On the instant the young man seized his chance, and let out hard with his left at the same place, getting home tremendously, and immediately tried for the point of the big man’s jaw as his head came forward. But the great blacksmith was too hard and too clever, and guarded the attack, getting in a couple of quick but clumsy jabs at the Honourable Billy’s face that drove the young man out from under his guard, and so evened things somewhat.
From the tremendous audience there came a sharp ripple of clapping hands, and a storm of bravos and party-calls, intermingled with howls of advice to each of the men to go in and finish the other. But this the referee checked, threatening to exercise his powers unless better order and manners prevailed.
Meanwhile, the two men had stood back mutually a moment for a breather, until the disturbance had ended; and now once more advanced, the big smith showing more of care than he had shown hitherto in his battle with the Honourable Darrell. Thrice he feinted at the head, and made as though to come in at the body with his right; and thrice the Honourable Billy “stood off,” studying his man. Directly afterwards, the great blacksmith attacked suddenly with stupendous vigour; rushing his man to the ropes with a succession of heavy right and left blows, delivered at short range, and taking the odd punches that the Honourable Billy managed to return as if they were no heavier than slaps.
Yet, the quickness of the younger man on his feet, and his exceptional headwork, saved him at first, and he seemed like breaking away into the open ring; when suddenly the smith dropped his guard, and the young man, unable to resist the temptation, drove a hard, straight left at him, which appeared to be utterly disregarded. For in the same instant, Dankley countered with his right at the body, bashing the Honourable Billy slam into the ropes; and then, stepping into him, he drove in a right and left that the half-sick and dazed man was quite unable to avoid; so that he hung against the ropes, guarding stupidly and almost ineffectually the attack which seemed likely to end the battle quickly.
There was not a sound in all the green, except the dull, heavy thud of the blows, and the gasps of the younger man intermingled with the grunts of the smith as he sent his blows home. And then suddenly across the rather terrible silence there came a shrill scream, and a woman’s voice shouting: “Stop! Stop! Stop!”
The voice seemed to pierce to the young man’s senses, and he made a desperate attempt to rally; forcing himself up from the ropes, and striking out with a kind of wild hopelessness at the great blacksmith, who gave way calmly a pace, and hit him wherever he wanted.
From the surrounding people there came a curious murmur, through which pierced again the scream and the cry of: “Stop! Stop! Stop!” in a woman’s voice. The murmur rose into a roar of remonstrance, through which ran a sharp peal of hand-clapping that grew louder and louder. The green was full of an excited shouting, and then came the woman’s voice again, dimly through the enormous uproar.
On the Honourable Billy it seemed to produce an extraordinary effect. He appeared literally to galvanise into life and control of his forces. He slipped a tremendous right-handed drive of the smith’s, and countered on the big man’s jaw with his left. The blacksmith replied with a sharp, fierce rally of blows, and came into half-arm fighting, hitting the Honourable Billy once almost off his feet. The young man circled swiftly to the right, keeping out of distance, and Dankley followed him with a heavy left-hand drive, which the Honourable Billy slipped his head under, and immediately got home a heavy half-arm blow on the blacksmith’s ribs, making him reel.
In the same instant the uproar outside of the ring was redoubled. There came a flash of skirts across the ring, and a little woman, exceeding white of face, darted between the two men, just as the cry of “Time!” came sharply. She sprang at the great smith, and set two diminutive hands against his massive chest, pushing him back fiercely. “Stop! Stop! Stop!” she kept reiterating, in a voice that was scarcely above a tense whisper of sound. “Stop! Stop! Stop! You shall not! You shall not! Oh, tha sha’n’t! Tha sha’n’t, tha gre’t brute!” she ended in broad Lancashire, and burst into fierce crying; but ceased not to push the brawny smith backwards.
“Mary!” shouted the Honourable Billy, and leapt forward. “Mary—”
Whatever he might have said more was lost in the enormous babel of sound without the ring. Hoarse roars of anger at the interruption, constant pounding of benches, cat-calls, and through all the shrill, insistent sound of the referee’s whistle, calling for order.
But for the moment order was an impossibility. Hundreds of people had left their seats, and were invading the ring, some to inquire what it all meant, some to protest angrily at the interruption, some to declare that the Honourable Billy’s little wife was right, and that the fight should go no further. And the diminutive cause of it all was sobbing her heart out in the Honourable Billy’s arms, whilst the giant blacksmith stood by, and patted one of her hands with one of his enormous palms.
Gradually the audience were got in hand again, and persuaded or hustled—as the case might be—back to their seats, whilst the referee informed them in pointed words that he would stop the fight unless perfect order were kept.
He then turned to the occupants of the ring, and held a short discussion—not only with the promoters, who had now entered the ring, but with the principals themselves—the end of which was that it was resolved that the fight must go forward either to the full twenty rounds agreed upon, or else to a knock-out.
The only dissentient was the Honourable Mrs. William Darrell, alias Mary, who declared with a white and determined little face, and a nose that was not unbecomingly red, that she would not leave the ring without her husband, and that, if she had but learned earlier of the fight, it should never have been allowed to commence.
At this unexpected obstacle—and a very determined and vital one it was likely to prove in the circumstances—the promoters looked somewhat blankly at one another, whilst the timekeeper and referee conferred with one another. All recognised the peculiar delicacy of the situation, in that the lady was the wife of one of the principals; so that no one dared voice the only obvious solution of the puzzle, which was to gently but firmly remove the diminutive obstruction. Meanwhile, the great smith set the case out to the Honourable Mrs. William Darrell.
“Nay, lass,” he said. “ ’Tis but a game, when all be said. Thee go home, like a wise lass, an’ ’twill soon be over belike; an’ thy lad maybe the winner, if thou leave him easy minded.”
But Mary was deaf to the big man’s earnest advice, and clung, white-faced and determined, to her husband, who, after a little time of careful thought, told her that it was his wish, and all for the best, that the fight should continue, and that he wished for her to put no difficulty in the way.
For some minutes he argued with her, pointing out that the match must be concluded; that, apart from the prize which he hoped to win, there was a great deal of money hanging on the event; and that it must simply go forward, whatever their own private feelings might be.
And this way, and just as the big audience was beginning to stamp with impatience, and clap encouragement, she consented, and allowed Mr. Jackson to lead her from the ring. She kept a brave face, and turned once to wave encouragement to her young husband, at which the audience cheered her, but as soon as she was well away, she burst into hopeless crying, that sorely disturbed the businesslike Mr. Jackson, who gave much pointless and disturbed comfort, assuring her constantly that her husband would win, as surely as his own name was Mr. Jackson. And it was with this final assurance echoing in her ears that he left her in one of the private rooms of the Black Anchor, where she sobbed hopelessly a while, until, suddenly, she discovered that on the couch opposite there reposed nothing less than the Honourable Billy’s everyday clothes, this being the very room which he had used as a dressing-room.
She dried her eyes, and going over to the pile of garments, began tenderly but methodically to fold them; in the midst of which occupation she was suddenly disturbed by a storm
of cheering, quite close at hand. She ran to the window and discovered with a vast shock that it looked right down on to the green; and that she was actually but a short distance from the fight. She stared in a sort of fearful fascination, and saw to her horror that her husband lay flat in the ring, with the great smith standing over him, ready to strike, whilst near at hand was another man, who seemed to be saying something as he stooped over her husband.
In a very agony of distress, she threw up the window, and thrust her head and shoulders out. She heard the man’s voice now; he was counting—“seven—eight—ni—” She did not hear the end of the count, for suddenly her husband’s still figure came to life, and dashed up at the great smith.
She saw the big man strike at her husband twice, and miss him; then again, and knock him staggering across the ring. She saw the smith leap at the staggering man, and strike a tremendous blow, but her husband ducked his head with strange quickness, and the next instant there came the dull thud of a blow, and she saw the big smith sag in suddenly at the waist, and her husband, close up to him now, standing, and hitting with both hands. There was a tremendous roar of hoarse shouting from the audience, and fierce cries of both execration and applause; and suddenly she commenced to dance up and down, with clenched hands, and fierce, bright eyes, and shout: “Hit him, Billy! Hit him! Hit him, Billy! The great brute! Hit him! Oh, kill him!”
She saw the great smith strike a wild blow, and saw her husband knocked backward a couple of paces; she screamed fiercely again to her husband, amid the noise of the shouting, to play the executioner. She saw her husband leap forward, as the smith struck at him again; they seemed to strike together, but surely the Honourable Billy must have timed his blow a hundredth part of a second earlier than Dankley’s, for the blacksmith’s grizzled head went upward, sharply, and he lurched backward, splaying his arms, and so came with a dull thump to the floor of the ring.
Mary stared out, wide-eyed now, though her fists were still clenched intensely. She saw her husband spring forward, and stand ready, near to the fallen man, saw the other man (the referee) stoop towards the fallen smith, watch in hand, counting. As in a dream she heard the count mounting up—“seven—eight—” Still the man upon the floor of the ring never stirred, and still her husband kept his tense attitude of watchfulness. “Nine”—and absolute silence from the audience, broken suddenly by a fierce shouting of “Get up! Get up, man! Get up!” “Ten!”
The match was won, and her husband had won the match. At first, Mary Darrell did not realise that the fight was ended, but when she saw her husband being clapped on the back by every man who could get near to him, and saw Mr. Jackson pump-handling one of his gloved hands excitedly, whilst Bellett, the trainer did likewise with the other, she came out of her dream, and stood there in the window, white and silent, and extraordinarily proud of her man, who had beaten the enormous smith.
But when the Honourable William Darrell came into the room presently to dress, he found his diminutive wife mechanically folding and refolding his garments, blindly, whilst she wept, utterly unstrung. The men who had followed him to his dressing-room, gave back and left them when they saw that his wife was there, and the Honourable Billy caught her into his arms;
“It’s all over, little woman,” he assured her, “and we can pay every penny we owe, and I’m all right, lassie; look up, look up, and see for yourself. It’s all over and done with, dear.”
“I—I know” whispered Mary, looking up at him through her tears, and fumbling for her handkerchief. “I—I saw. I wanted you to kill him—the great, horrible brute, hitting you like that!”
The Honourable William Darrell roared, though with somewhat painful laughter, for his features were more than a little tender and swollen, owing to the force of the big smith’s punches. His body also was badly bruised in places, where Dankley’s immense blows had got home; and as Mary dried her eyes, and was able to see with more clearness, her indignation broke out afresh. Yet, presently, being a thoroughly sensible little woman, she admitted that it was not fair to blame Dankley.
“But, oh! I’m so glad you knocked him down, too!” she said.
“What a bloodthirsty young madam I’ve married,” said the Honourable Billy. “But I’ll admit I’m jolly glad, too. You see, what you describe, dear, as a knock-down, was really a knock-out, and by that same knockout, all our debts are paid, and there’ll be money in the bank as well. Now dance, you war-like fairy!” And with that, and part-dressed as he was, he insisted on waltzing gravely round the room with her, after which he resumed his clothes and sedateness together, and so hastened out to inquire after the well-being of the great blacksmith.
He found him dressed, and apparently very little the worse for his knock-out, for he rose at once to shake hands quietly with the young man.
“I’m proud, lad, to ha’ foughten wi’ thee,” he said gravely. “The god o’ battles ha’ seen fit for thee to win, yet ’twas thy fight an’ my fight, lad, while it lasted. But thou art a strong and clever lad, an’ better for thy years I never saw, an’ proud am I to own it, an’ to give thee credit and wish thee God’s luck.
“And to thee, lass,” he added, stepping forward to Mary Darrell, “I give thee my respect, an’ may God bless thee an’ thy lad through the years; and see thou stand strong for him always, lass, in the trouble of life, as to-day in the game that is now done, and thou do likewise wi’ her, lad.”
And with that, he patted each of them seriously upon the shoulder, as though he gave them a blessing. And afterwards called to his striker, and the two of them went home, and so passed out of this tale.
Perhaps one of the Honourable Billy’s greatest surprises of that day came to him as he was making a slow way through the immense crowd of his newly won admirers, with his wife upon his arm. For, suddenly, a big, dishevelled-looking man came scrambling and shouting huskily through the crowd, and stopped before the Honourable Billy. He had no hat on, and his face was all bandaged up.
“Hey!” he said, rubbing two great, red hands, with a kind of excited humility, “ I ha’ coom to beg thy pardon, Mr. Darrell, an’ thy missus’s. Tha’rt greatest boxer Aa’ve ever seed, Mr. Darrell, an’ Aa’m proud to think tha have poonched my head wi’ thy own hands, an’ I ax thy pardon humbly for all as I said.”
“Yes,” said Mary Darrell, answering for her husband. “We forgive you, Mr. Jenkins, but you ought to be ashamed of yourself. We shall pay you every farthing we owe you, and perhaps you’ll learn to know honest people when you meet them. You were a horrible man that day!”
“I am fair ’shamed, missus,” said the big grocer awkwardly. “But Mr. Darrell gave me what for”—and he pointed to his bandages—“an’ I’m coom now to beg pardon—”
“That’s all right, Jenkins,” interrupted the Honourable Billy, and delighted the grocer and made him his friend for life by warmly shaking one of his big red hands, there, in token of amity, before the onlookers.
I will take this opportunity to tell that within three days the Honourable Billy and his wife owed not a farthing to anyone, and could have had credit unlimited only that this was against the Honourable Mrs. William Darrell’s ideas.
The Getting Even of
“Parson” Guyles
I
Is Mr. Magee in?” shouted a burly, thick-necked, very self-assured looking man.
The self-assured looking man rapped heavily with his stick on the counter of the small book shop, as he shouted; and at the same moment a door opened noiselessly, away among the shadows, at the back of the shop.
A lean, grim face, with clean-shaven mouth, and wearing a grey goatee, Dundrearys and blue glasses, stared out from the shadows.
“Is Mr. Magee in, confound your rotten business ways!” shouted the burly man. And beat angrily again upon the counter.
The man who owned the grim, clean-shaven mouth, came forward, with a curiously noiseless step, out of the darkness that lay in the back portion of the long, narrow shop.
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��I’m Mr. Magee,” he said, quietly. “Ye’ll kindly stop that sort of noise in my shop.”
“My time’s money,” said the stout man. “I can’t wait all day in a hole like this, while you play dominoes in the back parlour. I don’t wonder your business is rotten. Your methods are rotten. And I consider the offer I have to make you is far above the mark. I’m the agent for Mr. James Henshaw. I’ve been instructed to offer you £50 for your business, and your stock at valuation. If you like to take £100 down and clear out this week-end, I’ll give you a cheque now, and you can sign this agreement.”
The stout Agent drew a foolscap envelope from his pocket; but Mr. Andrew Magee intervened.
“The door, Sir,” he said, quietly, “is to your left. I’ll thank you to be going now.”
“You mean,” said the Agent, “that you’ll fight, like a lot of other silly fools have tried to do. You know what that’ll mean; we are opening a thirty yard frontage right next door to this hole of yours. Your potty business’ll be dead in a fortnight. It’s a present I’m offering you; that’s what it is.”
Mr. Andrew Magee came round the counter. He was tall, and had a lean, hard figure. He touched the other man on the elbow.
“The door, Sir,” he remarked, gently, “is to your left—”
“Be damned to you and your door!” roared the Agent. “You smug, ignorant, unbusinesslike fool. Take my offer, or out of this hole we’ll have you in a couple of weeks.”
“I allow no man to call me that, Sir,” said Mr. Andrew Magee, as he hit the Agent hard and solid on the side of the jaw. “That’s not to give you the dope,” he said; “but to teach you to mend your manners. Out of my shop!”
The last four words came with a queer metallic-sounding rip of cold passion, that somehow fitted well the grimness of face and figure of Mr. Magee. And the Agent stayed for no further argument. He rose, staggering; gripped the side of his fleshy jaw, and ran wordless out of the shop.
The Dream of X and Other Fantastic Visions Page 13