The Dream of X and Other Fantastic Visions
Page 11
“ ’I,” said Holden, composedly. “Aa thowt he might; for I cracked tha up proper to him. Aa’m reet glad tha went for Jenkins; he’s a rough lot an’ dirty-mouthed, he is that.”
At a few minutes past eight the two of them reached the Black Anchor, where Tom—who seemed to know his way about—led the way down the corridor to a room at the end. He opened the door, and pushed the Honourable Billy in, saying:
“Aa’ve brought a mon ’s ’ll lick Dankley inter fits. Mr. Jackson, there, knows ’s he’s a good ’un.”
The Honourable Billy looked round him. He was in a big, brightly lit room, in which a dozen sporty-looking men, generally on the wrong side of forty, were sitting round a table, smoking and drinking. Mr. Jackson was at the head of the table, and held an auctioneer’s gavel, with which, from time to time, he pounded on the table. Otherwise he seemed to be taking no part in the conversation, that had been warm and general when the two entered the room. Moreover, he took no notice of the Honourable Billy, beyond the most casual nod, and certainly ignored Tom Holden’s reference to his knowledge of the young man’s capabilities. It was evident to the Honourable Billy that he knew what he was doing; and that there was rhyme reason behind this unexpected noncommittal attitude.
A quick and general silence had met Tom Holden’s remark, and there was a turning of heads and craning of necks as those at the table moved to view the new champion so forcibly announced.
Then, in the silence, there came a loud, rough voice, from a big man sitting near Mr. Jackson: “Fetch un in, Tom! Fetch un in! Don’t keep us all waitin’!”
There was a sneering note in the man’s tone that made the Honourable Billy look the more particularly at him. Thus he saw that the big man was not staring at him, as were the others; but looking ostentatiously at the door, as though he supposed the man to whom Tom Holden referred must be still without.
“Here he be,” replied Holden, pointing to the Honourable Billy, and looking a little puzzled.
“What!” roared the big man, whose battered face, thick ears, and broken knuckles told that he was a pugilist. “What! Ha, ha, ha, ha! Aa could eat un wi’out salt—a stuck-up bloomin’ young torf as fancies hisself a fi’tin’-man! Yon’s no sort o’ use to us, Tom, as tha should ha’ known. Us wants a man, an’ a dommed good un, too. Yon’s mebbe one o’ them fancy, soft-glove chaps. Us wants a lad as’ll put the fear o’ God inter Blacksmith Dankley. An’ us’ll never find one; an’ that’s my bettin’ any day!”
From other men at the table there came a murmur of protests, not against the rudeness of the big pugilist, but against Tom Holden for attempting to foist such an obvious impossibility upon them as the Honourable Billy—a “torf.”
As silence came again on the room, Mr. Jackson spoke, in a quiet, emotionless voice:
“I’m inclined to fancy the looks of the young gentleman,” he said.
“Ha!” snorted the big boxer. “Ha, ha! Tha’d lose tha money if tha put it on the likes of ’im!”
“I was going to add, Bellett, when you interrupted me, that I was prepared to back my fancy,” continued Mr. Jackson, in the same even voice. “For a reasonable sum, and for the sport of the thing, I’ll back him against you, Bellett, that he outs you in three rounds.”
“What!” shouted Bellett, anger and astonishment expressing themselves as comrades of wounded pride. “What! I’ll out un wi’ my coat on in two twos!” And he jumped up from his chair, with a spring that told of the powerful muscles hidden by his loose clothes.
“One moment, Bellett,” said Mr. Jackson, who had an unmistakable eye to the main chance. “We’ll book the bets first, and then clear the room, and you shall go ahead in proper order.”
“Aa back mysen for twenty pun that I outs the calf in thirty secs!” said Bellett loudly, and throwing down two ten-pound notes on to the table.
Very calmly, Mr. Jackson covered them, and proceeded then to book bets with most of the men round the table, who evidently considered that the “torf” stood no chance at all with the formidable Bellett, and staked eagerly on what they considered a “dead cert.” They must have thought that Mr. Jackson was a bit above himself that night, and betting out of sheer obstinacy; for it was plain to them that he was bound to lose his money in a very few minutes. Yet they should have remembered that Mr. Jackson was not noted for coming out on the wrong side either of a bet or a bargain.
As soon as the bets were all taken, the room was cleared, and Bellett gave a spring into the middle of the floor.
“Come on, my lad, if tha bain’t ’feared!” he called. “Tha’d best take off tha coat.” he added, for the Honourable Billy, seeing that Bellett had not stripped, had stepped forward silently, fully dressed as he was.
“Thanks,” replied the Honourable Billy evenly. “But I’m rather susceptible to draughts.”
“Oh, come on, my pretty lad, an’ be done wi’ tha gab!” said Bellett, squaring up. “Tha’lt feel more nor draughts in half a sec!”
“Stop!” shouted one of the men. “Gloves! You’ve no gloves on.”
“Gloves be dommed!” said Bellett. “We’m all friends ’ere. Oo’s to know?” And with the word he drove off with his left at the young Honourable.
The Honourable Billy stepped back easily, just out of distance, and pushing up the right-hand blow that followed like lightning, stepped in under the big man’s arms, caught him round the body, and patted his back twice with the flat of his palm, saying, “Be calm, Bellett. Be calm, I beg of you.” And was gone from him with two quick, steps.
There was a half-instant of silent astonishment from the onlookers, which was followed by an approving shout of laughter. But Bellett was certainly in no laughing mood. He sprang for the young man, and drove in right and left, right and left, right and left, a dozen furious blows in as many seconds, most of which the Honourable Billy slipped or guarded; but at the end of the rally, when he had been driven once all round the room in this fashion, he let through a heavy lefthander, which fairly floored him.
“Ha!” shouted Bellett, gasping, and standing exultantly over him, waiting for him to rise. “Got tha now, lad!”
“Not—quite!” jerked out the Honourable Billy, and dived clean through between the big man’s feet, turned a complete somersault, and landed, standing, in time to meet his opponent’s rush.
Bellett swung a mighty right and left at him, grunting. Billy slipped the first, and the second he blocked, standing in close to the big man’s body. Immediately afterwards he upper-cut him savagely with the right, and as Bellett reeled, head jerked backwards, he hit him, thud, thud, left and right, clean on the mark, sending him down with a dreadful grunt to the floor, where he lay untended long after he had been informally counted out; for everyone in the room was eagerly shaking hands with the Honourable Billy, and apparently willing to forget for the time being that he bore the stigma of “toff-dom,” imprinted large and general upon him.
“Tha’rt a hply surprise, lad!” said Bellett’s voice suddenly from the floor; and turning, they saw that the big pugilist was sitting up, looking rather sick and dazed, but otherwise apparently right enough.
He got to his feet, staggering a little, and came across to the Honourable Billy.
“Tha’s best man, dom tha, lad, as ever Aa’ve stood up to! Aa’ve no ill-feelin’, lad. But tha’s queerest torf as ever Aa’ve come up ag’in! Tha’lt suit fine, Aa’m thinkin’, to win us a pot o’ money ower the fight wi’ Blacksmith Dankley.”
He turned to the rest, who signified their approval by shouts of “Ay, ay! Yes, yes!” Whilst Mr. Jackson nodded, contentedly smiling as he picked up the stakes. He had known both the men he had to deal with, and the opportunity, and had gone the right way to make the most out of both.
“Aa towd tha so!” shouted big Tom Holden, at this point, to the room in general. “Aa towd tha so! Aa con’t box, but Aa knows a good lad when Aa sees one. What dost tha think, now?”
“ ’E’s a ’oly terrer!” volunteered a s
mall Cockney; and the room once more echoed the coincidence of their opinion.
And so it was arranged that the Honourable Billy should go into training immediately for the big fight with Blacksmith Dankley, and a glad, yet somewhat anxious man he was; for so much depended on his winning it.
But to hide everything from Mary the Honourable Billy found impossible, for she worried about his sudden distaste for pastry and sundry other normal delights; so he explained to her that he wished to be pretty “fit,” as he had on a friendly sparring match with an acquaintance, which was certainly a modified form of describing a prize-fight!
The Honourable Billy followed his own methods of getting into condition. He knew his own constitution, and had no intention of running himself stale. He lived his ordinary life of moderation, merely taking a little more consideration as to what he ate, and adding to his normal amount of exercise two smart bouts a day with the gloves and a little skipping.
This hardly suited the old-fashioned strict views of Bellett, who desired to act as his trainer; but the big boxer had to admit that the Honourable Billy was certainly, as the saying goes, fit to fight for his life, and so contented himself with no more than an odd, misdirected growl or two of vague disapprobation.
Meanwhile, the Honourable Billy and his wife were steadily dodging duns, and by the time that the week of the fight arrived, he had a nice little stock of summonses pending at an early date. The only effect these had on the young man, was to make him the more fiercely determined to win the fight, and so pay all their debts at one sweep. But the effect on poor Mary was to make her grow thin; and the Honourable Billy had a very serious and angry talk with her one day, when he found that she had been eating as little as possible, so as to save in every way. He assured her that, in all probability, their troubles would be over in a few days, but gave no more definite statement; so that his small wife put no great faith in his hopes, but went about her house-work silently, and listening nervously for knocks that might betoken some fresh dun, come to post in a sheaf of bills and insolent, though just, demands.
“What sort of a chap is Dankley to look at?” the Honourable Billy asked his trainer one day as he dressed himself after the practice bout. “I’ve heard heaps about him, but I’ve never seen him. He’s mighty strong, isn’t he, by all accounts?”
“ ’I, he is that!” replied Bellett, nodding. “Theer’s only big Farm’r Dikkun as cou’d throw ’un, to my thinkin’, lad. Not but Farm’r Dikkun should, for he weighs summat like seventeen score, an’ t’ blacksmith bain’t no more nor fifteen stone odd; but he’s a terrible hard-made man. Tha’s geet tha work cut out, lad, if tha’s to win. So Aa’m tellin’ thee.”
“I believe you, Bellett,” replied the young man, and made up his mind that he would cycle along the Longsite road that afternoon and see whether he could not get an “unofficial” look at his opponent to be.
This he did, and dismounted at the forge. He had meant at first to hide the reason for his visit by making belief that he had casually dismounted in passing to light a cigarette, but decided to go his natural way, which was to be absolutely straight. Therefore he leant over his bicycle, and nodded to the big smith.
“Good-afternoon, Mr. Dankley,” he said. “I felt I wanted to see you.”
“I don’t do nowt wi’ them things, lad,” replied the smith, getting up from the anvil, where he had been sitting a moment, and coming slowly to the entrance of the smithy.
“I didn’t mean that,” replied the Honourable Billy, smiling. “I meant that I wanted to see you—I mean that I’m the man they’re backing against you; and I’ve heard so much about you, I felt I must come and have a look. I thought I’d be frank, and then there’d seem nothing underhand about it. See?”
Very solemnly the big smith rubbed his great, bony hand on his leathern apron, and solemnly reached it out to the Honourable Billy.
“Shake hands, lad. I didn’t know thee for him as is matched again’ me. I heard as it were one o’ the gentry, an’ I like thee for thy straight way.”
He had been slowly shaking the Honourable Billy’s hand throughout the whole of this speech, and now, ceasing, he took the cycle from him, and leant it against the outer wall of the smithy, inviting the young man to come in and take a rest on an old chair, which he proceeded to polish with his cap.
“So thou art the lad?” he said, after he had gone back to his anvil-seat. And he sat for maybe a full minute, looking gravely at the Honourable Billy, whilst, at his back, his striker and apprentice both stared with keen interest at the man who was matched against their formidable master.
Meanwhile, the Honourable Billy took in the details of his future opponent, noting the enormously muscular hands and forearms, and the amount of bone that went to the making of the wrists and fingers.
“Like ramming my face against a chunk of iron in the glove, to meet all that with his weight at the back of it!” was his mental comment. “He’s one of those big, lean men, who never look as big or as strong as they are. He’s just leather and bone, from fingers to toes, and I’m blest if I know how I’m going to hit him hard enough to knock him out. It’ll be like slogging at pig-iron.”
Thus the Honourable Billy’s thoughts, and a wave of depression came upon him, for the man was so much more formidable than he had supposed.
Very slowly the big smith shook his head, gently; and again looked the young man over.
“What do’st thou weigh, lad?” he asked, at length.
“Thirteen stones four pounds,” replied the Honourable Billy; whereupon the big smith showed some surprise.
“I hadn’t thought it, lad,” he said. “Thee doesn’t look it. But thou’rt a well-made lad, sure enough.” And once more he ran his appraising glance over him from head to feet.
“What do you weigh, Mr. Dankley?” asked the Honourable Billy.
“Fifteen stone thirteen an’ a ha’f pound,” replied the smith quietly. “I can give thee two stone an’ nine pound, lad. Too much, lad—too much.”
“Um!” said the Honourable Billy, feeling disconsolate.
“But there’s youth to thy side of the bargain, lad,” the smith comforted him. “I be seven and forty—seven and forty!”
“May I be half the man at seven-and-forty,” replied the Honourable Billy fervently. He stood up. “Well, I’ll do my best on Saturday,” he said; “I can’t do more—”
“Tha’lt be lickt!” interrupted the striker suddenly at this point. “Why, tha bain’t more nor half so strong as I be; an’ measter here he con outlift me wi’ one hand.”
“Hold thy tongue, Dave,” said the big smith.
But the Honourable Billy took up the striker’s remark, smiling.
“I’ll try a lift with you, Dave,” he said, catching up the name from Dankley. “Make your own choice.”
The burly striker came forward, grinning, for he felt confident in his own very considerable powers, and had no conception of the muscular body that the Honourable Billy’s well-cut clothes veiled so successfully into apparent average bulk.
“Aa’ll lift tha’ wi’ fifty-six pun weights,”he said, and brought out two from a recess near the wall. These, after rolling up his sleeves a little higher, he proceeded to lift, one in each hand, over his head, with a clumsy ease, holding them there for a few seconds, and then lowering them again to the ground.
“Theer!” he said, triumphantly. “See if tha con do that?”
The Honourable Billy made no reply in words, but, stepping forward, he pushed the two weights with his foot, until the handles came together. Then, stooping, he caught the two with his right hand, and lifted them with the greatest ease, without any jerk, clean up over his head with the one hand.
There came a little gasp of astonished admiration from the young apprentice, and the striker let out an oath of astounded disappointment, whilst even Dankley showed some surprise.
“Wait a moment,” said the Honourable Billy, putting down the weights. He pulled off his coat, and
rolling up his right shirtsleeve, displayed an arm that brought forth a second gasp of astonishment and complete admiration from the apprentice, but the sight of which reduced the burly striker to a state of stunned envy.
“Have you another weight the same as these?” asked the Honourable Billy; whereupon the apprentice ran across the smithy, and dragged one out from among some lumber, and placed it beside the two others.
“A piece of rope?” queried the Honourable Billy.
“Here, lad,” said the big smith, courteously. And the Honourable Billy found that he had slipped his stout leather belt, and was holding it out to him.
“Thanks,” said the Honourable Biliy, and buckled the three weights together. Then, taking the strap by the bight, he snatched the hundred-weight-and-a-half of metal to his shoulder with one hand, and pressed it thence easily to full arm’s length above his head.
“Well done, lad! Well done!” said Dankley. “Thou art a strong lad, and no mistake. Go your ways now, an’ don’t come here again till after the match, lad, or there’s them that’ll say we had mind to cook summat. Good-arternoon, lad.” And he shook hands once more with him. “Us shall see who’m best man on Saturday.”
And so the Honourable Billy left him, feeling that, whatever happened, the man he had to fight was a thorough sportsman, and would box clean. But, for all that, he felt that the match would be bound to go to the big smith, if only his ring-craft were as good as rumour told, for the man’s tremendous physique and calm, balanced assurance had impressed him very deeply, so that he was somewhat depressed as he pedalled home along the Longsite. This feeling was not eased when he reached his little cottage and found his wife weeping quietly in their combined study and sitting-room, and learned that there bad been two new summonses received by registered post whilst he had been out.
“By the lord,” said the Honourable Billy, with tremendous earnestness, “I’ll win! You see if I don’t.”
“Win what, dear?” asked his wife, quickly looking up at him through her tear-stains.