As Boutigo's Van (officially styled the "Vivid") slackened its
already inconsiderable pace at the top of the street, to slide
precipitately down into Troy upon a heated skid, the one outside
passenger began to stare about him with the air of a man who compares
present impressions with old memories. His eyes travelled down the
inclined plane of slate roofs, glistening in a bright interval
between two showers, to the masts which rocked slowly by the quays,
and from thence to the silver bar of sea beyond the harbour's mouth,
where the outline of Battery Point wavered unsteadily in the dazzle
of sky and water. He sniffed the fragrance of pilchards cooking and
the fumes of pitch blown from the ship-builders' yards; and scanned
with some curiosity the men and women who drew aside into doorways to
let the van pass.
He was a powerfully made man of about sixty-five, with a solemn,
hard-set face. The upper lip was clean-shaven and the chin decorated
with a square, grizzled beard--a mode of wearing the hair that gave
prominence to the ugly lines of the mouth. He wore a Sunday-best
suit and a silk hat. He carried a blue band-box on his knees, and
his enormous hands were spread over the cover. Boutigo, who held the
reins beside him, seemed, in comparison with this mighty passenger,
but a trivial accessory of his own vehicle.
"Where did you say William Dendle lives?" asked the big man, as the
van swung round a sharp corner and came to a halt under the signboard
of "The Lugger."
"Straight on for maybe quarter of a mile--turn down a court to the
right, facin' the toll-house. You'll see his sign, 'W. Dendle, Block
and Pump Manufacturer.' There's a flight o' steps leadin' 'ee slap
into his workshop."
The passenger set his band-box down on the cobbles between his ankles
and counted out the fare.
"I'll be goin' back to-night. Is there any reduction on a return
journey?"
"No, sir; 'tisn' the rule, an' us can't begin to cheapen the fee wi'
a man o' your inches."
The stranger apparently disliked levity. He stared at Boutigo,
picked up his band-box, and strode down the street without more
words.
By the red and yellow board opposite the tollhouse he paused for a
moment or two in the sunshine, as if to rehearse the speech with
which he meant to open his business. A woman passed him with a child
in her arms, and turned her head to stare. The stranger looked up
and caught her eye.
"That's Dendle's shop down the steps," she said, somewhat confused at
being caught.
"Thank you: I know."
He turned in at the doorway and began to descend. The noise of
persistent hammering echoed within the workshop at his feet.
A workman came out into the yard, carrying a plank.
"Is William Dendle here?"
The man looked up and pointed at the quay-door, which stood open,
with threads of light wavering over its surface. Beyond it, against
an oblong of green water, rocked a small yacht's mast.
"He's down on the yacht there. Shall I say you want en?"
"No." The stranger stepped to the quay-door and looked down the
ladder. On the deck below him stood a man about his own age and
proportions, fitting a block. His flannel shirt hung loosely about a
magnificent pair of shoulders, and was tucked up at the sleeves,
about the bulge of his huge forearms. He wore no cap, and as he
stooped the light wind puffed back his hair, which was grey and fine.
"Hi, there--William Dendle!"
"Hullo!" The man looked up quickly.
"Can you spare a word? Don't trouble to come up--I'll climb down to
you."
He went down the ladder carefully, hugging the band-box in his left
arm.
"You disremember me, I dessay," he began, as he stood on the yacht's
deck.
"Well, I do, to be sure. Oughtn't to, though, come to look on your
size."
"Samuel Badgery's my name. You an' me had a hitch to wrestlin',
once, over to Tregarrick feast."
"Why, o' course. I mind your features now, though 'tis forty years
since. We was standards there an' met i' the last round, an' I got
the wust o't. Terrible hard you pitched me, to be sure: but your
sweetheart was a-watchin' 'ee--hey?--wi' her blue eyes."
Samuel Badgery sat down on deck, with a leg on either side of the
band-box.
"Iss: she was there, as you say. An' she married me that day month.
How do you know her eyes were blue?"
"Oh, I dunno. Young men takes notice o' these trifles."
"She died last week."
"Indeed? Pore soul!"
"An' she left you this by her will. 'Twas hers to leave, for I gave
it to her, mysel', when that day's wrestlin' was over."
He removed the lid of the band-box and pulled out two parcels wrapped
in a pile of tissue-paper. After removing sheet upon sheet of this
paper he held up two glittering objects in the sunshine. The one was
a silver mug: the other a leather belt with an elaborate silver
buckle.
William Dendle wore a puzzled and somewhat uneasy look.
"I reckon she saw how disapp'inted I was that day," he said. After a
pause he added, "Women brood over such things, I b'lieve: for years,
I'm told. 'Tis their unsearchable natur'."
"William Dendle, I wish you'd speak truth."
"What have I said that's false?"
"Nuthin': an' you've said nuthin' that's true. I charge 'ee to tell
me the facts about that hitch of our'n."
"You're a hard man, Sam Badgery. I hope, though, you've been soft to
your wife. I mind--if you _must_ have the tale--how you played very
rough that day. There was a slim young chap--Nathan Oke, his name
was--that stood up to you i' the second round. He wasn' ha'f your
match: you might ha' pitched en flat-handed. An' yet you must needs
give en the 'flyin' mare.' Your maid's face turned lily-white as he
dropped. Two of his ribs went _cr-rk!_ and his collar-bone--you
could hear it right across the ring. I looked at her--she was close
beside me--an' saw the tears come: that's how I know the colour of
her eyes. Then there was that small blacksmith--you dropped en slap
on the tail of his spine. I wondered if you knew the mortal pain o'
bein' flung that way, an' I swore to mysel' that if we met i' the
last round, you should taste it.
"Well, we met, as you know. When I was stripped, an' the folks made
way for me to step into the ring, I saw her face again. 'Twas whiter
than ever, an' her eyes went over me in a kind o' terror. I reckon
it dawned on her that I might hurt you: but I didn' pay her much heed
at the time, for I lusted after the prize, an' I got savage. You was
standin' ready for me, wi' the sticklers about you, an' I looked you
up an' down--a brave figure of a man. You'd longer arms than me, an'
two inches to spare in height; prettier shoulders, too, I'd never
clapp'd eyes on. But I guessed myself a trifle the deeper, an' a
trifle the cleaner i' the matter o' loins an' quarters: an' I
promised that I'd outlast 'ee.
"You got the sun an' the best hitch, an' after a rough an' tumble
piece o' work, we went down togither, you remember--no fair back.
The second hitch was just about equal; an' I gripped up the sackin'
round your shoulders, an' creamed it into the back o' your neck, an'
held you off, an' meant to keep you off till you was weak. Ten good
minnits I laboured with 'ee by the stickler's watch, an' you heaved
an' levered in vain, till I heard your breath alter its pace, an'
felt the strength tricklin' out o' you, an' knew 'ee for a done man.
'Now,' thinks I, 'half a minnit more, an' you shall learn how the
blacksmith felt.' I glanced up over your shoulder for a moment at the
folks i' the ring: an' who should my eye light on but your girl?
"I hadn't got a sweetheart then, an' I've never had one since--never
saw another woman who could ha' looked what she looked. I was
condemned a single man there on the spot: an', what's more, I was
condemned to lose the belt. There was that 'pon her face that no man
is good enow to cause; an' there was suthin I wanted to see instead--
just for a moment--that I could ha' given forty silver mugs to fetch
up.
"An' I looked at her over your shoulders wi' a kind o' question i' my
face, an' I _did_ fetch it up. The next moment, you had your chance
and cast me flat. When I came round--for you were always an ugly
player, Sam Badgery--an' the folks was consolin' me, I gave a look in
her direction: but she had no eyes for me at all. She was usin' all
her dear deceit to make 'ee think you was a hero. So home I went,
an' never set eyes 'pon her agen. That's the tale; an' I didn't want
to tell it. But we'm old gaffers both by this time, an' I couldn'
make this here belt meet round my middle, if I wanted to."
Sam Badgery straightened his upper lip.
"No. I got a call from the Lord a year after we was married, and
gave up wrestlin'. My poor wife found grace about the same time, an'
since then we've been preachers of the Word togither for nigh on
forty years. If our work had lain in Cornwall, I'd have sought you
out an' wrestled with you again--not in the flesh, but in the spirit.
Man, I'd have shown you the Kingdom of Heaven!"
"Thank 'ee," answered Dendle; "but I got a glimpse o't once--from
your wife."
The other stared, failing to understand this speech. What puzzled
him always annoyed him. He set down the cup and belt on the yacht's
deck, shook hands abruptly, and hurried back to the inn, where
already Boutigo was harnessing for the return journey.