Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated)

by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  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 any one 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 dumbbells.

  “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 any one 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. “Today is Tuesday. He will fight the day after tomorrow.”

  “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?”<
br />
  “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 goodbye 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 me in a phaeton at the door, and I will drive you in the right direction.”

  The young pugilist had never been daunted by any 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 his loneliness and uncertainty were deadly. He flung himself down on the horse-hair 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 Moulsey 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 ring-side. 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? Any one 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 his 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 skilful 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 innkeeper’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 of energy in the man’s appearance and bearing.

  “Why, he’s a gentleman!” said Spring. “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 m
an 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 out 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.