear and a straight drive which took the workman on the
chin. Luck was with the assistant. That single whizzing uppercut, and
the way in which it was delivered, warned him that he had a formidable
man to deal with. But if he had underrated his antagonist, his
antagonist had also underrated him, and had laid himself open to a
fatal blow.
The miner's head had come with a crash against the corner of the
surgery shelves, and he had dropped heavily on to the ground. There he
lay with his bandy legs drawn up and his hands thrown abroad, the
blood trickling over the surgery tiles.
"Had enough?" asked the assistant, breathing fiercely through his
nose.
But no answer came. The man was insensible. And then the danger of his
position came upon Montgomery, and he turned as white as his
antagonist. A Sunday, the immaculate Dr. Oldacre with his pious
connection, a savage brawl with a patient; he would irretrievably lose
his situation if the facts came out. It was not much of a situation,
but he could not get another without a reference, and Oldacre might
refuse him one. Without money for his classes, and without a
situation--what was to become of him? It was absolute ruin.
But perhaps he could escape exposure after all. He seized his
insensible adversary, dragged him out into the centre of the room,
loosened his collar, and squeezed the surgery sponge over his face. He
sat up at last with a gasp and a scowl.
"Domn thee, thou's spoilt my necktie," said he, mopping up the water
from his breast.
"I'm sorry I hit you so hard," said Montgomery, apologetically.
"Thou hit me hard! I could stan' such fly-flappin' all day. 'Twas this
here press that cracked my pate for me, and thou art a looky man to be
able to boast as thou hast outed me. And now I'd be obliged to thee if
thou wilt give me t' wife's medicine."
Montgomery gladly made it up and handed it to the miner.
"You are weak still," said he. "Won't you stay awhile and rest?"
"T' wife wants her medicine," said the man, and lurched out the door.
The assistant, looking after him, saw him rolling with an uncertain
step down the street, until a friend met him, and they walked on
arm-in-arm. The man seemed in his rough Northern fashion to bear no
grudge, and so Montgomery's fears left him. There was no reason why
the doctor should know anything about it. He wiped the blood from the
floor, put the surgery in order, and went on with his interrupted
task, hoping that he had come scathless out of a very dangerous
business.
Yet all day he was aware of a sense of vague uneasiness which
sharpened into dismay when, late in the afternoon, he was informed
that three gentlemen had called and were waiting for him in the
surgery. A coroner's inquest, a descent of detectives, an invasion of
angry relatives--all sorts of possibilities rose to scare him. With
tense nerves and a rigid face he went to meet his visitors.
They were a very singular trio. Each was known to him by sight; but
what on earth the three could be doing together, and, above all, what
they could expect from /him/, was a most inexplicable problem.
The first was Sorley Wilson, the son of the owner of the Nonpareil
Coalpit. He was a young blood of twenty, heir to a fortune, a keen
sportsman, and down for the Easter Vacation from Magdalene College. He
sat now upon the edge of the surgery table, looking in thoughtful
silence at Montgomery, and twisting the ends of his small, black,
waxed moustache.
The second was Purvis, the publican, owner of the chief beershop, and
well known as the local bookmaker. He was a coarse, clean-shaven man,
whose fiery face made a singular contrast with his ivory-white bald
head. He had shrewd, light-blue eyes with foxy lashes, and he also
leaned forward in silence from his chair, a fat, red hand upon either
knee, and stared critically at the young assistant.
So did the third visitor, Fawcett, the horsebreaker, who leaned back,
his long, thin legs, with their box-cloth riding-gaiters, thrust out
in front of him, tapping his protruding teeth with his riding-whip,
with anxious thought in every line of his rugged, bony face. Publican,
exquisite, and horsebreaker were all three equally silent, equally
earnest, and equally critical. Montgomery, seated in the midst of
them, looked from one to the other.
"Well, gentlemen?" he observed, but no answer came.
The position was embarrassing.
"No," said the horsebreaker, at last. "No. It's off. It's nowt."
"Stand oop, lad; let's see thee standin'." It was the publican who
spoke.
Montgomery obeyed. He would learn all about it, no doubt, if he were
patient. He stood up and turned slowly round, as if in front of his
tailor.
"It's off! It's off!" cried the horsebreaker. "Why, mon, the Master
would break him over his knee."
"Oh, that be hanged for a yarn!" said the young Cantab. "You can drop
out if you like, Fawcett, but I'll see this thing through, if I have
to do it alone. I don't hedge a penny. I like the cut of him a great
deal better than I liked Ted Barton."
"Look at Barton's shoulders, Mr. Wilson."
"Lumpiness isn't always strength. Give me nerve and fire and breed.
That's what wins."
"Ay, sir, you have it theer--you have it theer!" said the fat,
red-faced publican, in a thick, suety voice. "It's the same wi' poops.
Get 'em clean-bred an' fine, an' they'll yark the thick 'uns--yark 'em
out o' their skins."
"He's ten good pund on the light side," growled the horsebreaker.
"He's a welter weight, anyhow."
"A hundred and thirty."
"A hundred and fifty, if he's an ounce."
"Well, the Master doesn't scale much more than that."
"A hundred and seventy-five."
"That was when he was hog-fat and living high. Work the grease out of
him, and I lay there's no great difference between them. Have you been
weighed lately, Mr. Montgomery?"
It was the first direct question which had been asked him. He had
stood in the midst of them, like a horse at a fair, and he was just
beginning to wonder whether he was more angry or amused.
"I am just eleven stone," said he.
"I said that he was a welter weight."
"But suppose you was trained?" said the publican. "Wot then?"
"I am always in training."
"In a manner of speakin', no doubt, he /is/ always in trainin',"
remarked the horsebreaker. "But trainin' for everyday work ain't the
same as trainin' with a trainer; and I dare bet, with all respec' to
your opinion, Mr. Wilson, that there's half a stone of tallow on him
at this minute."
The young Cantab put his fingers on the assistant's upper arm. Then
with his other hand on his wrist he bent the forearm sharply, and felt
the biceps, as round and hard as a cricket-ball, spring up under his
fingers.
"Feel that!" said he.
The publican and horsebreaker felt it with an air of reverence.
"Good lad! He'll do yet!" cried Purvis.
"Gentlemen," said Montgomery, "I think that you will acknowledge that
I have been very patient with you. I have listened to all that you
have to say about my personal appearance, and now I must really beg
that you will have the goodness to tell me what is the matter."
They all sat down in their serious, business-like way.
"That's easy done, Mr. Montgomery," said the fat-voiced publican. "But
before sayin' anything we had to wait and see whether, in a way of
speakin', there was any need for us to say anything at all. Mr. Wilson
thinks there is. Mr. Fawcett, who has the same right to his opinion,
bein' also a backer and one o' the committee, thinks the other way."
"I thought him too light built, and I think so now," said the
horsebreaker, still tapping his prominent teeth with the metal head of
his riding-whip. "But happen he may pull through; and he's a
fine-made, buirdly young chap, so if you mean to back him, Mr.
Wilson----"
"Which I do."
"And you, Purvis?"
"I ain't one to go back, Fawcett."
"Well, I'll stan' to my share of the purse."
"And well I knew you would," said Purvis, "for it would be somethin'
new to find Isaac Fawcett as a spoilsport. Well, then, we make up the
hundred for the stake among us, and the fight stands--always supposin'
the young man is willin'."
"Excuse all this rot, Mr. Montgomery," said the University man, in a
genial voice. "We've begun at the wrong end, I know, but we'll soon
straighten it out, and I hope that you will see your way to falling in
with our views. In the first place, you remember the man whom you
knocked out this morning? He is Barton--the famous Ted Barton."
"I'm sure, sir, you may well be proud to have outed him in one round,"
said the publican. "Why, it took Morris, the ten-stone-six champion, a
deal more trouble than that before he put Barton to sleep. You've done
a fine performance, sir, and happen you'll do a finer, if you give
yourself the chance."
"I never heard of Ted Barton, beyond seeing the name on a medicine
label," said the assistant.
"Well, you may take it from me that he's a slaughterer," said the
horsebreaker. "You've taught him a lesson that he needed, for it was
always a word and a blow with him, and the word alone was worth five
shillin' in a public court. He won't be so ready now to shake his nief
in the face of every one he meets. However, that's neither here nor
there."
Montgomery looked at them in bewilderment.
"For goodness' sake, gentlemen, tell me what it is you want me to do!"
he cried.
"We want you to fight Silas Craggs, better known as the Master of
Croxley."
"But why?"
"Because Ted Barton was to have fought him next Saturday. He was the
champion of the Wilson coal-pits, and the other was the Master of the
iron-folk down at the Croxley smelters. We'd matched our man for a
purse of a hundred against the Master. But you've queered our man, and
he can't face such a battle with a two-inch cut at the back of his
head. There's only one thing to be done, sir, and that is for you to
take his place. If you can lick Ted Barton you may lick the Master of
Croxley; but if you don't we're done, for there's no one else who is
in the same street with him in this district. It's twenty rounds,
two-ounce gloves, Queensberry rules, and a decision on points if you
fight to the finish."
For a moment the absurdity of the thing drove every other thought out
of Montgomery's head. But then there came a sudden revulsion. A
hundred pounds!--all he wanted to complete his education was lying
there ready to his hand if only that hand were strong enough to pick
it up. He had thought bitterly that morning that there was no market
for his strength, but here was one where his muscle might earn more in
an hour than his brains in a year. But a chill of doubt came over him.
"How can I fight for the coal-pits?" said he. "I am not connected with
them."
"Eh, lad, but thou art!" cried old Purvis. "We've got it down in
writin', and it's clear enough. 'Anyone connected with the coal-pits.'
Doctor Oldacre is the coal-pit club doctor; thou art his assistant.
What more can they want?"
"Yes, that's right enough," said the Cantab. "It would be a very
sporting thing of you, Mr. Montgomery, if you would come to our help
when we are in such a hole. Of course, you might not like to take the
hundred pounds; but I have no doubt that, in the case of your winning,
we could arrange that it should take the form of a watch or piece of
plate, or any other shape which might suggest itself to you. You see,
you are responsible for our having lost our champion, so we really
feel that we have a claim upon you."
"Give me a moment, gentlemen. It is very unexpected. I am afraid the
doctor would never consent to my going--in fact, I am sure that he
would not."
"But he need never know--not before the fight, at any rate. We are not
bound to give the name of our man. So long as he is within the weight
limits on the day of the fight, that is all that concerns any one."
The adventure and the profit would either of them have attracted
Montgomery. The two combined were irresistible.
"Gentlemen," said he, "I'll do it!"
The three sprang from their seats. The publican had seized his right
hand, the horse-dealer his left, and the Cantab had slapped him on the
back.
"Good lad! good lad!" croaked the publican. "Eh, mon, but if thou yark
him, thou'll rise in one day from being just a common doctor to the
best-known mon 'twixt here and Bradford. Thou are a witherin' tyke,
thou art, and no mistake; and if thou beat the Master of Croxley,
thou'll find all the beer thou want for the rest of thy life waiting
for thee at the Four Sacks."
"It is the most sporting thing I ever heard of in my life," said young
Wilson. "By George, sir, if you pull if off, you've got the
constituency in your pocket, if you care to stand. You know the
outhouse in my garden?"
"Next the road?"
"Exactly. I turned it into a gymnasium for Ted Barton. You'll find all
you want there; clubs, punching-ball, bars, dumb-bells, everything.
Then you'll want a sparring partner. Ogilvy has been acting for
Barton, but we don't think that he is class enough. Barton bears you
no grudge. He's a good-hearted fellow, though cross-grained with
strangers. He looked upon you as a stranger this morning, but he says
he knows you now. He is quite ready to spar with you for practice, and
he will come at any hour you will name."
"Thank you; I will let you know the hour," said Montgomery; and so the
committee departed jubilant upon their way.
The medical assistant sat for a little time in the surgery turning it
over in his mind. He had been trained originally at the University by
the man who had been middle-weight champion in his day. It was true
that his teacher was long past his prime, slow upon his feet and stiff
in his joints, but even so he was still a tough antagonist; but
Montgomery had found at last that he could more than hold his own with
him. He had won the University medal, and his teacher, who had trained
so many students, was emphatic in his opinion that he had never had
one who was in the same class with him. He had been exhorted to go in
for the Amateur Championships, but he had no particular ambition in
that direction. Once he had put on the gloves with Hammer Tunstall in
a booth at a fair, and had fought three rattling rounds, in which he
had the worst of it, but had made the prize-fighter stretch himself
to the uttermost. There was his whole record, and was it enough to
encourage him to stand up to the Master of Croxley? He had never heard
of the Master before, but then he had lost touch of the ring during
the last few years of hard work. After all, what did it matter? If he
won, there was the money, which meant so much to him. If he lost, it
would only mean a thrashing. He could take punishment without
flinching, of that he was certain. If there were only one chance in a
hundred of pulling it off, then it was worth his while to attempt it.
Dr. Oldacre, new come from church, with an ostentatious prayer-book in
his kid-gloved hand, broke in upon his meditation.
"You don't go to service, I observe, Mr. Montgomery," said he, coldly.
"No, sir; I have had some business to detain me."
"It is very near to my heart that my household should set a good
example. There are so few educated people in this district that a
great responsibility devolves upon us. If we do not live up to the
highest, how can we expect these poor workers to do so? It is a
dreadful thing to reflect that the parish takes a great deal more
interest in an approaching glove-fight than in their religious
duties."
"A glove-fight, sir?" said Montgomery, guiltily.
"I believe that to be the correct term. One of my patients tells me
that it is the talk of the district. A local ruffian, a patient of
ours, by the way, is matched against a pugilist over at Croxley. I
cannot understand why the law does not step in and stop so degrading
an exhibition. It is really a prize-fight."
"A glove-fight, you said."
"I am informed that a two-ounce glove is an evasion by which they
dodge the law, and make it difficult for the police to interfere. They
contend for a sum of money. It seems dreadful and almost
incredible--does it not?--to think that such scenes can be enacted
within a few miles of our peaceful home. But you will realize, Mr.
Montgomery, that while there are such influences for us to counteract,
it is very necessary that we should live up to our highest."
The doctor's sermon would have had more effect if the assistant had
not once or twice had occasion to test his highest and come upon it at
unexpectedly humble elevations. It is always so particularly easy to
"compound for sins we're most inclined to by damning those we have no
mind to." In any case, Montgomery felt that of all the men concerned
in such a fight--promoters, backers, spectators--it is the actual
fighter who holds the strongest and most honourable position. His
conscience gave him no concern upon the subject. Endurance and courage
are virtues, not vices, and brutality is, at least, better than
effeminacy.
There was a little tobacco-shop at the corner of the street, where
Montgomery got his bird's-eye and also his local information, for the
shopman was a garrulous soul, who knew everything about the affairs of
the district. The assistant strolled down there after tea and asked,
in a casual way, whether the tobacconist had ever heard of the Master
of Croxley.
"Heard of him! Heard of him!" the little man could hardly articulate
his astonishment. "Why, sir, he's the first mon o' the district, an'
his name's as well known in the West Riding as the winner o' t' Derby.
But Lor', sir"--here he stopped and rummaged among a heap of papers.
"They are makin' a fuss about him on account o' his fight wi' Ted
Barton, and so the /Croxley Herald/ has his life an' record, an' here
it is, an' thou canst read it for thysel'."
The sheet of the paper which he held up was a lake of print around an
islet of illustration. The latter was a coarse wood-cut of a
pugilist's head and neck set in a cross-barred jersey. It was a
sinister but powerful face, the face of a debauched hero,
clean-shaven, strongly eye-browed, keen-eyed, with a huge, aggressive
jaw, and an animal dewlap beneath it. The long, obstinate cheeks ran
flush up to the narrow, sinister eyes. The mighty neck came down
square from the ears and curved outwards into shoulders, which had
lost nothing at the hands of the local artist. Above was written
"Silas Craggs," and beneath, "The Master of Croxley."
"Thou'll find all about him there, sir," said the tobacconist. "He's a
witherin' tyke, he is, and w're proud to have him in the county. If he
hadn't broke his leg he'd have been champion of England."
"Broke his leg, has he?"
"Yes, and it set badly. They ca' him owd K behind his bock, for thot
is how his two legs look. But his arms--well, if they was both
stropped to a bench, as the sayin' is, I wonder where the champion of
England would be then."
"I'll take this with me," said Montgomery; and putting the paper into
his pocket he returned home.
It was not a cheering record which he read there. The whole history of
the Croxley Master was given in full, his many victories, his few
defeats.
"Born in 1857," said the provincial biographer, "Silas Craggs, better
known in sporting circles as The Master of Croxley, is now in his
fortieth year."
"Hang it, I'm only twenty-three," said Montgomery to himself, and read
on more cheerfully.
"Having in his youth shown a surprising aptitude for the game, he
fought his way up among his comrades, until he became the recognized
champion of the district and won the proud title which he still holds.
Ambitious of a more than local fame, he secured a patron, and fought
his first fight against Jack Barton, of Birmingham, in May, 1880, at
the old Loiterers' Club. Craggs, who fought at ten-stone-two at the
time, had the better of fifteen rattling rounds, and gained an award
on points against the Midlander. Having disposed of James Dunn, of
Rotherhithe, Cameron, of Glasgow, and a youth named Fernie, he was
thought so highly of by the fancy that he was matched against Ernest
Willox, at that time middle-weight champion of the North of England,
and defeated him in a hard-fought battle, knocking him out in the
tenth round after a punishing contest. At this period it looked as if
the very highest honours of the ring were within the reach of the
young Yorkshireman, but he was laid upon the shelf by a most
unfortunate accident. The kick of a horse broke his thigh, and for a
year he was compelled to rest himself. When he returned to his work
the fracture had set badly, and his activity was much impaired. It was
owing to this that he was defeated in seven rounds by Willox, the man
whom he had previously beaten, and afterwards by James Shaw, of
London, though the latter acknowledged that he had found the toughest
customer of his career. Undismayed by his reverses, the Master adapted
the style of his fighting to his physical disabilities, and resumed
his career of victory--defeating Norton (the black), Bobby Wilson, and
Levi Cohen, the latter a heavy-weight. Conceding two stone, he fought
a draw with the famous Billy McQuire, and afterwards, for a purse of
fifty pounds, he defeated Sam Hare at the Pelican Club, London. In
1891 a decision was given against him upon a foul when fighting a
winning fight against Jim Taylor, the Australian middle-weight, and so
mortified was he by the decision, that he withdrew from the ring.
Since then he has hardly fought at all save to accommodate any local
aspirant who may wish to learn the difference between a bar-room
scramble and a scientific contest. The latest of these ambitious souls
comes from the Wilson coalpits, which have undertaken to put up a
stake of £100 and back their local champion. There are various rumours
afloat as to who their representative is to be, the name of Ted Barton
being freely mentioned; but the betting, which is seven to one on the
Master against any untried man, is a fair reflection of the feeling of
the community."
Montgomery read it over twice, and it left him with a very serious
face. No light matter this, which he had undertaken; no battle with a
rough-and-tumble fighter who presumed upon a local reputation. The
man's record showed that he was first class--or nearly so. There were
a few points in his favour, and he must make the most of them. There
was age--twenty-three against forty. There was an old ring proverb
that "Youth will be served," but the annals of the ring offer a great
number of exceptions. A hard veteran, full of cool valour and
ring-craft, could give ten or fifteen years and a beating to most
striplings. He could not rely too much upon his advantage in age. But
then there was the lameness; that must surely count for a great deal.
And, lastly, there was the chance that the Master might underrate his
opponent, that he might be remiss in his training, and refuse to
abandon his usual way of life, if he thought that he had an easy task
before him. In a man of his age and habits this seemed very possible.
Montgomery prayed that it might be so. Meanwhile, if his opponent were
the best man who ever jumped the ropes into a ring, his own duty was
clear. He must prepare himself carefully, throw away no chance, and do
the very best that he could. But he knew enough to appreciate the
difference which exists in boxing, as in every sport, between the
amateur and the professional. The coolness, the power of hitting,
above all the capability for taking punishment, count for so much.
Those specially developed, gutta-percha-like abdominal muscles of the
hardened pugilist will take without flinching a blow which would leave
another man writhing on the ground. Such things are not to be acquired
in a week, but all that could be done in a week should be done.
The medical assistant had a good basis to start from. He was 5 feet 11
inches--tall enough for anything on two legs, as the old ring men used
to say--lithe and spare, with the activity of a panther, and a
strength which had hardly yet ever found its limitations. His muscular
development was finely hard, but his power came rather from that
higher nerve-energy which counts for nothing upon a measuring tape. He
had the well-curved nose and the widely opened eye which never yet
were seen upon the face of a craven, and behind everything he had the
driving force, which came from the knowledge that his whole career was
at stake upon the contest. The three backers rubbed their hands when
they saw him at work punching the ball in the gymnasium next morning;
and Fawcett, the horsebreaker, who had written to Leeds to hedge his
bets, sent a wire to cancel the letter, and to lay another fifty at
the market price of seven to one.
Montgomery's chief difficulty was to find time for his training
without any interference from the doctor. His work took him a large
part of the day, but as the visiting was done on foot, and
considerable distances could be traversed, it was a training in
itself. For the rest, he punched the swinging ball and worked with the
dumb-bells for an hour every morning and evening, and boxed twice a
day with Ted Barton in the gymnasium, gaining as much profit as could
be got from a rushing, two-handed slogger. Barton was full of
admiration for his cleverness and quickness, but doubtful about his
strength. Hard hitting was the feature of his own style, and he
exacted it from others.
"Lord, sir, that's a turble poor poonch for an eleven-stone man!" he
would cry. "Thou wilt have to hit harder than that afore t' Master
will know that thou art theer. Ah, thot's better, mon, thot's fine!"
he would add, as his opponent lifted him across the room on the end of
a right counter. "Thot's how I likes to feel 'em. Happen thou'lt pull
through yet." He chuckled with joy when Montgomery knocked him into a
corner. "Eh, mon, thou art comin' along grand. Thou hast fair yarked
me off my legs. Do it again, lad, do it again!"
The only part of Montgomery's training which came within the doctor's
observation was his diet, and that puzzled him considerably.
"You will excuse my remarking, Mr. Montgomery, that you are becoming
rather particular in your tastes. Such fads are not to be encouraged
in one's youth. Why do you eat toast with every meal?"
"I find that it suits me better than bread, sir."
"It entails unnecessary work upon the cook. I observe, also, that you
have turned against potatoes."
"Yes, sir; I think that I am better without them."
"And you no longer drink your beer?"
"No, sir."
"These causeless whims and fancies are very much to be deprecated, Mr.
Montgomery. Consider how many there are to whom these very potatoes
and this very beer would be most acceptable."
"No doubt, sir. But at present I prefer to do without them."
They were sitting alone at lunch, and the assistant thought that it
would be a good opportunity of asking leave for the day of the fight.
"I should be glad if you could let me have leave for Saturday, Dr.
Oldacre."
"It is very inconvenient upon so busy a day."
"I should do a double day's work on Friday so as to leave everything
in order. I should hope to be back in the evening."
"I am afraid I cannot spare you, Mr. Montgomery."
This was a facer. If he could not get leave he would go without it.
"You will remember, Doctor Oldacre, that when I came to you it was
understood that I should have a clear day every month. I have never
claimed one. But now there are reasons why I wish to have a holiday
upon Saturday."
Doctor Oldacre gave in with a very bad grace.
"Of course, if you insist upon your formal rights, there is no more to
be said, Mr. Montgomery, though I feel that it shows a certain
indifference to my comfort and the welfare of the practice. Do you
still insist?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very good. Have your way."
The doctor was boiling over with anger, but Montgomery was a valuable
assistant--steady, capable, and hard working--and he could not afford
to lose him. Even if he had been prompted to advance those class fees,
for which his assistant had appealed, it would have been against his
interests to do so, for he did not wish him to qualify, and he desired
him to remain in his subordinate position, in which he worked so hard
for so small a wage. There was something in the cool insistence of the
young man, a quiet resolution in his voice as he claimed his Saturday,
which aroused his curiosity.
"I have no desire to interfere unduly with your affairs, Mr.
Montgomery, but were you thinking of having a day in Leeds upon
Saturday?"
"No, sir."
"In the country?"
"Yes, sir."
"You are very wise. You will find a quiet day among the wild flowers a
very valuable restorative. Had you thought of any particular
direction?"
"I am going over Croxley way."
"Well, there is no prettier country when once you are past the
iron-works. What could be more delightful than to lie upon the Fells,
basking in the sunshine, with perhaps some instructive and elevating
book as your companion? I should recommend a visit to the ruins of St.
Bridget's Church, a very interesting relic of the early Norman era. By
the way, there is one objection which I see to your going to Croxley
on Saturday. It is upon that date, as I am informed, that that
ruffianly glove-fight takes place. You may find yourself molested by
the blackguards whom it will attract."
"I will take my chance of that, sir," said the assistant.
On the Friday night, which was the last before the fight, Montgomery's
three backers assembled in the gymnasium and inspected their man as he
went through some light exercises to keep his muscles supple. He was
certainly in splendid condition, his skin shining with health, and his
eyes with energy and confidence. The three walked round him and
exulted.
"He's simply ripping!" said the undergraduate. "By Gad, you've come
out of it splendidly. You're as hard as a pebble, and fit to fight for
your life."
"Happen he's a trifle on the fine side," said the publican. "Runs a
bit light at the loins, to my way of thinkin'."
"What weight to-day?"
"Ten-stone eleven," the assistant answered.
"That's only three pund off in a week's trainin'," said the
horsebreaker. "He said right when he said that he was in condition.
Well, it's fine stuff all there is of it, but I'm none so sure as
there is enough." He kept poking his finger into Montgomery, as if he
were one of his horses. "I hear that the Master will scale a hundred
and sixty odd at the ring-side."
"But there's some of that which he'd like well to pull off and leave
behind wi' his shirt," said Purvis. "I hear they've had a rare job to
get him to drop his beer, and if it had not been for that great
red-headed wench of his they'd never ha' done it. She fair scratted
the face off a potman that had brought him a gallon from t' Chequers.
They say the hussy is his sparrin' partner, as well as his sweetheart,
and that his poor wife is just breakin' her heart over it. Hullo,
young 'un, what do you want?"
The door of the gymnasium had opened, and a lad about sixteen, grimy
and black with soot and iron, stepped into the yellow glare of the
oil-lamp. Ted Barton seized him by the collar.
"See here, thou yoong whelp, this is private, and we want noan o' thy
spin'!"
"But I maun speak to Mr. Wilson."
The young Cantab stepped forward.
"Well, my lad, what is it?"
"It's aboot t' fight, Mr. Wilson, sir. I wanted to tell your mon
somethin' aboot t' Maister."
"We've no time to listen to gossip, my boy. We know all about the
Master."
"But thou doant, sir. Nobody knows but me and mother, and we thought
as we'd like thy mon to know, sir, for we want him to fair bray him."
"Oh, you want the Master fair brayed, do you? So do we. Well, what
have you to say?"
"Is this your mon, sir?"
"Well, suppose it is?"
"Then it's him I want to tell aboot it. T' Maister is blind o' the
left eye."
"Nonsense!"
"It's true, sir. Not stone blind, but rarely fogged. He keeps it
secret, but mother knows, and so do I. If thou slip him on the left
side he can't cop thee. Thou'll find it right as I tell thee. And mark
him when he sinks his right. 'Tis his best blow, his right upper-cut.
T' Maister's finisher, they ca' it at t' works. It's a turble blow,
when it do come home."
"Thank you, my boy. This is information worth having about his sight,"
said Wilson. "How came you to know so much? Who are you?"
"I'm his son, sir."
Wilson whistled.
"And who sent you to us?"
"My mother. I maun get back to her again."
"Take this half-crown."
"No, sir, I don't seek money in comin' here. I do it----"
"For love?" suggested the publican.
"For hate!" said the boy, and darted off into the darkness.
"Seems to me t' red-headed wench may do him more harm than good, after
all," remarked the publican. "And now, Mr. Montgomery, sir, you've
done enough for this evenin', and a nine-hours' sleep is the best
trainin' before a battle. Happen this time to-morrow night you'll be
safe back again with your one hundred pounds in your pocket."
II
Work was struck at one o'clock at the coal-pits and the iron-works,
and the fight was arranged for three. From the Croxley Furnaces, from
Wilson's Coal-pits, from the Heartsease Mine, from the Dodd Mills,
from the Leverworth Smelters the workmen came trooping, each with his
fox-terrier or his lurcher at his heels. Warped with labour and
twisted by toil, bent double by week-long work in the cramped coal
galleries, or half-blinded with years spent in front of white-hot
fluid metal, these men still gilded their harsh and hopeless lives by
their devotion to sport. It was their one relief, the only thing which
could distract their minds from sordid surroundings, and give them an
interest beyond the blackened circle which inclosed them. Literature,
art, science, all these things were beyond their horizon; but the
race, the football match, the cricket, the fight, these were things
which they could understand, which they could speculate upon in
advance and comment upon afterwards. Sometimes brutal, sometimes
grotesque, the love of sport is still one of the great agencies which
make for the happiness of our people. It lies very deeply in the
springs of our nature, and when it has been educated out, a higher,
more refined nature may be left, but it will not be of that robust
British type which has left its mark so deeply on the world. Every one
of these ruddled workers, slouching with his dog at his heels to see
something of the fight, was a true unit of his race.
It was a squally May day, with bright sunbursts and driving showers.
Montgomery worked all morning in the surgery getting his medicine made
up.
"The weather seems so very unsettled, Mr. Montgomery," remarked the
doctor, "that I am inclined to think that you had better postpone your
little country excursion until a later date."
"I am afraid that I must go to-day, sir."
"I have just had an intimation that Mrs. Potter, at the other side of
Angleton, wishes to see me. It is probable that I shall be there all
day. It will be extremely inconvenient to leave the house empty so
long."
"I am very sorry, sir, but I must go," said the assistant, doggedly.
The doctor saw that it would be useless to argue, and departed in the
worst of bad tempers upon his mission. Montgomery felt easier now that
he was gone. He went up to his room, and packed his running-shoes, his
fighting-drawers, and his cricket-sash into a handbag. When he came
down Mr. Wilson was waiting for him in the surgery.
"I hear the doctor has gone."
"Yes; he is likely to be away all day."
"I don't see that it matters much. It's bound to come to his ears by
to-night."
"Yes; it's serious with me, Mr. Wilson. If I win, it's all right. I
don't mind telling you that the hundred pounds will make all the
difference to me. But if I lose, I shall lose my situation, for, as
you say, I can't keep it secret."
"Never mind. We'll see you through among us. I only wonder the doctor
has not heard, for it's all over the country that you are to fight the
Croxley Champion. We've had Armitage up about it already. He's the
Master's backer, you know. He wasn't sure that you were eligible. The
Master said he wanted you whether you were eligible or not. Armitage
has money on, and would have made trouble if he could. But I showed
him that you came within the conditions of the challenge, and he
agreed that it was all right. They think they have a soft thing on."
"Well, I can only do my best," said Montgomery.
They lunched together; a silent and rather nervous repast, for
Montgomery's mind was full of what was before him, and Wilson had
himself more money at stake than he cared to lose.
Wilson's carriage and pair were at the door, the horses with
blue-and-white rosettes at their ears, which were the colours of the
Wilson Coal pits, well known on many a football field. At the avenue
gate a crowd of some hundred pitmen and their wives gave a cheer as
the carriage passed. To the assistant it all seemed dream like and
extraordinary--the strangest experience of his life, but with a thrill
of human action and interest in it which made it passionately
absorbing. He lay back in the open carriage and saw the fluttering
handkerchiefs from the doors and windows of the miners' cottages.
Wilson had pinned a blue-and-white rosette upon his coat, and every
one knew him as their champion. "Good luck, sir! good luck to thee!"
they shouted from the roadside. He felt that it was like some
unromantic knight riding down to sordid lists, but there was something
of chivalry in it all the same. He fought for others as well as for
himself. He might fail from want of skill or strength, but deep in his
sombre soul he vowed that it should never be for want of heart.
Mr. Fawcett was just mounting into his high-wheeled, spidery dogcart,
with his little bit of blood between the shafts. He waved his whip and
fell in behind the carriage. They overtook Purvis, the tomato-faced
publican, upon the road, with his wife in her Sunday bonnet. They also
dropped into the procession, and then, as they traversed the seven
miles of the high road to Croxley, their two-horsed rosetted carriage
became gradually the nucleus of a comet with a loosely radiating tail.
From every side-road came the miners' carts, the humble, ramshackle
traps, black and bulging, with their loads of noisy, foul-tongued,
open-hearted partisans. They trailed for a long quarter of a mile
behind them--cracking, whipping, shouting, galloping, swearing.
Horsemen and runners were mixed with the vehicles. And then suddenly a
squad of the Sheffield Yeomanry, who were having their annual training
in those parts, clattered and jingled out of a field, and rode as an
escort to the carriage. Through the dust-clouds round him Montgomery
saw the gleaming brass helmets, the bright coats, and the tossing
heads of the chargers, the delighted brown faces of the troopers. It
was more dream-like than ever.
And then, as they approached the monstrous uncouth line of
bottle-shaped buildings which marked the smelting-works of Croxley,
their long, writhing snake of dust was headed off by another but
longer one which wound across their path. The main road into which
their own opened was filled by the rushing current of traps. The
Wilson contingent halted until the others should get past. The
iron-men cheered and groaned, according to their humour, as they
whirled past their antagonist. Rough chaff flew back and forwards like
iron nuts and splinters of coal. "Brought him up, then!" "Got t'
hearse for to fetch him back?" "Where's t' owd K-legs?" "Mon, mon,
have thy photograph took--'twill mind thee of what thou used to look!"
"He fight?--he's now't but a half-baked doctor!" "Happen he'll doctor
thy Croxley Champion afore he's through wi't."
So they flashed at each other as the one side waited and the other
passed. Then there came a rolling murmur swelling into a shout, and a
great break with four horses came clattering along, all streaming with
salmon-pink ribbons. The driver wore a white hat with pink rosette,
and beside him on the high seat, were a man and a woman--she with her
arm round his waist. Montgomery had one glimpse of them as they
flashed past: he with a furry cap drawn low over his brow, a great
frieze coat, and a pink comforter round his throat; she brazen,
red-headed, bright-coloured, laughing excitedly. The Master, for it
was he, turned as he passed, gazed hard at Montgomery, and gave him a
menacing, gap-toothed grin. It was a hard, wicked face, blue-jowled
and craggy, with long, obstinate cheeks and inexorable eyes. The break
behind was full of patrons of the sport--flushed iron-foremen, heads
of departments, managers. One was drinking from a metal flask, and
raised it to Montgomery as he passed; and then the crowd thinned, and
the Wilson cortège with their dragoons swept in at the rear of the
others.
The road led away from Croxley, between curving green hills, gashed
and polluted by the searchers for coal and iron. The whole country had
been gutted, and vast piles of refuse and mountains of slag suggested
the mighty chambers which the labour of man had burrowed beneath. On
the left the road curved up to where a huge building, roofless and
dismantled, stood crumbling and forlorn, with the light shining
through the windowless squares.
"That's the old Arrowsmith's factory. That's where the fight is to
be," said Wilson. "How are you feeling now?"
"Thank you. I was never better in my life," Montgomery answered.
"By Gad, I like your nerve!" said Wilson, who was himself flushed and
uneasy. "You'll give us a fight for our money, come what may. That
place on the right is the office, and that has been set aside as the
dressing- and weighing-room."
The carriage drove up to it amidst the shouts of the folk upon the
hill-side. Lines of empty carriages and traps curved down upon the
winding road, and a black crowd surged round the door of the ruined
factory. The seats, as a huge placard announced, were five shillings,
three shillings, and a shilling, with half-price for dogs. The
takings, deducting expenses, were to go to the winner, and it was
already evident that a larger stake than a hundred pounds was in
question. A babel of voices rose from the door. The workers wished to
bring their dogs in free. The men scuffled. The dogs barked. The crowd
was a whirling, eddying pool surging with a roar up to the narrow
cleft which was its only outlet.
The break, with its salmon-coloured streamers and four reeking horses,
stood empty before the door of the office; Wilson, Purvis, Fawcett,
and Montgomery passed in.
There was a large, bare room inside with square, clean patches upon
the grimy walls, where pictures and almanacs had once hung. Worn
linoleum covered the floor, but there was no furniture save some
benches and a deal table with a ewer and a basin upon it. Two of the
corners were curtained off. In the middle of the room was a
weighing-chair. A hugely fat man, with a salmon tie and a blue
waistcoat with birds'-eye spots, came bustling up to them. It was
Armitage, the butcher and grazier, well known for miles round as a
warm man, and the most liberal patron of sport in the Riding.
"Well, well," he grunted, in a thick, fussy, wheezy voice, "you have
come, then. Got your man? Got your man?"
"Here he is, fit and well. Mr. Montgomery, let me present you to Mr.
Armitage."
"Glad to meet you, sir. Happy to make your acquaintance. I make bold
to say, sir, that we of Croxley admire your courage, Mr. Montgomery,
and that our only hope is a fair fight and no favour and the best man
win. That's our sentiment at Croxley."
"And it is my sentiment also," said the assistant.
"Well, you can't say fairer than that, Mr. Montgomery. You've taken a
large contrac' in hand, but a large contrac' may be carried through,
sir, as anyone who knows my dealings could testify. The Master is
ready to weigh in!"
"So am I."
"You must weigh in the buff."
Montgomery looked askance at the tall, red-headed woman who was
standing gazing out of the window.
"That's all right," said Wilson. "Get behind the curtain and put on
your fighting-kit."
He did so, and came out the picture of an athlete, in white, loose
drawers, canvas shoes, and the sash of a well-known cricket club round
his waist. He was trained to a hair, his skin gleaming like silk, and
every muscle rippling down his broad shoulders and along his beautiful
arms as he moved them. They bunched into ivory knobs, or slid into
long, sinuous curves, as he raised or lowered his hands.
"What thinkest thou o' that?" asked Ted Barton, his second, of the
woman in the window.
She glanced contemptuously at the young athlete.
"It's but a poor kindness thou dost him to put a thread-paper yoong
gentleman like yon against a mon as is a mon. Why, my Jock would
throttle him wi' one hond lashed behind him."
"Happen he may--happen not," said Barton. "I have but twa pund in the
world, but it's on him, every penny, and no hedgin'. But here's t'
Maister, and rarely fine he do look."
The prize-fighter had come out from his curtain, a squat, formidable
figure, monstrous in chest and arms, limping slightly on his distorted
leg. His skin had none of the freshness and clearness of Montgomery's,
but was dusky and mottled, with one huge mole amid the mat of tangled
black hair which thatched his mighty breast. His weight bore no
relation to his strength, for those huge shoulders and great arms,
with brown, sledge-hammer fists, would have fitted the heaviest man
that ever threw his cap into a ring. But his loins and legs were
slight in proportion. Montgomery, on the other hand, was as
symmetrical as a Greek statue. It would be an encounter between a man
who was specially fitted for one sport, and one who was equally
capable of any. The two looked curiously at each other: a bulldog, and
a high-bred, clean-limbed terrier, each full of spirit.
"How do you do?"
"How do?" The Master grinned again, and his three jagged front teeth
gleamed for an instant. The rest had been beaten out of him in twenty
years of battle. He spat upon the floor. "We have a rare fine day
for't."
"Capital," said Montgomery.
"That's the good feelin' I like," wheezed the fat butcher. "Good lads,
both of them!--prime lads!--hard meat an' good bone. There's no
ill-feelin'."
"If he downs me, Gawd bless him!" said the Master.
"An' if we down him, Gawd help him!" interrupted the woman.
"Haud thy tongue, wench!" said the Master, impatiently. "Who art thou
to put in thy word? Happen I might draw my hand across thy face."
The woman did not take the threat amiss.
"Wilt have enough for thy hand to do, Jock," said she. "Get quit o'
this gradely man afore thou turn on me."
The lovers' quarrel was interrupted by the entrance of a new-comer, a
gentleman with a fur-collared overcoat and a very shiny top-hat--a
top-hat of a degree of glossiness which is seldom seen five miles from
Hyde Park. This hat he wore at the extreme back of his head, so that
the lower surface of the brim made a kind of frame for his high, bald
forehead, his keen eyes, his rugged and yet kindly face. He bustled in
with the quiet air of possession with which the ring-master enters the
circus.
"It's Mr. Stapleton, the referee from London," said Wilson. "How do
you do, Mr. Stapleton? I was introduced to you at the big fight at the
Corinthian Club, in Piccadilly."
"Ah, I dare say," said the other, shaking hands. "Fact is, I'm
introduced to so many that I can't undertake to carry their names.
Wilson, is it? Well, Mr. Wilson, glad to see you. Couldn't get a fly
at the station, and that's why I'm late."
"I'm sure, sir," said Armitage, "we should be proud that anyone so
well known in the boxing world should come down to our little
exhibition."
"Not at all. Not at all. Anything in the interest of boxin'. All
ready? Men weighed?"
"Weighing now, sir."
"Ah, just as well I should see it done. Seen you before, Craggs. Saw
you fight your second battle against Willox. You had beaten him once,
but he came back on you. What does the indicator say?--one hundred and
sixty-three pounds--two off for the kit--one hundred and sixty one.
Now, my lad, you jump. My goodness, what colours are you wearing?"
"The Anonymi Cricket Club."
"What right have you to wear them? I belong to the club myself."
"So do I."
"You an amateur?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you are fighting for a money prize?"
"Yes."
"I suppose you know what you are doing. You realize that you're a
professional pug from this onwards, and that if ever you fight
again----"
"I'll never fight again."
"Happen you won't," said the woman, and the Master turned a terrible
eye upon her.
"Well, I suppose you know your own business best. Up you jump. One
hundred and fifty-one, minus two, one hundred and forty-nine--twelve
pounds' difference, but youth and condition on the other scale. Well,
the sooner we get to work the better, for I wish to catch the seven
o'clock express at Hellifield. Twenty three-minute rounds, with one
minute intervals, and Queensberry rules. Those are the conditions, are
they not?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very good, then, we may go across."
The two combatants had overcoats thrown over their shoulders, and the
whole party, backers, fighters, seconds, and the referee, filed out of
the room. A police inspector was waiting for them in the road. He had
a notebook in his hand--that terrible weapon which awes even the
London cabman.
"I must take your names, gentlemen, in case it should be necessary to
proceed for breach of peace."
"You don't mean to stop the fight?" cried Armitage, in a passion of
indignation. "I'm Mr. Armitage, of Croxley, and this is Mr. Wilson,
and we'll be responsible that all is fair and as it should be."
"I'll take the names in case it should be necessary to proceed," said
the inspector, impassively.
"But you know me well."
"If you was a dook or even a judge it would be all the same," said the
inspector. "It's the law, and there's an end. I'll not take upon
myself to stop the fight, seeing that gloves are to be used, but I'll
take the names of all concerned. Silas Craggs, Robert Montgomery,
Edward Barton, James Stapleton of London. Who seconds Silas Craggs?"
"I do," said the woman. "Yes, you can stare, but it's my job, and no
one else's. Anastasia's the name--four a's."
"Craggs?"
"Johnson. Anastasia Johnson. If you jug him, you can jug me."
"Who talked of juggin', ye fool?" growled the Master. "Coom on, Mr.
Armitage, for I'm fair sick o' this loiterin'."
The inspector fell in with the procession, and proceeded, as they
walked up the hill, to bargain in his official capacity for a front
seat, where he could safeguard the interests of the law, and in his
private capacity to lay out thirty shillings at seven to one with Mr.
Armitage.
Through the door they passed, down a narrow lane walled with a dense
bank of humanity, up a wooden ladder to a platform, over a rope which
was slung waist-high from four corner stakes, and then Montgomery
realized that he was in that ring in which his immediate destiny was
to be worked out. On the stake at one corner there hung a
blue-and-white streamer. Barton led him across, the overcoat dangling
loosely from his shoulders, and he sat down on a wooden stool. Barton
and another man, both wearing white sweaters, stood beside him. The
so-called ring was a square, twenty feet each way. At the opposite
angle was the sinister figure of the Master, with his red-headed woman
and a rough-faced friend to look after him. At each corner were metal
basins, pitchers of water, and sponges.
During the hubbub and uproar of the entrance Montgomery was too
bewildered to take things in. But now there was a few minutes' delay,
for the referee had lingered behind, and so he looked quietly about
him. It was a sight to haunt him for a lifetime. Wooden seats had been
built in, sloping upwards to the tops of the walls. Above, instead of
a ceiling, a great flight of crows passed slowly across a square of
grey cloud. Right up to the topmost benches the folk were
banked--broadcloth in front, corduroys and fustian behind; faces
turned everywhere upon him. The grey reek of the pipes filled the
building, and the air was pungent with the acrid smell of cheap,
strong tobacco. Everywhere among the human faces were to be seen the
heads of the dogs. They growled and yapped from the back benches. In
that dense mass of humanity one could hardly pick out individuals, but
Montgomery's eyes caught the brazen gleam of the helmets held upon the
knees of the ten yeomen of his escort. At the very edge of the
platform sat the reporters, five of them: three locals, and two all
the way from London. But where was the all-important referee? There
was no sign of him, unless he were in the centre of that angry swirl
of men near the door.
Mr. Stapleton had stopped to examine the gloves which were to be used,
and entered the building after the combatants. He had started to come
down that narrow lane with the human walls which led to the ring. But
already it had gone abroad that the Wilson champion was a gentleman,
and that another gentleman had been appointed as referee. A wave of
suspicion passed through the Croxley folk. They would have one of
their own people for a referee. They would not have a stranger. His
path was stopped as he made for the ring. Excited men flung themselves
in front of him; they waved their fists in his face and cursed him. A
woman howled vile names in his ear. Somebody struck at him with an
umbrella. "Go thou back to Lunnon. We want noan o' thee. Go thou
back!" they yelled.
Stapleton with his shiny hat cocked backwards, and his large, bulging
forehead swelling from under it, looked round him from beneath his
bushy brows. He was in the centre of a savage and dangerous mob. Then
he drew his watch from his pocket and held it dial upwards in his
palm.
"In three minutes," said he, "I will declare the fight off."
They raged round him. His cool face and that aggressive top-hat
irritated them. Grimy hands were raised. But it was difficult,
somehow, to strike a man who was so absolutely indifferent.
"In two minutes I declare the fight off."
They exploded into blasphemy. The breath of angry men smoked into his
placid face. A gnarled, grimy fist vibrated at the end of his nose.
"We tell thee we want noan o' thee. Get thou back where thou com'st
from."
"In one minute I declare the fight off."
Then the calm persistence of the man conquered the swaying, mutable,
passionate crowd.
"Let him through, mon. Happen there'll be no fight after a'."
"Let him through."
"Bill, thou loomp, let him pass. Dost want the fight declared off?"
"Make room for the referee!--room for the Lunnon referee!"
And half pushed, half carried, he was swept up to the ring. There were
two chairs by the side of it, one for him and one for the timekeeper.
He sat down, his hands on his knees, his hat at a more wonderful angle
than ever, impassive but solemn, with the aspect of one who
appreciates his responsibilities.
Mr. Armitage, the portly butcher, made his way into the ring and held
up two fat hands, sparkling with rings, as a signal for silence.
"Gentlemen!" he yelled. And then in a crescendo shriek, "Gentlemen!"
"And ladies!" cried somebody, for indeed there was a fair sprinkling
of women among the crowd. "Speak up, owd man!" shouted another. "What
price pork chops?" cried somebody at the back. Everybody laughed, and
the dogs began to bark. Armitage waved his hands amidst the uproar as
if he were conducting an orchestra. At last the babel thinned into
silence.
"Gentlemen," he yelled, "the match is between Silas Craggs, whom we
call the Master of Croxley, and Robert Montgomery, of the Wilson
Coal-pits. The match was to be under eleven eight. When they were
weighed just now Craggs weighed eleven seven, and Montgomery ten nine.
The conditions of the contest are--the best of twenty three-minute
rounds with two-ounce gloves. Should the fight run to its full length
it will, of course, be decided upon points. Mr. Stapleton, the
well-known London referee, has kindly consented to see fair play. I
wish to say that Mr. Wilson and I, the chief backers of the two men,
have every confidence in Mr. Stapleton, and that we beg that you
accept his rulings without dispute."
He then turned from one combatant to the other, with a wave of his
hand.
III
"Montgomery--Craggs!" said he.
A great hush fell over the huge assembly. Even the dogs stopped
yapping; one might have thought that the monstrous room was empty. The
two men had stood up, the small white gloves over their hands. They
advanced from their corners and shook hands: Montgomery gravely,
Craggs with a smile. Then they fell into position. The crowd gave a
long sigh--the intake of a thousand excited breaths. The referee
tilted his chair on to its back legs, and looked moodily critical from
the one to the other.
It was strength against activity--that was evident from the first. The
Master stood stolidly upon his K-leg. It gave him a tremendous
pedestal; one could hardly imagine his being knocked down. And he
could pivot round upon it with extraordinary quickness; but his
advance or retreat was ungainly. His frame, however, was so much
larger and broader than that of the student, and his brown, massive
face looked so resolute and menacing, that the hearts of the Wilson
party sank within them. There was one heart, however, which had not
done so. It was that of Robert Montgomery.
Any nervousness which he may have had completely passed away now that
he had his work before him. Here was something definite--this
hard-faced, deformed Hercules to beat, with a career as the price of
beating him. He glowed with the joy of action; it thrilled through his
nerves. He faced his man with little in-and-out steps, breaking to the
left, breaking to the right, feeling his way, while Craggs, with a
dull, malignant eye, pivoted slowly upon his weak leg, his left arm
half extended, his right sunk low across the mark. Montgomery led with
his left, and then led again, getting lightly home each time. He tried
again, but the Master had his counter ready, and Montgomery reeled
back from a harder blow than he had given. Anastasia, the woman, gave
a shrill cry of encouragement, and her man let fly his right.
Montgomery ducked under it, and in an instant the two were in each
other's arms.
"Break away! Break away!" said the referee.
The Master struck upwards on the break, and shook Montgomery with the
blow. Then it was "time." It had been a spirited opening round. The
people buzzed into comment and applause. Montgomery was quite fresh,
but the hairy chest of the Master was rising and falling. The man
passed a sponge over his head, while Anastasia flapped the towel
before him. "Good lass! Good lass!" cried the crowd, and cheered her.
The men were up again, the Master grimly watchful, Montgomery as alert
as a kitten. The Master tried a sudden rush, squattering along with
his awkward gait, but coming faster than one would think. The student
slipped aside and avoided him. The Master stopped, grinned, and shook
his head. Then he motioned with his hand as an invitation to
Montgomery to come to him. The student did so and led with his left,
but got a swinging right counter in the ribs in exchange. The heavy
blow staggered him, and the Master came scrambling in to complete his
advantage; but Montgomery, with his greater activity, kept out of
danger until the call of "time." A tame round, and the advantage with
the Master.
"T' Maister's too strong for him," said a smelter to his neighbour.
"Ay; but t'other's a likely lad. Happen we'll see some sport yet. He
can joomp rarely."
"But t' Maister can stop and hit rarely. Happen he'll mak' him joomp
when he gets his neif upon him."
They were up again, the water glistening upon their faces. Montgomery
led instantly and got his right home with a sounding smack upon the
Master's forehead. There was a shout from the colliers, and "Silence!
Order!" from the referee. Montgomery avoided the counter and scored
with his left. Fresh applause, and the referee upon his feet in
indignation. "No comments gentlemen, if /you/ please, during the
rounds."
"Just bide a bit!" growled the Master.
"Don't talk--fight!" said the referee, angrily.
Montgomery rubbed in the point by a flush hit upon the mouth, and the
Master shambled back to his corner like an angry bear, having had all
the worst of the round.
"Where's that seven to one?" shouted Purvis, the publican. "I'll take
six to one!"
There were no answers.
"Five to one!" There were givers at that. Purvis booked them in a
tattered notebook.
Montgomery began to feel happy. He lay back with his legs
outstretched, his back against the corner-post and one gloved hand
upon each rope. What a delicious minute it was between each round. If
he could only keep out of harm's way, he must surely wear this man out
before the end of twenty rounds. He was so slow that all his strength
went for nothing. "You're fightin' a winnin' fight--a winnin' fight,"
Ted Barton whispered in his ear. "Go canny; tak' no chances; you have
him proper."
But the Master was crafty. He had fought so many battles with his
maimed limb that he knew how to make the best of it. Warily and slowly
he manoevred round Montgomery, stepping forward and yet again forward
until he had imperceptibly backed him into his corner. The student
suddenly saw a flash of triumph upon the grim face, and a gleam in the
dull, malignant eyes. The Master was upon him. He sprang aside and was
on the ropes. The Master smashed in one of his terrible upper-cuts,
and Montgomery half broke it with his guard. The student sprang the
other way and was against the other converging rope. He was trapped in
the angle. The Master sent in another, with a hoggish grunt which
spoke of the energy behind it. Montgomery ducked, but got a jab from
the left upon the mark. He closed with his man. "Break away! Break
away!" cried the referee. Montgomery disengaged and got a swinging
blow on the ear as he did so. It had been a damaging round for him,
and the Croxley people were shouting their delight.
"Gentlemen, I will /not/ have this noise!" Stapleton roared. "I have
been accustomed to preside at a well-conducted club, and not at a
bear-garden." This little man, with the tilted hat and the bulging
forehead, dominated the whole assembly. He was like a headmaster among
his boys. He glared round him, and nobody cared to meet his eye.
Anastasia had kissed the Master when he resumed his seat. "Good lass.
Do't again!" cried the laughing crowd, and the angry Master shook his
glove at her, as she flapped her towel in front of him. Montgomery was
weary and a little sore, but not depressed. He had learned something.
He would not again be tempted into danger.
For three rounds the honours were fairly equal. The student's hitting
was the quicker, the Master's the harder. Profiting by his lesson,
Montgomery kept himself in the open, and refused to be herded into a
corner. Sometimes the Master succeeded in rushing him to the
side-ropes, but the younger man slipped away, or closed, and then
disengaged. The monotonous "Break away! Break away!" of the referee
broke in upon the quick, low patter of rubber-soled shoes, the dull
thud of the blows, and the sharp, hissing breath of two tired men.
The ninth round found both of them in fairly good condition.
Montgomery's head was still singing from the blow that he had in the
corner, and one of his thumbs pained him acutely and seemed to be
dislocated. The Master showed no sign of a touch, but his breathing
was the more laboured, and a long line of ticks upon the referee's
paper showed that the student had a good show of points. But one of
this iron-man's blows was worth three of his, and he knew that without
the gloves he could not have stood for three rounds against him. All
the amateur work that he had done was the merest tapping and flapping
when compared to those frightful blows, from arms toughened by the
shovel and the crowbar.
It was the tenth round, and the fight was half over. The betting was
now only three to one, for the Wilson champion had held his own much
better than had been expected. But those who knew the ring-craft as
well as the staying-power of the old prize-fighter knew that the odds
were still a long way in his favour.
"Have a care of him!" whispered Barton, as he sent his man up to the
scratch. "Have a care! He'll play thee a trick, if he can."
But Montgomery saw, or imagined he saw, that his antagonist was
tiring. He looked jaded and listless, and his hands drooped a little
from their position. His own youth and condition were beginning to
tell. He sprang in and brought off a fine left-handed lead. The
Master's return lacked his usual fire. Again Montgomery led, and again
he got home. Then he tried his right upon the mark, and the Master
guarded it downwards.
"Too low! Too low! A foul! A foul!" yelled a thousand voices.
The referee rolled his sardonic eyes slowly round. "Seems to me this
buildin' is chock-full of referees," said he.
The people laughed and applauded, but their favour was as immaterial
to him as their anger.
"No applause, please! This is not a theatre!" he yelled.
Montgomery was very pleased with himself. His adversary was evidently
in a bad way. He was piling on his points and establishing a lead. He
might as well make hay while the sun shone. The Master was looking all
abroad. Montgomery popped one upon his blue jowl and got away without
a return. And then the Master suddenly dropped both his hands and
began rubbing his thigh. Ah! that was it, was it! He had muscular
cramp.
"Go in! Go in!" cried Teddy Barton.
Montgomery sprang wildly forward, and the next instant was lying half
senseless, with his neck nearly broken, in the middle of the ring.
The whole round had been a long conspiracy to tempt him within reach
of one of those terrible right-hand upper-cuts for which the Master
was famous. For this the listless, weary bearing, for this the cramp
in the thigh. When Montgomery had sprang in so hotly he had exposed
himself to such a blow as neither flesh nor blood could stand.
Whizzing up from below with a rigid arm, which put the Master's eleven
stone into its force, it struck him under the jaw: he whirled half
round, and fell a helpless and half-paralysed mass. A vague groan and
murmur, inarticulate, too excited for words, rose from the great
audience. With open mouths and staring eyes they gazed at the
twitching and quivering figure.
"Stand back! Stand right back!" shrieked the referee, for the Master
was standing over his man ready to give him the /coup-de-grâce/ as he
rose.
"Stand back, Craggs, this instant!" Stapleton repeated.
The Master sank his hands sulkily and walked backwards to the rope
with his ferocious eyes fixed upon his fallen antagonist. The
timekeeper called the seconds. If ten of them passed before Montgomery
rose to his feet, the fight was ended. Ted Barton wrung his hands and
danced about in an agony in his corner.
As if in a dream--a terrible nightmare--the student could hear the
voice of the timekeeper--three--four--five--he got up on his
hand--six--seven--he was on his knee, sick, swimming, faint, but
resolute to rise. Eight--he was up, and the Master was on him like a
tiger, lashing savagely at him with both hands. Folk held their breath
as they watched those terrible blows, and anticipated the pitiful
end--so much more pitiful where a game but helpless man refuses to
accept defeat.
Strangely automatic is the human brain. Without volition, without
effort, there shot into the memory of this bewildered, staggering,
half-stupefied man the one thing which could have saved him--that
blind eye of which the Master's son had spoken. It was the same as the
other to look at, but Montgomery remembered that he had said that it
was the left. He reeled to the left side, half felled by a drive which
lit upon his shoulder. The Master pivoted round upon his leg and was
at him in an instant.
"Yark him, lad! yark him!" screamed the woman.
"Hold your tongue!" said the referee.
Montgomery slipped on the left again and yet again; but the Master was
too quick and clever for him. He struck round and got him full on the
face as he tried once more to break away. Montgomery's knees weakened
under him, and he fell with a groan on the floor. This time he knew
that he was done. With bitter agony he realized, as he groped blindly
with his hands, that he could not possibly raise himself. Far away and
muffled he heard, amid the murmurs of the multitude, the fateful voice
of the timekeeper counting off the seconds.
"One--two--three--four--five--six----"
"Time!" said the referee.
Then the pent-up passion of the great assembly broke loose. Croxley
gave a deep groan of disappointment. The Wilsons were on their feet,
yelling with delight. There was still a chance for them. In four more
seconds their man would have been solemnly counted out. But now he had
a minute in which to recover. The referee looked round with relaxed
features and laughing eyes. He loved this rough game, this school for
humble heroes, and it was pleasant to him to intervene as a /deux ex
machina/ at so dramatic a moment. His chair and his hat were both
tilted at an extreme angle; he and the timekeeper smiled at each
other. Ted Barton and the other second had rushed out and thrust an
arm each under Montgomery's knee, the other behind his loins, and so
carried him back to his stool. His head lolled upon his shoulder, but
a douche of cold water sent a shiver through him, and he started and
looked round him.
"He's a' right!" cried the people round. "He's a rare brave lad. Good
lad! Good lad!" Barton poured some brandy into his mouth. The mists
cleared a little, and he realized where he was and what he had to do.
But he was still very weak, and he hardly dared to hope that he could
survive another round.
"Seconds out of the ring!" cried the referee. "Time!"
The Croxley Master sprang eagerly off his stool.
"Keep clear of him! Go easy for a bit," said Barton; and Montgomery
walked out to meet his man once more.
He had had two lessons--the one when the Master got him into his
corner, the other when he had been lured into mixing it up with so
powerful an antagonist. Now he would be wary. Another blow would
finish him; he could afford to run no risks. The Master was determined
to follow up his advantage, and rushed at him, slogging furiously
right and left. But Montgomery was too young and active to be caught.
He was strong upon his legs once more, and his wits had all come back
to him. It was a gallant sight--the line-of-battle-ship trying to pour
its overwhelming broadside into the frigate, and the frigate
manoevring always so as to avoid it. The Master tried all his
ring-craft. He coaxed the student up by pretended inactivity; he
rushed at him with furious rushes towards the ropes. For three rounds
he exhausted every wile in trying to get at him. Montgomery during all
this time was conscious that his strength was minute by minute coming
back to him. The spinal jar from an upper-cut is overwhelming, but
evanescent. He was losing all sense of it beyond a great stiffness of
the neck. For the first round after his downfall he had been content
to be entirely on the defensive, only too happy if he could stall off
the furious attacks of the Master. In the second he occasionally
ventured upon a light counter. In the third he was smacking back
merrily where he saw an opening. His people yelled their approval of
him at the end of every round. Even the iron-workers cheered him with
that fine unselfishness which true sport engenders. To most of them,
unspiritual and unimaginative, the sight of this clean-limbed young
Apollo, rising above disaster and holding on while consciousness was
in him to his appointed task, was the greatest thing their experience
had ever known.
But the Master's naturally morose temper became more and more
murderous at this postponement of his hopes. Three rounds ago the
battle had been in his hands; now it was all to do over again. Round
by round his man was recovering his strength. By the fifteenth he was
strong again in wind and limb. But the vigilant Anastasia saw
something which encouraged her.
"That bash in t' ribs is telling on him, Jock," she whispered. "Why
else should he be gulping t' brandy? Go in, lad, and thou hast him
yet."
Montgomery had suddenly taken the flask from Barton's hand, and had a
deep pull at the contents. Then, with his face a little flushed, and
with a curious look of purpose, which made the referee stare hard at
him, in his eyes, he rose for the sixteenth round.
"Game as a pairtridge!" cried the publican, as he looked at the
hard-set face.
"Mix it oop, lad; mix it oop!" cried the iron-men to their Master.
And then a hum of exultation ran through their ranks as they realized
that their tougher, harder, stronger man held the vantage, after all.
Neither of the men showed much sign of punishment. Small gloves crush
and numb, but they do not cut. One of the Master's eyes was even more
flush with his cheek than Nature had made it. Montgomery had two or
three livid marks upon his body, and his face was haggard, save for
that pink spot which the brandy had brought into either cheek. He
rocked a little as he stood opposite his man, and his hands drooped as
if he felt the gloves to be an unutterable weight. It was evident that
he was spent and desperately weary. If he received one other blow it
must surely be fatal to him. If he brought one home, what power could
there be behind it, and what chance was there of it harming the
colossus in front of him? It was the crisis of the fight. This round
must decide it. "Mix it oop, lad; mix it oop!" the iron-men whooped.
Even the savage eyes of the referee were unable to restrain the
excited crowd.
Now, at last, the chance had come for Montgomery. He had learned a
lesson from his more experienced rival. Why should he not play his own
game upon him? He was spent, but not nearly so spent as he pretended.
That brandy was to call up his reserves, to let him have strength to
take full advantage of the opening when it came. It was thrilling and
tingling through his veins, at the very moment when he was lurching
and rocking like a beaten man. He acted his part admirably. The Master
felt that there was an easy task before him, and rushed in with
ungainly activity to finish it once for all. He slap-banged away left
and right, boring Montgomery up against the ropes, swinging in his
ferocious blows with those animal grunts which told of the vicious
energy behind them.
But Montgomery was too cool to fall a victim to any of those murderous
upper-cuts. He kept out of harm's way with a rigid guard, an active
foot, and a head which was swift to duck. And yet he contrived to
present the same appearance of a man who is hopelessly done. The
Master, weary from his own shower of blows, and fearing nothing from
so weak a man, dropped his hand for an instant, and at that instant
Montgomery's right came home.
It was a magnificent blow, straight, clean, crisp, with the force of
the loins and the back behind it. And it landed where he had meant it
to--upon the exact point of that blue-grained chin. Flesh and blood
could not stand such a blow in such a place. Neither valour nor
hardihood can save the man to whom it comes. The Master fell
backwards, flat, prostrate, striking the ground with so simultaneous a
clap that it was like a shutter falling from a wall. A yell which no
referee could control broke from the crowded benches as the giant went
down. He lay upon his back, his knees a little drawn up, his huge
chest panting. He twitched and shook, but could not move. His feet
pawed convulsively once or twice. It was no use. He was done.
"Eight--nine--ten!" said the timekeeper, and the roar of a thousand
voices, with a deafening clap like the broadside of a ship, told that
the Master of Croxley was the Master no more.
Montgomery stood half dazed, looking down at the huge, prostrate
figure. He could hardly realize that it was indeed all over. He saw
the referee motion towards him with his hand. He heard his name
bellowed in triumph from every side. And then he was aware of some one
rushing towards him; he caught a glimpse of a flushed face and an
aureole of flying red hair, a gloveless fist struck him between the
eyes, and he was on his back in the ring beside his antagonist, while
a dozen of his supporters were endeavouring to secure the frantic
Anastasia. He heard the angry shouting of the referee, the screaming
of the furious woman, and the cries of the mob. Then something seemed
to break like an overstretched banjo-string, and he sank into the
deep, deep, mist-girt abyss of unconsciousness.
The dressing was like a thing in a dream, and so was a vision of the
Master with the grin of a bulldog upon his face, and his three teeth
amiably protruded. He shook Montgomery heartily by the hand.
"I would have been rare pleased to shake thee by the throttle, lad, a
short while syne," said he. "But I bear no ill-feelin' again' thee. It
was a rare poonch that brought me down--I have not had a better since
my second fight wi' Billy Edwards in '89. Happen thou might think o'
goin' further wi' this business. If thou dost, and want a trainer,
there's no much inside t' ropes as I don't know. Or happen thou might
like to try it wi' me old style and bare knuckles. Thou hast but to
write to t' ironworks to find me."
But Montgomery disclaimed any such ambition. A canvas bag with his
share--one hundred and ninety sovereigns--was handed to him, of which
he gave ten to the Master, who also received some share of the
gate-money. Then, with young Wilson escorting him on one side, Purvis
on the other, and Fawcett carrying his bag behind, he went in triumph
to his carriage, and drove amid a long roar, which lined the highway
like a hedge for the seven miles, back to his starting-point.
"It's the greatest thing I ever saw in my life. By George, it's
ripping!" cried Wilson, who had been left in a kind of ecstasy by the
events of the day. "There's a chap over Barnsley way who fancies
himself a bit. Let us spring you on him, and let him see what he can
make of you. We'll put up a purse--won't we, Purvis? You shall never
want a backer."
"At his weight," said the publican, "I'm behind him, I am, for twenty
rounds, and no age, country, or colour barred."
"So am I!" cried Fawcett; "middle-weight champion of the world, that's
what he is--here, in the same carriage with us."
But Montgomery was not to be beguiled.
"No; I have my own work to do now."
"And what may that be?"
"I'll use this money to get my medical degree."
"Well, we've plenty of doctors, but you're the only man in the Riding
that could smack the Croxley Master off his legs. However, I suppose
you know your own business best. When you're a doctor, you'd best come
down into these parts, and you'll always find a job waiting for you at
the Wilson Coal-pits."
Montgomery had returned by devious ways to the surgery. The horses
were smoking at the door and the doctor was just back from his long
journey. Several patients had called in his absence, and he was in the
worst of tempers.
"I suppose I should be glad that you have come back at all, Mr.
Montgomery!" he snarled. "When next you elect to take a holiday, I
trust it will not be at so busy a time."
"I am sorry, sir, that you should have been inconvenienced."
"Yes, sir, I have been exceedingly inconvenienced." Here, for the
first time, he looked hard at the assistant. "Good heavens, Mr.
Montgomery, what have you been doing with your left eye?"
It was where Anastasia had lodged her protest.
Montgomery laughed. "It is nothing, sir," said he.
"And you have a livid mark under your jaw. It is, indeed, terrible
that my representative should be going about in so disreputable a
condition. How did you receive these injuries?"
"Well, sir, as you know, there was a little glove-fight to-day over at
Croxley."
"And you got mixed up with that brutal crowd?"
"I /was/ rather mixed up with them."
"And who assaulted you?"
"One of the fighters."
"Which of them?"
"The Master of Croxley."
"Good heavens! Perhaps you interfered with him?"
"Well, to tell the truth, I did a little."
"Mr. Montgomery, in such a practice as mine, intimately associated as
it is with the highest and most progressive elements of our small
community, it is impossible----"
But just then the tentative bray of a cornet-player searching for his
keynote jarred upon their ears, and an instant later the Wilson
Colliery brass band was in full cry with "See the Conquering Hero
Comes," outside the surgery window. There was a banner waving, and a
shouting crowd of miners.
"What is it? What does it mean?" cried the angry doctor.
"It means, sir, that I have, in the only way which was open to me,
earned the money which is necessary for my education. It is my duty,
Doctor Oldacre, to warn you that I am about to return to the
University, and that you should lose no time in appointing my
successor."
THE LORD OF FALCONBRIDGE
A LEGEND OF THE RING
Tom Cribb, Champion of England, having finished his active career by
his two famous battles with the terrible Molineux, had settled down
into the public-house which was known as the Union Arms, at the corner
of Panton Street in the Haymarket. Behind the door of this hostelry
there was a green baize door which opened into a large, red-papered
parlour, adorned by many sporting prints and by the numerous cups and
belts which were the treasured trophies of the famous prize-fighter's
victorious career. In this snuggery it was the custom of the
Corinthians of the day to assemble in order to discuss, over Tom
Cribb's excellent wines, the matches of the past, to await the news of
the present, and to arrange new ones for the future. Hither also came
his brother pugilists, especially such as were in poverty or distress,
for the Champion's generosity was proverbial, and no man of his own
trade was ever turned from his door if cheering words or a full meal
could mend his condition.
On the morning in question--August 25, 1818--there were but two men in
this famous snuggery. One was Cribb himself--all run to flesh since
the time seven years before, when, training for his last fight, he had
done his forty miles a day with Captain Barclay over the Highland
roads. Broad and deep, as well as tall, he was a little short of
twenty stone in weight, but his heavy, strong face and lion eyes
showed that the spirit of the prize-fighter was not yet altogether
overgrown by the fat of the publican. Though it was not eleven
o'clock, a great tankard of bitter ale stood upon the table before
him, and he was busy cutting up a plug of black tobacco and rubbing
the slices into powder between his horny fingers. For all his record
of desperate battles, he looked what he was--a good-hearted,
respectable householder, law-abiding and kindly, a happy and
prosperous man.
His companion, however, was by no means in the same easy
circumstances, and his countenance wore a very different expression.
He was a tall and well-formed man, some fifteen years younger than the
Champion, and recalling in the masterful pose of his face and in the
fine spread of his shoulders something of the manly beauty which had
distinguished Cribb at his prime. No one looking at his countenance
could fail to see that he was a fighting man by profession, and any
judge of the fancy, considering his six feet in height, his thirteen
stone of solid muscle, and his beautifully graceful build, would admit
that he had started his career with advantages which, if they were
only backed by the driving-power of a stout heart, must carry him far.
Tom Winter, or Spring--as he chose to call himself--had indeed come up
from his Herefordshire home with a fine country record of local
successes, which had been enhanced by two victories gained over
formidable London heavy-weights. Three weeks before, however, he had
been defeated by the famous Painter, and the set-back weighed heavily
upon the young man's spirits.
"Cheer up, lad," said the Champion, glancing across from under his
tufted eyebrows at the disconsolate face of his companion. "Indeed,
Tom, you take it over-hard."
The young man groaned, but made no reply.
"Others have been beat before you and lived to be Champions of
England. Here I sit with that very title. Was I not beat down
Broadwater way by George Nicholls in 1805? What then? I fought on, and
here I am. When the big Black came from America it was not George
Nicholls they sent for. I say to you--fight on, and by George, I'll
see you in my own shoes yet!"
Tom Spring shook his head. "Never, if I have to fight you to get
there, Daddy."
"I can't keep it for ever, Tom. It's beyond all reason. I'm going to
lay it down before all London at the Fives Courts next year, and it's
to you that I want to hand it. I couldn't train down to it now, lad.
My day's done."
"Well, Dad, I'll never bid for it till you choose to stand aside.
After that, it is as it may be."
"Well, have a rest, Tom; wait for your chance, and, meantime, there's
always a bed and crust for you here."
Spring struck his clenched fist on his knee. "I know, Daddy! Ever
since I came up from Fownthorpe, you've been as good as a father to
me."
"I've an eye for a winner."
"A pretty winner! Beat in forty rounds by Ned Painter."
"You had beat him first."
"And by the Lord, I will again!"
"So you will, lad. George Nicholls would never give me another shy.
Knew too much, he did. Bought a butcher's shop in Bristol with the
money, and there he is to this day."
"Yes, I'll come back on Painter, but I haven't a shilling left. My
backers have lost faith in me. If it wasn't for you, Daddy, I'd be in
the kennel."
"Have you nothing left, Tom?"
"Not the price of a meal. I left every penny I had, and my good name
as well, in the ring at Kingston. I'm hard put to it to live unless I
can get another fight, and who's going to back me now!"
"Tut, man! the knowing ones will back you. You're the top of the list,
for all Ned Painter. But there are other ways a man may earn a bit.
There was a lady in here this morning--nothing flash, boy, a real
tip-top out-and-outer with a coronet on her coach--asking after you."
"Asking after me! A lady!" The young pugilist stood up with surprise
and a certain horror rising in his eyes. "You don't mean, Daddy----"
"I mean nothing but what is honest, my lad. You can lay to that!"
"You said I could earn a bit!"
"So, perhaps, you can. Enough, anyhow, to tide you over your bad time.
There's something in the wind there. It's to do with fightin'. She
asked questions about your height, weight, and my opinion of your
prospect. You can lay that my answers did you no harm."
"She ain't making a match, surely?"
"Well, she seemed to know a tidy bit about it. She asked about George
Cooper, and Richmond the Black, and Tom Oliver, always comin' back to
you, and wantin' to know if you were not the pick of the bunch. /And/
trustworthy. That was the other point. Could she trust you? Lord, Tom,
if you was a fightin' archangel you could hardly live up to the
character that I've given you."
A drawer looked in from the bar. "If you please, Mr. Cribb, the lady's
carriage is back again."
The Champion laid down his long clay pipe. "This way, lad," said he,
plucking his young friend by the sleeve towards the side window. "Look
there, now! Saw you ever a more slap-up carriage? See, too, the pair
of bays--two hundred guineas apiece. Coachman, too, and footman--you'd
find 'em hard to beat. There she is now, stepping out of it. Wait
here, lad, till I do the honours of my house."
Tom Cribb slipped off, and young Spring remained by the window,
tapping the glass nervously with his fingers, for he was a
simple-minded country lad with no knowledge of women, and many fears
of the traps which await the unwary in a great city. Many stories were
afloat of pugilists who had been taken up and cast aside by wealthy
ladies, even as the gladiators were in decadent Rome. It was with some
suspicion therefore, and considerable inward trepidation, that he
faced round as a tall veiled figure swept into the room. He was much
consoled, however, to observe the bulky form of Tom Cribb immediately
behind her as a proof that the interview was not a private one. When
the door was closed, the lady very deliberately removed her gloves.
Then with fingers which glittered with diamonds she slowly rolled up
and adjusted her heavy veil. Finally, she turned her face upon Spring.
"Is this the man?" said she.
They stood looking at each other with mutual interest, which warmed in
both their faces into mutual admiration. What she saw was as fine a
figure of a young man as England could show, none the less attractive
for the restrained shyness of his manner and the blush which flushed
his cheeks. What he saw was a woman of thirty, tall, dark, queen-like,
and imperious, with a lovely face, every line and feature of which
told of pride and breed, a woman born to Courts, with the instinct of
command strong within her, and yet with all the softer woman's graces
to temper and conceal the firmness of her soul. Tom Spring felt as he
looked at her that he had never seen nor ever dreamed of anyone so
beautiful, and yet he could not shake off the instinct which warned
him to be upon his guard. Yes, it was beautiful, this face--beautiful
beyond belief. But was it good, was it kind, was it true? There was
some strange subconscious repulsion which mingled with his admiration
for her loveliness. As to the lady's thoughts, she had already put
away all idea of the young pugilist as a man, and regarded him now
with critical eyes as a machine designed for a definite purpose.
"I am glad to meet you, Mr.--Mr. Spring," said she, looking him over
with as much deliberation as a dealer who is purchasing a horse. "He
is hardly as tall as I was given to understand, Mr. Cribb. You said
six feet, I believe?"
"So he is, ma'am, but he carries it so easy. It's only the beanstalk
that looks tall. See here, I'm six foot myself, and our heads are
level, except I've lost my fluff."
"What is the chest measurement?"
"Forty-three inches, ma'am."
"You certainly seem to be a very strong young man. And a game one,
too, I hope?"
Young Spring shrugged his shoulders.
"It's not for me to say, ma'am."
"I can speak for that, ma'am," said Cribb. "You read the /Sporting
Chronicle/ for three weeks ago, ma'am. You'll see how he stood up to
Ned Painter until his senses were beat out of him. I waited on him,
ma'am, and I know. I could show you my waistcoat now--that would let
you guess what punishment he can take."
The lady waved aside the illustration.
"But he was beat," said she coldly. "The man who beat him must be the
better man."
"Saving your presence, ma'am, I think not, and outside Gentleman
Jackson my judgment would stand against any in the ring. My lad here
has beat Painter once, and will again, if your ladyship could see your
way to find the battle-money."
The lady started and looked angrily at the Champion.
"Why do you call me that?"
"I beg pardon. It was just my way of speaking."
"I order you not to do it again."
"Very good, ma'am."
"I am here incognita. I bind you both upon your honours to make no
inquiry as to who I am. If I do not get your firm promise, the matter
ends here."
"Very good, ma'am. I'll promise for my own part, and so, I am sure,
will Spring. But if I may be so bold, I can't help my drawers and
potmen talking with your servants."
"The coachman and footman know just as much about me as you do. But my
time is limited, so I must get to business. I think, Mr. Spring, that
you are in want of something to do at present?"
"That is so, ma'am."
"I understand from Mr. Cribb that you are prepared to fight anyone at
any weight?"
"Anything on two legs," cried the Champion.
"Who did you wish me to fight?" asked the young pugilist.
"That cannot concern you. If you are really ready to fight anyone,
then the particular name can be of no importance. I have my reasons
for withholding it."
"Very good, ma'am."
"You have been only a few weeks out of training. How long would it
take you to get back to your best?"
"Three weeks or a month."
"Well, then, I will pay your training expenses and two pounds a week
over. Here are five pounds as a guarantee. You will fight when I
consider that you are ready, and that the circumstances are
favourable. If you win your fight, you shall have fifty pounds. Are
you satisfied with the terms?"
"Very handsome, ma'am, I'm sure."
"And remember, Mr. Spring, I choose you, not because you are the best
man--for there are two opinions about that--but because I am given to
understand that you are a decent man whom I can trust. The terms of
this match are to be secret."
"I understand that. I'll say nothing."
"It is a private match. Nothing more. You will begin your training
to-morrow."
"Very good, ma'am."
"I will ask Mr. Cribb to train you."
"I'll do that, ma'am, with pleasure. But, by your leave, does he have
anything if he loses?"
A spasm of emotion passed over the woman's face and her hands clenched
white with passion.
"If he loses, not a penny, not a penny!" she cried. "He must not,
shall not lose!"
"Well, ma'am," said Spring, "I've never heard of any such match. But
it's true that I am down at heel, and beggars can't be choosers. I'll
do just what you say. I'll train till you give the word, and then I'll
fight where you tell me. I hope you'll make it a large ring."
"Yes," said she; "it will be a large ring."
"And how far from London?"
"Within a hundred miles. Have you anything else to say? My time is
up."
"I'd like to ask, ma'am," said the Champion, earnestly, "whether I can
act as the lad's second when the time comes. I've waited on him the
last two fights. Can I give him a knee?"
"No," said the woman, sharply. Without another word she turned and was
gone, shutting the door behind her. A few moments later the trim
carriage flashed past the window, turned down the crowded Haymarket,
and was engulfed in the traffic.
The two men looked at each other in silence.
"Well, blow my dickey, if this don't beat cock-fightin'!" cried Tom
Cribb at last. "Anyhow, there's the fiver, lad. But it's a rum go, and
no mistake about it."
After due consultation, it was agreed that Tom Spring should go into
training at the Castle Inn on Hampstead Heath, so that Cribb could
drive over and watch him. Thither Spring went on the day after the
interview with his patroness, and he set to work at once with drugs,
dumb-bells, and breathers on the common to get himself into condition.
It was hard, however, to take the matter seriously, and his
good-natured trainer found the same difficulty.
"It's the baccy I miss, Daddy," said the young pugilist, as they sat
together on the afternoon of the third day. "Surely there can't be any
harm in my havin' a pipe?"
"Well, well, lad, it's against my conscience, but here's my box and
there's a yard o' clay," said the Champion. "My word, I don't know
what Captain Barclay of Ury would have said if he had seen a man smoke
when he was in trainin'! He was the man to work you! He had me down
from sixteen to thirteen the second time I fought the Black."
Spring had lit his pipe and was leaning back amid a haze of blue
smoke.
"It was easy for you, Daddy, to keep strict trainin' when you knew
what was before you. You had your date and your place and your man.
You knew that in a month you would jump the ropes with ten thousand
folks around you, and carrying maybe a hundred thousand in bets. You
knew also the man you had to meet, and you wouldn't give him the
better of you. But it's all different with me. For all I know this is
just a woman's whim, and will end in nothing. If I was sure it was
serious, I'd break this pipe before I would smoke it."
Tom Cribb scratched his head in puzzlement.
"I can make nothing of it, lad, 'cept that her money is good. Come to
think of it, how many men on the list could stand up to you for half
an hour? It can't be Stringer, 'cause you've beat him. Then there's
Cooper; but he's up Newcastle way. It can't be him. There's Richmond;
but you wouldn't need to take your coat off to beat him. There's the
Gasman; but he's not twelve stone. And there's Bill Neat of Bristol.
That's it, lad, The lady has taken into her head to put you up against
either the Gasman or Bill Neat."
"But why not say so? I'd train hard for the Gasman and harder for Bill
Neat, but I'm blowed if I can train with any heart when I'm fightin'
nobody in particular and everybody in general, same as now."
There was a sudden interruption to the speculations of the two
prize-fighters. The door opened and the lady entered. As her eyes fell
upon the two men her dark, handsome face flushed with anger, and she
gazed at them silently with an expression of contempt which brought
them both to their feet with hangdog faces. There they stood, their
long, reeking pipes in their hands, shuffling and downcast, like two
great rough mastiffs before an angry mistress.
"So!" said she, stamping her foot furiously. "And this is training!"
"I'm sure we're very sorry, ma'am," said the abashed Champion. "I
didn't think--I never for one moment supposed----"
"That I would come myself to see if you were taking my money on false
pretences? No, I dare say not. You fool!" she blazed, turning suddenly
upon Tom Spring. "You'll be beat. That will be the end of it."
The young man looked up with an angry face.
"I'll trouble you not to call me names, ma'am. I've my self-respect,
the same as you. I'll allow that I shouldn't have smoked when I was in
trainin'. But I was saying to Tom Cribb here, just before you came in,
that if you would give over treatin' us as if we were children, and if
you would tell us just who it is you want me to fight, and when, and
where, it would be a deal easier for me to take myself in hand."
"It's true, ma'am," said the Champion. "I know it must be either the
Gasman or Bill Neat. There's no one else. So give me the office, and
I'll promise to have him as fit as a trout on the day."
The lady laughed contemptuously.
"Do you think," said she, "that no one can fight save those who make a
living by it?"
"By George, it's an amateur!" cried Cribb, in amazement. "But you
don't surely ask Tom Spring to train for three weeks to meet a
Corinthian?"
"I will say nothing more of who it is. It is no business of yours,"
the lady answered fiercely. "All I /do/ say is, that if you do not
train I will cast you aside and take some one who will. Do not think
you can fool me because I am a woman. I have learned the points of the
game as well as any man."
"I saw that the very first word you spoke," said Cribb.
"Then don't forget it. I will not warn you again. If I have occasion
to find fault I shall choose another man."
"And you won't tell me who I am to fight?"
"Not a word. But you can take it from me that at your very best it
will take you, or any man in England, all your time to master him. Now
get back this instant to your work, and never let me find you shirking
it again." With imperious eyes she looked the two strong men down, and
then, turning on her heel, she swept out of the room.
The Champion whistled as the door closed behind her, and mopped his
brow with his red bandanna handkerchief as he looked across at his
abashed companion. "My word, lad," said he, "it's earnest from this
day on."
"Yes," said Tom Spring, solemnly, "it's earnest from this day on."
In the course of the next fortnight the lady made several surprise
visits to see that her champion was being properly prepared for the
contest which lay before him. At the most unexpected moments she would
burst into the training quarters, but never again had she to complain
of any slackness upon his part or that of his trainer. With long bouts
of the gloves, with thirty-mile walks, with mile runs at the back of a
mailcart with a bit of blood between the shafts, with interminable
series of jumps with a skipping-rope, he was sweated down until his
trainer was able to proudly proclaim that "the last ounce of tallow is
off him, and he is ready to fight for his life." Only once was the
lady accompanied by anyone upon these visits of inspection. Upon this
occasion a tall young man was her companion. He was graceful in
figure, aristocratic in his bearing, and would have been strikingly
handsome had it not been for some accident which had shattered his
nose and broken all the symmetry of his features. He stood in silence
with moody eyes and folded arms, looking at the splendid torso of the
prize-fighter as, stripped to the waist, he worked with his
dumb-bells.
"Don't you think he will do?" said the lady.
The young swell shrugged his shoulders. "I don't like it, /cara mia/.
I can't pretend that I like it."
"You must like it, George. I have set my very heart on it."
"It is not English, you know. Lucrezia Borgia and Mediaeval Italy.
Woman's love and woman's hatred are always the same, but this
particular manifestation of it seems to me out of place in
nineteenth-century London."
"Is not a lesson needed?"
"Yes, yes; but one would think there were other ways."
"You tried another way. What did you get out of that?"
The young man smiled rather grimly, as he turned up his cuff and
looked at a puckered hole in his wrist.
"Not much, certainly," said he.
"You've tried and failed."
"Yes, I must admit it."
"What else is there? The law?"
"Good gracious, no!"
"Then it is my turn, George, and I won't be balked."
"I don't think anyone is capable of balking you, /cara mia/. Certainly
I, for one, should never dream of trying. But I don't feel as if I
could co-operate."
"I never asked you to."
"No, you certainly never did. You are perfectly capable of doing it
alone. I think, with your leave, if you have quite done with your
prize-fighter, we will drive back to London. I would not for the world
miss Goldoni in the Opera."
So they drifted away; he, frivolous and dilettante, she with her face
as set as Fate, leaving the fighting men to their business.
And now the day came when Cribb was able to announce to his employer
that his man was as fit as science could make him.
"I can do no more, ma'am. He's fit to fight for a kingdom. Another
week would see him stale."
The lady looked Spring over with the eye of a connoisseur.
"I think he does you credit," she said at last. "To-day is Tuesday. He
will fight the day after to-morrow."
"Very good, ma'am. Where shall he go?"
"I will tell you exactly, and you will please take careful note of all
that I say. You, Mr. Cribb, will take your man down to the Golden
Cross Inn at Charing Cross by nine o'clock on Wednesday morning. He
will take the Brighton coach as far as Tunbridge Wells, where he will
alight at the Royal Oak Arms. There he will take such refreshment as
you advise before a fight. He will wait at the Royal Oak Arms until he
receives a message by word, or by letter, brought him by a groom in a
mulberry livery. This message will give him his final instructions."
"And I am not to come?"
"No," said the lady.
"But surely, ma'am," he pleaded, "I may come as far as Tunbridge
Wells? It's hard on a man to train a cove for a fight and then to
leave him."
"It can't be helped. You are too well known. Your arrival would spread
all over the town, and my plans might suffer. It is quite out of the
question that you should come."
"Well, I'll do what you tell me, but it's main hard."
"I suppose," said Spring, "you would have me bring my fightin' shorts
and my spiked shoes?"
"No; you will kindly bring nothing whatever which may point to your
trade. I would have you wear just those clothes in which I saw you
first, such clothes as any mechanic or artisan might be expected to
wear."
Tom Cribb's blank face had assumed an expression of absolute despair.
"No second, no clothes, no shoes--it don't seem regular. I give you my
word, ma'am, I feel ashamed to be mixed up in such a fight. I don't
know as you can call the thing a fight where there is no second. It's
just a scramble--nothing more. I've gone too far to wash my hands of
it now, but I wish I had never touched it."
In spite of all professional misgivings on the part of the Champion
and his pupil, the imperious will of the woman prevailed, and
everything was carried out exactly as she had directed. At nine
o'clock Tom Spring found himself upon the box-seat of the Brighton
coach, and waved his hand in good-bye to burly Tom Cribb, who stood,
the admired of a ring of waiters and ostlers, upon the doorstep of the
Golden Cross. It was in the pleasant season when summer is mellowing
into autumn, and the first golden patches are seen amid the beeches
and the ferns. The young country-bred lad breathed more freely when he
had left the weary streets of Southwark and Lewisham behind him, and
he watched with delight the glorious prospect as the coach, whirled
along by six dapple greys, passed by the classic grounds of Knowle, or
after crossing Riverside Hill skirted the vast expanse of the Weald of
Kent. Past Tonbridge School went the coach, and on through
Southborough, until it wound down a steep, curving road with strange
outcrops of sandstone beside it, and halted before a great hostelry,
bearing the name which had been given him in his directions. He
descended, entered the coffee-room, and ordered the underdone steak
which his trainer had recommended. Hardly had he finished it when a
servant with a mulberry coat and a peculiarly expressionless face
entered the apartment.
"Beg your pardon, sir, are you Mr. Spring--Mr. Thomas Spring, of
London?"
"That is my name, young man."
"Then the instructions which I had to give you are that you wait for
one hour after your meal. After that time you will find a phaeton at
the door, and I will drive you in the right direction."
The young pugilist had never been daunted by an experience which had
befallen him in the ring. The rough encouragement of his backers, the
surge and shouting of the multitude, and the sight of his opponent had
always cheered his stout heart and excited him to prove himself worthy
of being the centre of such a scene. But this loneliness and
uncertainty were deadly. He flung himself down on the horsehair couch
and tried to doze, but his mind was too restless and excited. Finally
he rose, and paced up and down the empty room. Suddenly he was aware
of a great rubicund face which surveyed him from round the angle of
the door. Its owner, seeing that he was observed, pushed forward into
the room.
"I beg pardon, sir," said he, "but surely I have the honour of talking
to Mr. Thomas Spring?"
"At your service," said the young man.
"Bless me! I am vastly honoured to have you under my roof! Cordery is
my name, sir, landlord of this old-fashioned inn. I thought that my
eyes could not deceive me. I am a patron of the ring, sir, in my own
humble way, and was present at Mousley in September last, when you
beat Jack Stringer of Rawcliffe. A very fine fight, sir, and very
handsomely fought, if I may make bold to say so. I have a right to an
opinion, sir, for there's never been a fight for many a year in Kent
or Sussex that you wouldn't find Joe Cordery at the ringside. Ask Mr.
Gregson at the Chop-house in Holborn, and he'll tell you about old Joe
Cordery. By the way, Mr. Spring, I suppose it is not business that has
brought you down into these parts? Anyone can see with half an eye
that you are trained to a hair. I'd take it very kindly if you would
give me the office."
It crossed Spring's mind that if he were frank with the landlord it
was more than likely that he would receive more information than he
could give. He was a man of his word, however, and he remembered the
promise to his employer.
"Just a quiet day in the country, Mr. Cordery. That's all."
"Dear me! I had hoped there was a mill in the wind. I've a nose for
these things, Mr. Spring, and I thought I had a whiff of it. But, of
course, you should know best. Perhaps you will drive round with me
this afternoon and view the hop-gardens--just the right time of year,
sir."
Tom Spring was not very skilled in deception, and his stammering
excuses may not have been very convincing to the landlord, or finally
persuaded him that his original supposition was wrong. In the midst of
the conversation, however, the waiter entered with the news that a
phaeton was waiting at the door. The inn-keeper's eyes shone with
suspicion and eagerness.
"I thought you said you knew no one in these parts, Mr. Spring?"
"Just one kind friend, Mr. Cordery, and he has sent his gig for me.
It's likely that I will take the night coach to town. But I'll look in
after an hour or two and have a dish of tea with you."
Outside the mulberry servant was sitting behind a fine black horse in
a phaeton, which had two seats in front and two behind. Tom Spring was
about to climb up beside him, when the servant whispered that his
directions were that he should sit behind. Then the phaeton whirled
away, while the excited landlord, more convinced than ever that there
was something in the wind, rushed into his stable-yard with shrieks to
his ostlers, and in a very few minutes was in hot pursuit, waiting at
every cross-road until he could hear tidings of a black horse and a
mulberry livery.
The phaeton meanwhile drove in the direction of Crowborough. Some
miles out it turned from the high road into a narrow lane spanned by a
tawny arch of beech trees. Through this golden tunnel a lady was
walking, tall and graceful, her back to the phaeton. As it came
abreast of her she stood aside and looked up, while the coachman
pulled up the horse.
"I trust that you are at your best," said she, looking very earnestly
at the prize-fighter. "How do you feel?"
"Pretty tidy, ma'am, I thank you."
"I will get up beside you, Johnson. We have some way to go. You will
drive through the Lower Warren, and then take the lane which skirts
the Gravel Hanger. I will tell you where to stop. Go slowly, for we
are not due for twenty minutes."
Feeling as if the whole business was some extraordinary dream, the
young pugilist passed through a network of secluded lanes, until the
phaeton drew up at a wicket gate which led into a plantation of firs,
choked with a thick undergrowth. Here the lady descended and beckoned
Spring to alight.
"Wait down the lane," said she to the coachman. "We shall be some
little time. Now, Mr. Spring, will you kindly follow me? I have
written a letter which makes an appointment."
She passed swiftly through the plantation by a tortuous path, then
over a stile, and past another wood, loud with the deep chuckling of
pheasants. At the farther side was a fine rolling park, studded with
oak trees, and stretching away to a splendid Elizabethan mansion, with
balustraded terraces athwart its front. Across the park, and making
for the wood, a solitary figure was walking.
The lady gripped the prize-fighter by the wrist. "That is your man,"
said she.
They were standing under the shadow of the trees, so that he was very
visible to them, while they were out of his sight. Tom Spring looked
hard at the man, who was still some hundreds of yards away. He was a
tall, powerful fellow, clad in a blue coat with gilt buttons, which
gleamed in the sun. He had white corded breeches and riding-boots. He
walked with a vigorous step, and with every few strides he struck his
leg with a dog-whip which hung from his wrist. There was a great
suggestion of purpose and energy in the man's appearance and bearing.
"Why, he's a gentleman!" said Sprint. "Look 'ere, ma'am, this is all a
bit out of my line. I've nothing against the man, and he can mean me
no harm. What am I to do with him?"
"Fight him! Smash him! That is what you are here for."
Tom Spring turned on his heel with disgust. "I'm here to fight, ma'am,
but not to smash a man who has no thought of fighting. It's off."
"You don't like the look of him," hissed the woman. "You have met your
master."
"That is as may be. It is no job for me."
The woman's face was white with vexation and anger.
"You fool!" she cried. "Is all to go wrong at the last minute? There
are fifty pounds--here they are in this paper--would you refuse them?"
"It's a cowardly business. I won't do it."
"Cowardly? You are giving the man two stone, and he can beat any
amateur in England."
The young pugilist felt relieved. After all, if he could fairly earn
that fifty pounds, a good deal depended upon his winning it. If he
could only be sure that this was a worthy and willing antagonist!
"How do you know he is so good?" he asked.
"I ought to know. I am his wife."
As she spoke she turned, and was gone like a flash among the bushes.
The man was quite close now, and Tom Spring's scruples weakened as he
looked at him. He was a powerful, broad-chested fellow, about thirty,
with a heavy, brutal face, great thatched eyebrows, and a hard-set
mouth. He could not be less than fifteen stone in weight, and he
carried himself like a trained athlete. As he swung along he suddenly
caught a glimpse of Spring among the trees, and he at once quickened
his pace and sprang over the stile which separated them.
"Halloa!" said he, halting a few yards from him, and staring him up
and down. "Who the devil are you, and where the devil did you come
from, and what the devil are you doing on my property?"
His manner was even more offensive than his words. It brought a flush
of anger to Spring's cheeks.
"See here, mister," said he, "civil words is cheap. You've no call to
speak to me like that."
"You infernal rascal!" cried the other. "I'll show you the way of that
plantation with the toe of my boot. Do you dare to stand there on my
land and talk back at me?" He advanced with a menacing face and his
dog-whip half raised. "Well, are you going?" he cried, as he swung it
into the air.
Tom Spring jumped back to avoid the threatened blow.
"Go slow, mister," said he. "It's only fair that you should know where
you are. I'm Spring, the prize-fighter. Maybe you have heard my name."
"I thought you were a rascal of that breed," said the man. "I've had
the handling of one or two of you gentry before, and I never found one
that could stand up to me for five minutes. Maybe you would like to
try?"
"If you hit me with that dog-whip, mister----"
"There, then!" He gave the young man a vicious cut across the
shoulder. "Will that help you to fight?"
"I came here to fight," said Tom Spring, licking his dry lips. "You
can drop that whip, mister, for I /will/ fight. I'm a trained man and
ready. But you would have it. Don't blame me."
The man was stripping the blue coat from his broad shoulders. There
was a sprigged satin vest beneath it, and they were hung together on
an alder branch.
"Trained, are you?" he muttered. "By the Lord, I'll train you before I
am through!"
Any fears that Tom Spring may have had lest he should be taking some
unfair advantage were set at rest by the man's assured manner and by
the splendid physique, which became more apparent as he discarded a
black satin tie, with a great ruby glowing in its centre, and threw
aside the white collar which cramped his thick muscular neck. He then,
very deliberately, undid a pair of gold sleeve-links, and, rolling up
his shirt-sleeves, disclosed two hairy and muscular arms, which would
have served as a model for a sculptor.
"Come nearer the stile," said he, when he had finished. "There is more
room."
The prize-fighter had kept pace with the preparations of his
formidable antagonist. His own hat, coat, and vest hung suspended upon
a bush. He advanced now into the open space which the other had
indicated.
"Ruffianing or fighting?" asked the amateur, coolly.
"Fighting."
"Very good," said the other. "Put up your hands, Spring. Try it out."
They were standing facing one another in a grassy ring intersected by
the path at the outlet of the wood. The insolent and overbearing look
had passed away from the amateur's face, but a grim half-smile was on
his lips and his eyes shone fiercely from under his tufted brows. From
the way in which he stood it was very clear that he was a past-master
at the game. Tom Spring, as he paced lightly to right and left,
looking for an opening, became suddenly aware that neither with
Stringer nor with the redoubtable Painter himself had he ever faced a
more business-like opponent. The amateur's left was well forward, his
guard low, his body leaning back from the haunches, and his head well
out of danger. Spring tried a light lead at the mark, and another at
the face, but in an instant his adversary was on to him with a shower
of sledge-hammer blows which it took him all his time to avoid. He
sprang back, but there was no getting away from that whirlwind of
muscle and bone. A heavy blow beat down his guard, a second landed on
his shoulder, and over we