CHAPTER III.
A STREET FIGHT, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
He emerged upon the street which crosses the head of Market Strand,and, dropping his arms, stood for a moment us if in doubt of hisbearings. He was flagrantly drunk, but not aggressively.He reminded me of a purblind owl that, blundering Into daylight, isset upon and mobbed by a crowd of small birds.
The 'longshoremen and loafers grinned and winked at one another, butforbore to interfere. Plainly the spectacle was a familiar one.
The man was not altogether repulsive; pitiable, rather; a small, leanfellow, with a grey-white face drawn into wrinkles about the jaw, andeyes that wandered timidly. He wore a suit of good sea-cloth--soiled, indeed, but neither ragged nor threadbare--and a blue andyellow spotted neckerchief, the bow of which had worked aroundtowards his right ear. His hat, perched a-cock over his left eye,had made acquaintance with the tavern sawdust. Next to hisdrunkenness, perhaps, the most remarkable thing about him was hisstick--of ebony, very curiously carved in rings from knob to ferrule,where it ended in an iron spike; an ugly weapon, of which histormentors stood in dread, and small blame to them.
While he stood hesitating, they swarmed close and began to bay himafresh.
"Captain Coffin, Captain Coffin!" "Who killed the Portugee?""Who hid the treasure and got so drunk he couldn't find it?""Where's your ship, Cap'n Danny?" These were some of the tauntsflung; and as the urchins danced about him, yelling them, the passionblazed up again in his red-rimmed eyes.
Amongst the crowd capered Ted Bates. "Hallo, Brooks!" he shouted,and, catching at another boy's elbow, pointed towards me.Beyond noting that the other boy had a bullet-shaped head with earsthat stood out from it at something like right angles, I had time totake very little stock of him; for just then, us Captain Coffinturned about to smite, a stone came flying and struck him smartly onthe funny-bone. His hand opened with the pain of it, but the stickhung by a loop to his wrist, and, gripping it again, he charged amonghis tormentors, lashing out to right and left.
So savagely he charged that I looked for nothing short of murder; andjust then, while I stood at gaze, a boy stepped up to me--the samethat Ted Bates had plucked by the arm.
"Look here!" said he, frowning, with his legs a-straddle."Doggy Bates tells me that you told him you could whack me with onehand behind you."
I replied that I had told Doggy Bates nothing of the sort.
"That's all right," said he. "Then you take it back?"
He had the air of one sure of his logic, but his under lip--not tomention his ears--protruded in a way that struck me as offensive, andI replied--
"That depends."
"My name's Stokes," said he, still in the same reasonable tone."And you'll have to take coward's blow."
"Oh, indeed!" said I.
"It's the rule," said he, and gave it me with a light, back-handedsmack across the bridge of the nose; whereupon I hit him on the pointof the chin, and, unconsciously imitating Captain Coffin's method ofcharging a crowd, lowered my head and butted him violently in thestomach.
I make no doubt that my brain was tired and giddy with the day'sexperiences, but to this moment I cannot understand why we twosuddenly found ourselves the focus of interest in a crowd which hadwasted none on Captain Coffin.
But so it was. In less time than it takes to write, a ringsurrounded us--a ring of men staring and offering bets. The lamp atthe street-corner shone on their faces; and close under the light ofit Master Stokes and I were hammering one another.
We were fighting by rule, too. Some one--I cannot say who--had takenup the affair, and was imposing the right ceremonial upon us. It mayhave been the cheerful, blue-jerseyed Irishman, to whose knee Ireturned at the end of each round to be freshened up around the faceand neck with a dripping boat-sponge. He had an extraordinarily widemouth, and it kept speaking encouragement and good advice to me.I feel sure he was a good fellow, but have never set eyes on him fromthat hour to this.
Bully Stokes and I must have fought a good many rounds, for towardsthe end we were both panting hard, and our hands hung on every blow.But I remember yet more vividly the strangeness of it all, and theuncanny sensation that the fight itself, the street-lamp, the crowd,and the dim houses around were unreal as a dream: that, and theunnatural hardness of my opponent's face, which seemed the oneunmalleable part of him.
A dreadful thought possessed me that if he could only contrive to hitme with his face all would be over. My own was badly pounded; for wefought--or, at any rate, I fought--without the smallest science; itwas blow for blow, plain give-and-take, from the start. But whatdistressed me was the extreme tenderness of my knuckles; and whatchiefly irritated me was the behaviour of Doggy Bates, dancing aboutand screaming, "Go it, Stimcoes! Stimcoes for ever!" Five times theonlookers flung him out by the scruff of his neck; and five times heworked himself back, and screamed it between their legs.
In the end this enthusiasm proved the undoing of all his delight.Towards the end of an intolerably long round, finding that my armsbegan to hang like lead, I had rushed in and closed; and the two ofus went to ground together. Then I lay panting, and my opponentunder me--the pair of us too weary for the moment to strike a blow;and then, as breath came back, I was aware of a sudden hush in thedin. A hand took me by the shirt-collar, dragged me to my feet, andswung me round, and I stared, blinking, into the face of Mr. Stimcoe.
"Dishgrashful!" said Mr. Stimcoe. He was accompanied by a constable,to whom he appealed for confirmation, pointing to my face."Left immy charge only this evening, Perf'ly dishgrashful!"
"Boys will be boys, sir," said the constable.
"M' good fellow "--Mr. Stimcoe comprehended the crowd with anunsteady wave of his hand--"that don't 'pply 'case of men. _Ne tupu'ri tempsherish annosh_; tha's Juvenal."
"Then my advice is, sir--take the boy home and give him a wash."
"He can't," came a taunting voice from the crowd. "'Cos why?The company 've cut off his water."
Mr. Stimcoe gazed around in sorrow rather than in anger. He clearedhis throat for a public speech; but was forestalled by theconstable's dispersing the throng with a "Clear along, now, like goodfellows!"
The wide-mouthed man helped me into my jacket, shook hands with me,and said I had no science, but the devil's own pluck-and-lights.Then he, too, faded away into the night; and I found myself alongsideof Doggy Bates, marching up the street after Mr. Stimcoe, whodeclaimed, as he went, upon the vulgarity of street-fighting.
By-and-by it became apparent that in the soothing flow of hiseloquence he had forgotten us; and Doggy Bates, who understood hispreceptor's habits to a hair, checked me with a knowing squeeze ofthe arm, and began, of set purpose, to lag in his steps. Mr. Stimcoestrode on, still audibly denouncing and exhorting.
"It was all my fault!" Master Bates pulled up and studied my mauledface by the light of a street-lamp. "The beggar heard me shoutinghis own name, silly fool that I was!"
I begged him not to be distressed on my account.
"What's the use of half a fight?" he groaned again. "My word,though, won't Stimcoe catch it from the missus! She sent him out toget change for your aunt's notes--'fees payable in advance.' I knowthe game--to pay off the bailey; and he's been soaking in apublic-house ever since. Hallo!"
We turned together at the sound of footsteps approaching after us upthe street. They broke into a run, then appeared to falter; and,peering into the dark interval between us and the next lamp, Idiscerned Captain Coffin. He had come to a halt, and stood theremysteriously beckoning.
"You--I want you!" he called huskily. "Not the other boy! You!"
I obeyed, having a reputation to keep up in the eyes of Doggy Bates;but my courage was oozing as I walked towards the old man, and I cameto a sudden stop about five yards from him.
"Closer!" he beckoned. "Good boy, don't be afraid. What's yourname, good boy?"
"Harry Brooks, sir."
"Call me 'sir,' do you? Well, and you're right. I could
ride in mycoach-and-six if I chose; and some day you may see it. How would youlike to ride in your coach-and-six, Harry Brooks?"
"I should like it finely, sir," said I, humouring him.
"Yes, yes, I'll wager you would. Well, now--come closer. Mum's theword, eh? I like you, Harry Brooks; and the boys in this town "--hebroke off and cursed horribly--"they're not fit to carry slops to abear, not one of 'em. But you're different. And, see here: any timeyou're in trouble, just pay a call on me. Understand? Mind you, Imake no promises." Here, to my exceeding fright, he reached out ahand, and, clutching me by the arm, drew me close, so that his breathpoured hot on my ear, and I sickened at its reek of brandy."It's _money_, boy--_money_, I tell you!"
He dropped my arm, and, falling back a pace, looked nervously abouthim.
"Between you and me and the gatepost, eh?" he asked.
His hand went down and tapped his pocket slily, and with that heturned and shuffled away down the street. I stared after him intothe foggy darkness, listening to the tap of his stick upon thecobbles.
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