Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated)

by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  “What did Lord Merton do?”

  “He congratulated him warmly, and confessed that he had always underrated his intelligence. He is to live with the young couple, and make a handsome allowance on condition that the bride sticks to her old duties. By the way, there was a rumour that you were about to marry, Tregellis.”

  “I think not,” answered my uncle. “It would be a mistake to overwhelm one by attentions which are a pleasure to many.”

  “My view, exactly, and very neatly expressed,” cried Brummell. “Is it fair to break a dozen hearts in order to intoxicate one with rapture? I’m off to the Continent next week.”

  “Bailiffs?” asked one of his companions.

  “Too bad, Pierrepoint. No, no; it is pleasure and instruction combined. Besides, it is necessary to go to Paris for your little things, and if there is a chance of the war breaking out again, it would be well to lay in a supply.”

  “Quite right,” said my uncle, who seemed to have made up his mind to outdo Brummell in extravagance. “I used to get my sulphur-coloured gloves from the Palais Royal. When the war broke out in ‘93 I was cut off from them for nine years. Had it not been for a lugger which I specially hired to smuggle them, I might have been reduced to English tan.”

  “The English are excellent at a flat-iron or a kitchen poker, but anything more delicate is beyond them.”

  “Our tailors are good,” cried my uncle, “but our stuffs lack taste and variety. The war has made us more rococo than ever. It has cut us off from travel, and there is nothing to match travel for expanding the mind. Last year, for example, I came upon some new waist-coating in the Square of San Marco, at Venice. It was yellow, with the prettiest little twill of pink running through it. How could I have seen it had I not travelled? I brought it back with me, and for a time it was all the rage.”

  “The Prince took it up.”

  “Yes, he usually follows my lead. We dressed so alike last year that we were frequently mistaken for each other. It tells against me, but so it was. He often complains that things do not look as well upon him as upon me, but how can I make the obvious reply? By the way, George, I did not see you at the Marchioness of Dover’s ball.”

  “Yes, I was there, and lingered for a quarter of an hour or so. I am surprised that you did not see me. I did not go past the doorway, however, for undue preference gives rise to jealousy.”

  “I went early,” said my uncle, “for I had heard that there were to be some tolerable débutantes. It always pleases me vastly when I am able to pass a compliment to any of them. It has happened, but not often, for I keep to my own standard.”

  So they talked, these singular men, and I, looking from one to the other, could not imagine how they could help bursting out a-laughing in each other’s faces. But, on the contrary, their conversation was very grave, and filled out with many little bows, and opening and shutting of snuff-boxes, and flickings of laced handkerchiefs. Quite a crowd had gathered silently around, and I could see that the talk had been regarded as a contest between two men who were looked upon as rival arbiters of fashion. It was finished by the Marquis of Queensberry passing his arm through Brummell’s and leading him off, while my uncle threw out his laced cambric shirt-front and shot his ruffles as if he were well satisfied with his share in the encounter. It is seven-and-forty years since I looked upon that circle of dandies, and where, now, are their dainty little hats, their wonderful waistcoats, and their boots, in which one could arrange one’s cravat? They lived strange lives, these men, and they died strange deaths - some by their own hands, some as beggars, some in a debtor’s gaol, some, like the most brilliant of them all, in a madhouse in a foreign land.

  “There is the card-room, Rodney,” said my uncle, as we passed an open door on our way out. Glancing in, I saw a line of little green baize tables with small groups of men sitting round, while at one side was a longer one, from which there came a continuous murmur of voices. “You may lose what you like in there, save only your nerve or your temper,” my uncle continued. “Ah, Sir Lothian, I trust that the luck was with you?”

  A tall, thin man, with a hard, austere face, had stepped out of the open doorway. His heavily thatched eyebrows covered quick, furtive grey eyes, and his gaunt features were hollowed at the cheek and temple like water-grooved flint. He was dressed entirely in black, and I noticed that his shoulders swayed a little as if he had been drinking.

  “Lost like the deuce,” he snapped.

  “Dice?”

  “No, whist.”

  “You couldn’t get very hard hit over that.”

  “Couldn’t you?” he snarled. “Play a hundred a trick and a thousand on the rub, losing steadily for five hours, and see what you think of it.”

  My uncle was evidently struck by the haggard look upon the other’s face.

  “I hope it’s not very bad,” he said.

  “Bad enough. It won’t bear talking about. By the way, Tregellis, have you got your man for this fight yet?”

  “No.”

  “You seem to be hanging in the wind a long time. It’s play or pay, you know. I shall claim forfeit if you don’t come to scratch.”

  “If you will name your day I shall produce my man, Sir Lothian,” said my uncle, coldly.

  “This day four weeks, if you like.”

  “Very good. The 18th of May.”

  “I hope to have changed my name by then!”

  “How is that?” asked my uncle, in surprise.

  “It is just possible that I may be Lord Avon.”

  “What, you have had some news?” cried my uncle, and I noticed a tremor in his voice.

  “I’ve had my agent over at Monte Video, and he believes he has proof that Avon died there. Anyhow, it is absurd to suppose that because a murderer chooses to fly from justice - “

  “I won’t have you use that word, Sir Lothian,” cried my uncle, sharply.

  “You were there as I was. You know that he was a murderer.”

  “I tell you that you shall not say so.”

  Sir Lothian’s fierce little grey eyes had to lower themselves before the imperious anger which shone in my uncle’s.

  “Well, to let that point pass, it is monstrous to suppose that the title and the estates can remain hung up in this way for ever. I’m the heir, Tregellis, and I’m going to have my rights.”

  “I am, as you are aware, Lord Avon’s dearest friend,” said my uncle, sternly. “His disappearance has not affected my love for him, and until his fate is finally ascertained, I shall exert myself to see that his rights also are respected.”

  “His rights would be a long drop and a cracked spine,” Sir Lothian answered, and then, changing his manner suddenly, he laid his hand upon my uncle’s sleeve.

  “Come, come, Tregellis, I was his friend as well as you,” said he. “But we cannot alter the facts, and it is rather late in the day for us to fall out over them. Your invitation holds good for Friday night?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I shall bring Crab Wilson with me, and finally arrange the conditions of our little wager.”

  “Very good, Sir Lothian: I shall hope to see you.” They bowed, and my uncle stood a little time looking after him as he made his way amidst the crowd.

  “A good sportsman, nephew,” said he. “A bold rider, the best pistol-shot in England, but . . . a dangerous man!”

  CHAPTER X - THE MEN OF THE RING

  It was at the end of my first week in London that my uncle gave a supper to the fancy, as was usual for gentlemen of that time if they wished to figure before the public as Corinthians and patrons of sport. He had invited not only the chief fighting-men of the day, but also those men of fashion who were most interested in the ring: Mr. Fletcher Reid, Lord Say and Sele, Sir Lothian Hume, Sir John Lade, Colonel Montgomery, Sir Thomas Apreece, the Hon. Berkeley Craven, and many more. The rumour that the Prince was to be present had already spread through the clubs, and invitations were eagerly sought after.

  The Waggon and
Horses was a well-known sporting house, with an old prize-fighter for landlord. And the arrangements were as primitive as the most Bohemian could wish. It was one of the many curious fashions which have now died out, that men who were blasé from luxury and high living seemed to find a fresh piquancy in life by descending to the lowest resorts, so that the night-houses and gambling-dens in Covent Garden or the Haymarket often gathered illustrious company under their smoke-blackened ceilings. It was a change for them to turn their backs upon the cooking of Weltjie and of Ude, or the chambertin of old Q., and to dine upon a porter-house steak washed down by a pint of ale from a pewter pot.

  A rough crowd had assembled in the street to see the fighting-men go in, and my uncle warned me to look to my pockets as we pushed our way through it. Within was a large room with faded red curtains, a sanded floor, and walls which were covered with prints of pugilists and race-horses. Brown liquor-stained tables were dotted about in it, and round one of these half a dozen formidable-looking men were seated, while one, the roughest of all, was perched upon the table itself, swinging his legs to and fro. A tray of small glasses and pewter mugs stood beside them.

  “The boys were thirsty, sir, so I brought up some ale and some liptrap,” whispered the landlord; “I thought you would have no objection, sir.”

  “Quite right, Bob! How are you all? How are you, Maddox? How are you, Baldwin? Ah, Belcher, I am very glad to see you.”

  The fighting-men rose and took their hats off, except the fellow on the table, who continued to swing his legs and to look my uncle very coolly in the face.

  “How are you, Berks?”

  “Pretty tidy. ‘Ow are you?”

  “Say ‘sir’ when you speak to a genelman,” said Belcher, and with a sudden tilt of the table he sent Berks flying almost into my uncle’s arms.

  “See now, Jem, none o’ that!” said Berks, sulkily.

  “I’ll learn you manners, Joe, which is more than ever your father did. You’re not drinkin’ black-jack in a boozin’ ken, but you are meetin’ noble, slap-up Corinthians, and it’s for you to behave as such.”

  “I’ve always been reckoned a genelman-like sort of man,” said Berks, thickly, “but if so be as I’ve said or done what I ‘adn’t ought to - “

  “There, there, Berks, that’s all right!” cried my uncle, only too anxious to smooth things over and to prevent a quarrel at the outset of the evening. “Here are some more of our friends. How are you, Apreece? How are you, Colonel? Well, Jackson, you are looking vastly better. Good evening, Lade. I trust Lady Lade was none the worse for our pleasant drive. Ah, Mendoza, you look fit enough to throw your hat over the ropes this instant. Sir Lothian, I am glad to see you. You will find some old friends here.”

  Amid the stream of Corinthians and fighting-men who were thronging into the room I had caught a glimpse of the sturdy figure and broad, good-humoured face of Champion Harrison. The sight of him was like a whiff of South Down air coming into that low-roofed, oil-smelling room, and I ran forward to shake him by the hand.

  “Why, Master Rodney - or I should say Mr. Stone, I suppose - you’ve changed out of all knowledge. I can’t hardly believe that it was really you that used to come down to blow the bellows when Boy Jim and I were at the anvil. Well, you are fine, to be sure!”

  “What’s the news of Friar’s Oak?” I asked eagerly.

  “Your father was down to chat with me, Master Rodney, and he tells me that the war is going to break out again, and that he hopes to see you here in London before many days are past; for he is coming up to see Lord Nelson and to make inquiry about a ship. Your mother is well, and I saw her in church on Sunday.”

  “And Boy Jim?”

  Champion Harrison’s good-humoured face clouded over.

  “He’d set his heart very much on comin’ here to-night, but there were reasons why I didn’t wish him to, and so there’s a shadow betwixt us. It’s the first that ever was, and I feel it, Master Rodney. Between ourselves, I have very good reason to wish him to stay with me, and I am sure that, with his high spirit and his ideas, he would never settle down again after once he had a taste o’ London. I left him behind me with enough work to keep him busy until I get back to him.”

  A tall and beautifully proportioned man, very elegantly dressed, was strolling towards us. He stared in surprise and held out his hand to my companion.

  “Why, Jack Harrison!” he cried. “This is a resurrection. Where in the world did you come from?”

  “Glad to see you, Jackson,” said my companion. “You look as well and as young as ever.”

  “Thank you, yes. I resigned the belt when I could get no one to fight me for it, and I took to teaching.”

  “I’m doing smith’s work down Sussex way.”

  “I’ve often wondered why you never had a shy at my belt. I tell you honestly, between man and man, I’m very glad you didn’t.”

  “Well, it’s real good of you to say that, Jackson. I might ha’ done it, perhaps, but the old woman was against it. She’s been a good wife to me and I can’t go against her. But I feel a bit lonesome here, for these boys are since my time.”

  “You could do some of them over now,” said Jackson, feeling my friend’s upper arm. “No better bit of stuff was ever seen in a twenty-four foot ring. It would be a rare treat to see you take some of these young ones on. Won’t you let me spring you on them?”

  Harrison’s eyes glistened at the idea, but he shook his head.

  “It won’t do, Jackson. My old woman holds my promise. That’s Belcher, ain’t it - the good lookin’ young chap with the flash coat?”

  “Yes, that’s Jem. You’ve not seen him! He’s a jewel.”

  “So I’ve heard. Who’s the youngster beside him? He looks a tidy chap.”

  “That’s a new man from the West. Crab Wilson’s his name.”

  Harrison looked at him with interest. “I’ve heard of him,” said he. “They are getting a match on for him, ain’t they?”

  “Yes. Sir Lothian Hume, the thin-faced gentleman over yonder, has backed him against Sir Charles Tregellis’s man. We’re to hear about the match to-night, I understand. Jem Belcher thinks great things of Crab Wilson. There’s Belcher’s young brother, Tom. He’s looking out for a match, too. They say he’s quicker than Jem with the mufflers, but he can’t hit as hard. I was speaking of your brother, Jem.”

  “The young ‘un will make his way,” said Belcher, who had come across to us. “He’s more a sparrer than a fighter just at present, but when his gristle sets he’ll take on anything on the list. Bristol’s as full o’ young fightin’-men now as a bin is of bottles. We’ve got two more comin’ up - Gully and Pearce - who’ll make you London milling coves wish they was back in the west country again.”

  “Here’s the Prince,” said Jackson, as a hum and bustle rose from the door.

  I saw George come bustling in, with a good-humoured smile upon his comely face. My uncle welcomed him, and led some of the Corinthians up to be presented.

  “We’ll have trouble, gov’nor,” said Belcher to Jackson. “Here’s Joe Berks drinkin’ gin out of a mug, and you know what a swine he is when he’s drunk.”

  “You must put a stopper on ‘im gov’nor,” said several of the other prize-fighters. “‘E ain’t what you’d call a charmer when ‘e’s sober, but there’s no standing ‘im when ‘e’s fresh.”

  Jackson, on account of his prowess and of the tact which he possessed, had been chosen as general regulator of the whole prize-fighting body, by whom he was usually alluded to as the Commander-in-Chief. He and Belcher went across now to the table upon which Berks was still perched. The ruffian’s face was already flushed, and his eyes heavy and bloodshot.

  “You must keep yourself in hand to-night, Berks,” said Jackson. “The Prince is here, and - “

  “I never set eyes on ‘im yet,” cried Berks, lurching off the table. “Where is ‘e, gov’nor? Tell ‘im Joe Berks would like to do ‘isself proud by shakin’ ‘im by the ‘and.”


  “No, you don’t, Joe,” said Jackson, laying his hand upon Berks’s chest, as he tried to push his way through the crowd. “You’ve got to keep your place, Joe, or we’ll put you where you can make all the noise you like.”

  “Where’s that, gov’nor?”

  “Into the street, through the window. We’re going to have a peaceful evening, as Jem Belcher and I will show you if you get up to any of your Whitechapel games.”

  “No ‘arm, gov’nor,” grumbled Berks. “I’m sure I’ve always ‘ad the name of bein’ a very genelman-like man.”

  “So I’ve always said, Joe Berks, and mind you prove yourself such. But the supper is ready for us, and there’s the Prince and Lord Sole going in. Two and two, lads, and don’t forget whose company you are in.”

  The supper was laid in a large room, with Union Jacks and mottoes hung thickly upon the walls. The tables were arranged in three sides of a square, my uncle occupying the centre of the principal one, with the Prince upon his right and Lord Sele upon his left. By his wise precaution the seats had been allotted beforehand, so that the gentlemen might be scattered among the professionals and no risk run of two enemies finding themselves together, or a man who had been recently beaten falling into the company of his conqueror. For my own part, I had Champion Harrison upon one side of me and a stout, florid-faced man upon the other, who whispered to me that he was “Bill Warr, landlord of the One Tun public-house, of Jermyn Street, and one of the gamest men upon the list.”

  “It’s my flesh that’s beat me, sir,” said he. “It creeps over me amazin’ fast. I should fight at thirteen-eight, and ‘ere I am nearly seventeen. It’s the business that does it, what with loflin’ about behind the bar all day, and bein’ afraid to refuse a wet for fear of offendin’ a customer. It’s been the ruin of many a good fightin’-man before me.”

  “You should take to my job,” said Harrison. “I’m a smith by trade, and I’ve not put on half a stone in fifteen years.”