by Kirk Munroe
CHAPTER II
PEVERIL TIES "BLACKY'S" RECORD
"Are you the father of Tom Trefethen?" asked Peveril of the man whohad so abruptly introduced himself.
"Certain I be, lad, feyther to the young fool who, but for thee, wouldnever have come home to us no more. His mother was that upset bythought of his danger that she couldn't let him leave her, and so bademe come to fetch you mysel'. Not that I needed a bidding, for I'mdoubly proud of a chance to serve the man who's gied us back our Tom.So come along, lad, to where there's a hearty welcome waiting,togither with a bite and a bed."
"But, Mr. Trefethen, I can't allow you to--"
"Man, you must allow me, for I'm no in the habit o' being crossed.Besides, I'd never dare go back to mother without you. This thy grip?"
With this the brawny miner swung Peveril's bag to his shoulder, andstarted briskly down the station platform, followed closely by theyoung man, who but a moment before had believed himself to be withouta friend.
They had not gone more than a block from the station, and Peveril waswondering at the crowds of comfortable-looking folk who thronged thewooden sidewalks, as well as at the rows of brilliantly lighted shops,when his guide turned abruptly into the door of a saloon.
Following curiously, the young man also entered, and, passing behind alatticed screen, found himself in a long room having a sanded floor,and furnished with a glittering bar, tables, chairs, and severalqueer-looking machines, the nature of which he did not understand.Several men were leaning against the counter of the bar; but withoutnoticing them other than by a general nod of recognition, MarkTrefethen walked to the far end of the room, where he depositedPeveril's bag on the floor beside one of the machines alreadymentioned.
It was a narrow, upright frame, placed close to the wall, and holdinga stout wooden panel. In the centre of this, at the height of a man'schest, was a stuffed leathern pad, on which was painted a grotesqueface, evidently intended for that of a negro, and above it was a dialbearing numbers that ranged from 1 to 300. The single pointer on thisdial indicated the number 173, a figure at which Mark Trefethensniffed contemptuously.
"Let's see thee take a lick at 'Blacky,' lad, just for luck," he said.
Although he had never before seen or even heard of such a machine asnow confronted him, Peveril was sufficiently quick-witted to realizethat his companion desired him to strike a blow with his fist at thegrinning face painted on the leathern pad, and he did so withouthesitation. At the same time, as he had no idea of what resistance heshould encounter, he struck out rather gingerly, and the dial-pointersprang back to 156.
Mark Trefethen looked at once incredulous and disappointed. "Surelythat's not thy best lick, lad," he said, in an aggrieved tone; "why,old as I am, I could better it mysel'." Thus saying, the miner drewback a fist like a sledge-hammer, and let drive a blow at "Blacky"that sent the pointer up to 180.
"Now, lad, try again," he remarked, with a self-satisfied air; "andremember, what I should have telled thee afore, that the man who letspointer slip back owes beer to the crowd."
Wondering how he should cancel the indebtedness thus innocentlyincurred, and also at the strangeness of such proceedings on the partof one who had just invited him to a much-longed-for supper, Peverilagain stepped up and delivered a nervous blow against the unresistingleathern pad, driving the pointer to 184.
The miner's shout of "Well done, lad! That's spunky," attracted theidlers at the bar and brought them to the scene of contest. Theyarrived just in time to see Trefethen deliver his second blow, theforce of which drove the sensitive needle six points farther on, oruntil it registered 190.
With a flush of pride on his strongly marked face, the old Cornishmanexclaimed, "There's a mark for thee lad, but doan't 'ee strike 'lessthee can better it, for I'd like it to stand for a while."
Peveril only smiled in answer, and, taking a quick forward step,planted so vigorous a blow upon the painted leather that the pointergained a single interval. So small were the spaces that at first itwas thought not to have moved; but when a closer examination showed itto indicate 191, a murmur of approbation went up from the spectators.Mark Trefethen said not a word, but, throwing off his coat and baringhis corded arm for a mighty effort, he again took place before themachine. Carefully measuring his distance, he drew back and delivereda blow into which he threw the whole weight of his body. As thoughgalvanized into action, the needle leaped up four points andregistered 195.
"A record! A record!" shouted the spectators, while the miner turned aface beaming with triumph towards his athletic young antagonist. Onmany an occasion had he played at solitaire fisticuffs with thatleathern dummy, but never before had he struck it such a mighty blow,and now he did not believe that another in all Red Jacket could equalthe feat he had just performed.
"Lat it stand, lad! Lat it stand!" he said, good-humoredly, but in atone unmistakably patronizing. "You've done enough to take front rank,for not more than three men in all the Jackets have ever beat yourfigure. Besides, the beer is on the house now for a record, but 'twillbe on any man who lowers yon--so best lat well enough alone."
"IN BREATHLESS SILENCE THE GROUP WATCHED PEVERIL'SMOVEMENTS"]
This advice was tendered in all sincerity, and was doubtless verygood, but Peveril was now too deeply interested in the novel contestto accept defeat without a further effort. Besides, the stroke-oar ofa winning crew in the great Oxford-Cambridge boat-race, which is whatDick Peveril had been only two months earlier, was not accustomed tobe beaten in athletic games.
So he, too, threw off his coat and bared the glorious right arm thathad at once been the pride of his college and the envy of every otherin the 'varsity. In breathless silence the little group of spectatorswatched his movements, and when, with sharply exhaled breath, heplanted a crashing "facer" straight from the shoulder squarely uponthe leathern disk they sprang eagerly forward to note the result. Foran instant they gazed at each other blankly, for the needle, thoughtrembling violently, remained fixedly pointing at the figure 195.
Then they realized what had happened. Mark Trefethen's score had beenneither raised nor lowered, but had been duplicated. A double recordhad been established, and that in a single contest. Such a thing hadnever before happened in Red Jacket, where trials of strength andskill similar to the one they had just witnessed were of frequentoccurrence. As the amazing truth broke upon them, they raised a greatshout of applause, and every man present pressed eagerly about the twochampions with cordially extended hands.
But Peveril and the old miner were already shaking hands with eachother, for Mark Trefethen had been the first to appreciate the resultof his opponent's blow, and had whirled around from his examinationof the dial to seize the young man's hand in both of his.
"Now I believe it, lad!" he cried. "Now I believe the story boy Tomtelled this night. I couldn't make it seem possible that you hadlifted him as he said, and so I wanted proof. Now I'm got it, and nowI know you for best man that's come to mines for many a year. PrayGod, lad, that you and me'll never have a quarrel to settle wi' barefists, for I'm free to say I'd rayther meet any ither two men in theJackets than the one behind the fist that struck yon blow."
"You will never meet him in a quarrel if I can help it, Mr.Trefethen," replied Peveril, flushing with gratified pride, "for Ican't imagine anything that would throw me into a greater funk than toface as an enemy the man who established the existing record on thatmachine. But, now, don't you think we might adjourn to the supper ofwhich you spoke awhile since? I was never quite so famished in mylife, and am nearly ready to drop with the exhaustion of hunger."
"Oh, Jimmy!" groaned one of the listening spectators. "If 'e done wot'e did hon a hempty stummick, hit's 'eaven 'elp the man or the machine'e 'its when 'e's full."
"Step up for your beers, gentlemen," cried the bartender at thismoment. "The house owes two rounds for the double record, and is proudto pay a debt so handsomely thrust upon it."
This invitation was promptly accepted by the spectato
rs of the recentcontest, all of whom immediately lined up at the bar. Mark Trefethenstood with them, and when he noticed that Peveril held back, he calledout, heartily, "Step up, lad, and doan't be bashful. We're waiting totake a mug wi' thee."
"I thank you all," rejoined Peveril, politely, "but I believe I don'tcare to drink anything just now."
"What! Not teetotal?"
"Not wholly," replied the other, with a laugh, "but I long ago made ita rule not to take liquor in any form on an empty stomach."
"Oh, it won't hurt you. And this time needn't count, anyway," said oneof the men, whose features proclaimed him to be of Irish birth.
"I think it would hurt me," replied Peveril, "and if my rule could bebroken at this time, of course it could at any other. So I believe Iwon't drink anything, thank you."
"You mane you're a snob, and don't care to associate withworking-men," retorted the other.
"I mean nothing of the kind, but exactly what I said, that I don'tpropose to injure my health to gratify you or any other man. As forassociating with working-men, I am a working-man myself, and have cometo this place with the hope of finding a job in one of the mines. If Ihadn't wanted to associate with working-men I shouldn't be here atthis minute."
"Well, you can't associate with them in one thing if not in all, Mr.Workingman," rejoined the Irishman, sneeringly, "and so, if you won'tdrink with us, you can't become one of us."
"That's right," murmured several voices.
"Moreover," continued the speaker, "you don't look, talk, or act likea working-man, and I'm willing to bet the price of these beers thatyou never earned a dollar by honest labor in your life."
"If I didn't, that's no reason why I shouldn't."
"But did you?"
"No, I never did."
"I knew it from the first," exclaimed the other, triumphantly, "you'renothing but a d--d--"
"Shut up, Mike Connell! don't ye dare say it!" shouted Mark Trefethen,shaking a knotted fist in close proximity to the Irishman's face. "Howdare you insult the friend I've brought to this place? Lad's rightabout the liquor, too, and damned if I'll drink a drop of it mysel'.Same time, working-man or no, he's worth any two of you wi' his fists,and, I'll bate, has more brains than the rest of us put together. Sokeep a civil tongue in your head in the presence of your betters, MikeConnell. Come, lad, time we were getting home. Mother 'll be frettingfor us."
Thus saying, the sturdy miner laid his toil-hardened hand on Peveril'sshoulder and led him from the place.