Lost in thought, Carstairs made his way back to the dogcart and
Bounce. He climbed in. "Let's go to the village, Bounce, over
there."
"Yes, sir." Bounce was all attention to business; he asked no
questions, and looked no questions, but his mind was active in a very
great wonder.
They drove in absolute silence till the village was reached, then
Carstairs spoke.
"I'm staying here the night. Will you take the horse back and come
over again in the morning?" He took out his purse and handed Bounce
some money. "I haven't seen the girl, I shall see her to-morrow.
I've seen her father and her mother. Her father is dying."
"I'm sorry to hear that, sir."
"So am I. Good-bye." Carstairs went into the village inn, arranged
for a room, got something to eat, and set off to walk to the little
town where the girl had gone.
It was a beautiful day and the country was lovely, but Carstairs had
no spare thoughts to give to it; he strode on and at a fast pace,
observing nothing, till long before he had disentangled the
complicated skein of his thoughts he found himself in the little town.
"What the devil am I to do now?" he asked himself. "I'll walk right
through the bally show till I come out on the other side, then I'll
turn round and come back a different way," So he walked on again and
spent the whole afternoon to no purpose except as far as exercise was
concerned. It was quite late when he returned to the inn. He got
something to eat and then sat in the little private bar smoking and
sipping a whisky and soda. Through the thin partition, from the tap
room, he heard a huge uproar of gruff voices. It was pay night, and
a great concourse of navvies from the water-works were taking their
evening beer. Carstairs caught scraps of conversation, and
occasionally references to a "toff" who had been "standing" them beer.
He got up and wandered along the country lanes in the dark, then he
turned in and went to bed.
Early in the morning, just after he had finished breakfast, Bounce
arrived with the dogcart. Carstairs saw him, through the little
lattice window, walking the horse up and down the village street. He
went out to him.
"Good-morning, Bounce. You're early."
"Yes, sir."
Carstairs got into the cart. "Drive over to the camp," he said.
So they drove away, Bounce enlivening the journey with little
anecdotes of his travels.
"I picked up a 'bob' yesterday, sir."
"You're lucky."
"Yes, awful lucky chap I am; always picking up something. Picked up
a barrel of beer once, me and a mate."
"Yes, a hogshead, I suppose; been lying on the pavement for hours and
nobody happened to notice it till you came along."
Bounce laughed. "Well, there was some other blokes as reckoned they
saw it first, but we didn't take no notice of them, furriners, they
was, see?"
"I see, didn't you give them a drink?"
"We offered to share out, but they wasn't satisfied with that, so we
took the lot. Mind, there was a row about it afterwards."
"I suppose there would be."
"Yes. 'Asty blokes, them furriners. We 'ad to flatten 'em all out
before we 'ad any peace. Stiff blokes they was too, some on 'em, but
very soft about the ribs, like punching a bladder of lard it was,
sort of unsatisfactory like."
"Ah."
"Yes. An' another time we picked up an old toff with a bullet in
'im, that was in Rio. Fine harbour, Rio. Give us ten dollars each
'e did, three on us."
"How did he get the bullet in him, Bounce?"
"Oh, 'aving a bit of a spree, I s'pose, 'e never told us. 'Nother
time I picked up a bloke's 'and, cut off at the wrist. In Port Said,
that were."
"Nothing in it, I suppose?"
"No, there wasn't, worse luck. It weren't an English 'and, you could
see that."
By this time they had reached the camp, and Bounce stopped the
recital of his "lucky" incidents. Carstairs got down. "If I'm long,
you can drive by yourself to Southville. I don't want to make you
late."
"That's alright, sir. I changed-over with my mate to-day. I don't
go on till midnight."
"That's very kind of you, Bounce."
"Don't mention it, sir."
Carstairs went across to the caravan. The gipsy woman saw him coming
and opened the door to greet him. "She came back and went away again
first thing this morning. She'll be back this afternoon."
Carstairs frowned and stared at the woman very severely. He thought
she was not telling the truth, but he saw by the light of genuine
anger that sprang to her eyes at his frown, that he had misjudged her.
"I'm sorry," he said. "How is your husband?"
She smiled again at once. "About the same. Will you wait?" she
asked.
"No thanks, I'll explore the country a bit, and call back again." He
was going away when the woman stopped him. "Will you come in just a
minute? I'd like to try you with the cards!"
He looked at her enquiringly. "Do you really believe your cards?"
She did not answer, but stepped inside the caravan and produced a
pack of cards, quite new and clean. "Shuffle and cut," she said,
handing them to him.
He did so, and cut the ace of hearts.
"You're thinking of her."
"That's true. I was thinking of her prophesying in Scotland that I
should be a winner."
She looked into his eyes. "So you will," she answered.
Carstairs felt his pulse tingle with an added determination as she
spoke.
Taking hold of him by the right wrist, she turned the palm upwards
and looked at it intently for a few seconds. "My word! you are a
strong man," she said.
"That's piffle," he answered, "those lines are accentuated by
gripping a hammer shaft."
She smiled. "Oh no! Cut again, please."
He cut twelve times, and cut hearts every time.
The old woman positively laughed. "Now do you believe?" she asked.
"It's certainly rather a curious coincidence. Hearts infer love, I
suppose, and I'm in love, that's true."
"Yes, that's true, but you have a rival, I know. A dark man,
perhaps--if he----"
Carstairs frowned. "Good God, that's impossible. Didn't you hear
what the old man said? he's her brother."
The old woman looked steadily into his eyes. "You don't know.
That's only what you think."
"Lord! Perhaps you're right. By Jove----"
"Cut the cards," she interrupted. "Again and again."
He cut six times, spades every time, the knave four times.
The gipsy was very serious. "There!" she said.
"It's certainly rather curious," he admitted.
"That dark man's very close, closer than you think. Watch him!
Watch him!" she repeated, and retreated into her caravan in a
strangely perturbed state.
Carstairs returned to Bounce. "No luck," he said.
"Well, Patience is a virtue, sir, so they says. An' you've got to
'ave it with the women, though they ain't got none theirselves."
"You're a man of experience, Bounce."
"Well, I ain't got no more than one missus, an' that's enough for any
man, too much for some on 'em."
"You're very virtuous, I'm sure, I hope you get your reward."
"That's true. I do, sir. Not but what I 'ave a' done a bit o'
courting now an' then in other parts--before I was married, o'
course."
"Of course."
"Yes. An' now my missus gets the benefit of all that experience. I
come to 'er efficient, thoroughly efficient, as I sez to 'er on the
day that we was married."
"You are a thorough believer in efficiency, Bounce."
"Yes, sir. Do it now, an' do it proper. That's the motto of the
navy. Only 'steady,' too. 'Steady does it,' is another motto. The
man as ain't never done no courting before 'e gets married, ought to
be buried an' not married at all."
"I've just had my fortune told by that gipsy woman."
"That ain't nothing, sir. I've 'ad it done 'undreds of times, an'
all different," the little sailor remarked, cheerfully. "When I was
in Calcutta----"
So listening to Bounce's wonderful adventures, Carstairs had a very
pleasant morning drive. They stopped at a little country public
house and got some bread and cheese and beer; Bounce, meanwhile,
enlarging on the virtue of beer in general, and that beer in
particular.
Then they got into the trap again and completed a circuit of the
locality, bringing up finally at the far side of the little common.
"Hullo!" said Bounce. "What's up there?"
They could see a dense crowd of navvies from the water-works moving
in the direction of the gipsy camp.
Carstairs looked, anxiously. "Hope there's no row on with the
gipsies," he said. They could hear much shouting and singing, but
could not distinguish the words. A turn in the road brought the camp
full into view: there was much commotion going on, the gipsies were
pulling their caravans up together as if to withstand an assault.
"We must stop those chaps, Bounce," Carstairs said, as he whipped up
the horse and tore along the road at a furious gallop. They cut
across the level strip of green at the acute angle of the common, and
raced along the other road. They reached the navvies some three
hundred yards from the camp. As they got within earshot they could
distinguish what the men were shouting. Carstairs flushed an angry
red and set his big jaw tight. "And this is England," he said.
"England, in the year of grace 1896, 'England, the eye, the soul of
Europe,' as Darwen used to quote."
"What's started them on this devil's game, Bounce?"
"Drink, I expects! Men gets like that sometimes."
Carstairs pulled the horse up dead in front of the advance guard of
the men.
"I say, where are all you chaps going?" he asked.
"Women," they shouted. "Bring out the gipsy women."
"That won't do," he said, sharply. "Go on back about your business."
"Ho, ho, 'ere's Lord Muck," a cockney voice shouted in derision.
"The Earl o' Hell," another one corrected.
They swarmed round the dogcart, and the others coming up stopped to
listen.
"How is it you are not at work?" Carstairs asked.
"Saturday afternoon, mister," a gruff, but civil voice replied.
"Well, you'll all get the sack, you know, besides imprisonment, if
you go on with this game."
"The sack! Ha! Ha! 'Ere's a bloke going to give us the sack,
mates."
"That'll be nine 'undred and ninety-nine times wot I've 'ad the sack,
then."
"S'pose we'll 'ave to starve, that's all."
"Same as we did afore, eh, mates? Ha! Ha!"
A man climbed up on to the step. "What say we goes for a drive?" he
asked.
The words were hardly out of his mouth when Carstairs' fist took him
in the face and knocked him backwards among his fellows.
"Hurray!" they shouted. "Hip, hip, hurray!" Five hundred of them
roared it out in chorus.
"That's one for Charlie."
"You ain't going to take it lying down, Charlie?"
"'E's 'ad enough. I allus said Charlie ain't got no guts in 'im."
"'Old the 'orse while I gets at 'im," the man answered.
Two navvies promptly seized the horse, one on each side of his head.
"Up you get Charlie."
Carstairs stood up. "Wait a minute," he said. "I'll come down.
Will you give me fair play?"
"That's honest, 'e couldn't say no fairer than that."
"Make a ring, mates."
"I'll 'old yer coat, Charlie."
"'Go's going to second the toff?"
Bounce stood up. "Is there any blokes 'ere wot bin in the navy?" he
asked, with great dignity.
"'Blue Marines,' mate," a big, burly man on the outskirts of the
crowd answered.
Bounce looked at him closely. "Is that you, Scrapper Hiscocks?"
"That's me, mate."
"Don't you remember Jack Bounce, of the 'Mediterranean'?"
The big man pushed his way up to the trap and held out his hand.
"How do! old chum. I thought you was still in the Service."
"So I ought a bin if I 'adn't bin a bleeding fool. This 'ere
gentleman is Mister Carstairs, 'e's good, I trained 'im myself. 'E's
nephew of Lootenant Carstairs wot was on the 'Mediterranean' with us."
The man promptly saluted, and Carstairs nodded to him. "I shall get
a fair show?" he asked.
The ex-marine nodded towards Bounce. "Me an' Bull-dog'll see to
that, sir."
"Thanks!" He stood up and addressed the crowd with a smiling
countenance. "Look here, you chaps, I'm going to take on your mate
here for as many rounds as you like, or to a finish."
"To a finish," they shouted in chorus.
"Alright; to a finish, then, but we may as well have a gamble on it."
"'Ear! 'Ear! That's sporting."
"Well, look here. I'll put my purse containing five pounds in the
hands of this gentleman. (He pointed to the marine, who blushed.)
"Mister Hiscocks," some one remarked.
There was a general titter, the navvy is unaccustomed to any sort of
a handle to his name.
"That's it. If I lose, that five pounds will be yours to buy drinks
with. If I win, will you promise to go back and leave those women
alone?"
"That's fair, mates. 'E couldn't say no fairer than that," the
marine remarked.
"Ay. 'O's going to watch you an' the five pounds, Bill?"
There was a general laugh.
"What do you say?" Carstairs asked.
"What does Charlie think on it?" a voice asked.
"Yes, let Charlie decide," they chorused.
"Well, mates," Charlie spoke up, "I thinks wot the bloke sez is fair.
I'll do my best for you, mates."
Carstairs climbed out of the trap. "That's settled then," he said.
Bounce led the horse on to the green, and tied him up to a little
tree. "Let's have a proper ring, and half a dozen stewards to see
there ain't no crowding."
They selected a level spot in a little dell surrounded by miniature
mountains. "'Cos then everybody can see without shoving," a navvy
observed. The six stewards, with an air of very great seriousness,
took off their coats and rolled up their shirt sleeves, exposing
brawny, sunburnt arms to the daylight. They formed a circle and
roughly measured with their eyes. "How's that, Charlie? How'll that
do, sir?"
"Alright, mates," Charlie said.
"Very nicely, thanks," Carstairs replied.
They stepped inside the circle, and Bounce and Hiscocks assisted
Carstairs to disrobe, while five hundred statuesque navvies crowded
round the tiers of the natural theatre, five hundred hard, strong
faces; high cheek-boned, square-jawed, steady-eyed. Many of them
were exceedingly handsome, in a massive, rough-hewn sort of way;
mahogany browned, ear-ringed, coarse skinned. They were gathered
there for a brutal, coarse purpose, perhaps, but the dawning of a
great truth was uppermost, resolute and steadfast, in the minds of
most. They were going to see fair play, "fair play" with all it
meant when all the passions of envy, hatred, fierce anger, and the
lust of gain were aroused. They were sportsmen, these men, and the
term always seems to me synonymous with gentlemen as understood in
England. The germ of a desire to do right was firmly fixed in their
hearts, and this absorbed through many generations from the force of
the precept and example of their leaders, the aristocrats of England.
They had no religion, these men, and no politics, but the spirit of
the prize ring and the Queensberry rules was deeply implanted in
their souls. Their fathers before them had imbibed these rules from
constant practical demonstration. Those drunken, dissolute, Georgian
noblemen had given these men a code of morals that they could
understand, and firmly rooted it in their breasts by consistent
example. And every day England reaps the fruit of that seed. Truly
it seems to me that England owes more to the sportsman than to the
statesman: and although the middle class swamp, by a vast majority,
all other classes in the number of great men they have produced: yet
the aristocracy, like the head boys of a school, are responsible for
the "tone" of the nation, and the "tone" of England is surpassing
good. What these men had started out to do that day was due to their
mental limitation, not to their wilful vice. Woman, particularly
that type of woman, was to them an inferior animal, as she is to most
working men; yet the majority treat their female relations, and the
women they consider worthy of it (and the working man is not easily
deceived by fine clothes and fine manners), with astonishing respect,
real and true respect, not superficial mannerisms. The big majority
of English working men, in my experience, are sportsmen, and
possessed of the instincts of gentlemen, ineradicably stamped into
their hard, true natures. And you young men, the budding engineers,
who are lost in the intricacies of elementary algebra, or unravelling
those painful problems in strength of material; the Tensile stresses
in the rims of flywheels, and the elastic limit of steel plates,
etc.: it is yours to see that you also understand the elastic limit
of human nature, the inherent instincts of the working man, and the
durability of your own emotions; this is what you learn in the
"shops": it is yours to solve the unemployed problem and see that the
English workman gets a chance to develop the fine qualities that are
in him; for this (unemployment) is an engineering problem; the
reduction of a sine curve to a straight line, the modification of a
wave, the control of a tide: it is yours to know that the working man
does not want a mouth in Parliament, but a fair show at his work.
Watch what he _does_, and not what he _says_, as he will watch what
you do, and not what you say; then you will see that he is (mostly) a
sportsman, and you will learn to understand that it is better that
the accent should be on the "_man_" than on the "gentle"--yet do not
forget that a clean mind is the basis of all true force of character,
and is inherently respected by every Englishman, foul-mouthed though
he be. And you, fond Mammas, who desire your dear boys to be
engineers, see to it that their biceps are good, for this is the
underlying principle of all work; and when dear Willie comes home
from the "shops" with his face punched into a many-hued polyhedron,
be not alarmed, this is no doubt the result of scientific research
into the specific resistance of the fitter's mate; it is also
conceivable that occasions may arise when it is good that Willie
should stand in the police court dock, charged with breaking a man's
head with a hammer. All these things must come to pass before the
steel enters thoroughly into Willie's soul; then he will take a very
high polish and be very reliable, yet he will be very flexible and
very keen; for this is the age of steel--hard, keen, true steel.
Carstairs stripped to the waist and tied his trousers round with a
scarf that Bounce lent him. He stepped into the middle of the ring
and looked at his opponent: slightly shorter, but more massive than
himself, his face was remarkably hard looking, with a short, clipped
moustache, and light china blue eyes with a roving, happy-go-lucky
look in them; even now, as Carstairs faced him, there was an element
of a grin on his face. (It is written somewhere in the Book of Fate
that the British navvy shall fear no man on this earth.) His neck
was like the trunk of an oak tree and sloped grandly on to his
massive shoulders; in his hands, Carstairs observed, Nature had
endowed him with a pair of very formidable weapons, the knuckles were
enormous. Altogether Jack Carstairs recognised that he was up
against one of the stiffest propositions he had ever tackled in his
life.
"Are you ready, sir?" he asked, with quite a genial smile.
"Yes," Carstairs answered.
"Three minute rounds," Bounce said, taking out the fine, half-hunter
watch that had been presented to him for rescuing a drowning man.
The two combatants agreed.
"Shake hands, then." They reached out and gripped each other with a
strong, hearty grip, and five hundred heads nodded grave approval.
"Now! Time!"
As soon as the word was out of Bounce's mouth, the navvy sprang at
Carstairs like a tiger. The royal light of battle was in his eyes,
there was positive joy written large and bold over all his
countenance.
Carstairs was serious, very serious, and quite calm; he ducked the
man's furious left and right straight drives, and got in a useful
stop hit with his left in the face, then broke ground. But the navvy
was on him again like a whirlwind, while five hundred gruff voices
shouted.
"One for the toff. First blood for the toff. 'Is nose is bleeding.
Don't forget that five pound, Charlie. Mind, your mates is watching
you."
Carstairs felt the huge, bony fists whistle past his ears, and he
ducked and ducked again to the furious straight drives. He began to
smile, too; the pleasure of it was entering into him, the important
issue was slipping away from his mind. He hit the navvy heavily
about the face, and received one or two glancing blows himself.
When time was called, they stood and looked at each other for a
second or so like two newly found friends.
"That was good, wasn't it, sir?" the navvy said.
"You do make the pace," Carstairs answered, with genuine admiration.
The man stroked his nose tenderly. "Same to you, sir," he said, with
a grin.
Their seconds came and took them away to their corners and sat them
down on one man's knees while another fanned them with big, red
pocket handkerchiefs.
"'It 'im in the body," Bounce whispered. "You could 'it 'im in the
clock all day, an' 'e'd on'y think you was tickling of 'im."
"Time" was called, and the navvy held out his hand again just to show
that they were still on the best of good terms. Carstairs grasped it
warmly, and again the five hundred heads nodded strong approval.
They stepped back a pace and the navvy said: "Are you ready?"
Carstairs said "Yes," and promptly the man sprang in, letting drive
furiously right and left. There was a sameness about his methods,
and he swung his shoulders freely and openly before each hit, so that
Carstairs knew exactly where and when they were coming, and dodged
them easily; he ducked low to the left, and got in a swinging right
on the short ribs. The man grunted, his breath had been short
before. He stopped and took a deep breath, Carstairs magnanimously
standing clear of him; then he rushed again, and Carstairs got him in
the same place; again he took a deep breath and rushed, exhaustion
was making him slower. Carstairs ducked to the right this time, and
got in a beautiful left, fairly and squarely on the solar plexus.
The man dropped like a log, and lay gasping.
[Illustration: THE MAN DROPPED LIKE A LOG]
There was a wild uproar, several of the men tried to break into the
ring to pick him up, but the stewards thrust them roughly back.
"Don't break the ring," they said. Bounce stood over him, watch in
hand, and counted out the seconds. "He's beat," he said at the end
of the tenth, as the man lay there helpless.
Carstairs picked him up. "Never mind," he said. "That five pounds
is yours, anyway."
The navvies shouted uproariously, and crowded round Carstairs
congratulating him in their rough but sincere fashion. In the midst
of it all he heard an old familiar voice that drove the smile from
his face.
"That really was damn good, old chap."
He turned and beheld Darwen, smiling, genial, standing at his elbow.
"How the devil did you get here?" he asked, frowning severely.
The navvies near listened in open curiosity and wonder.
"'E bin down 'ere weeks, off an' on, standing us beer down at the
village," a navvy explained.
"So this was some of your devil's work, eh? You were going to resort
to force when fair means failed, you damned skunk."
The navvies listened in silent wonder.
Darwen shrugged his shoulders with easy unconcern. "The forces of
Nature, dear boy," he answered. He turned to the navvies. "I came
down to see the fun," he said. "The gipsies are going to put up a
scrap, I see, they're out with sticks and guns and God knows what."
"That's off, Mister," a navvy answered.
"Off? Ha! Ha! You've let this chap with his little fight divert
you?"
"That was part of the stakes," Carstairs said, shortly. "And these
men will stick to their bargain."
They gave a low murmur of assent.
Darwen laughed. "Well, you are mugs, you've let this chap diddle
you. This skilled fighter against poor old plucky, but unskilled
Charlie."
They began to cast suspicious glances at Carstairs.
"Charlie didn't get one good one on him. You could see that for
yourselves."
"It was a fair fight," they said, gruffly. "An' a bet's a bet."
"That's right; fair is fair all the world over," he was talking to
them in their own language, "but it isn't fair for a trained man,
practising every day, to take advantage of a plucky sort of chap like
Charlie, now is it?"
There was silence.
"A bet is a bet," he repeated, "but it's not sporting to bet on a
cert. 'All bets off' in that case is the rule," he said.
Carstairs was slowly dressing; he stopped with his collar in his
hand. "That man is a rogue and a liar," he said, "he doesn't know
the meaning of the term sport."
"Ha! Ha! Hear that. Ask him if he'd take me on the same terms that
he took Charlie on?"
"Yes, here and now," Carstairs answered, starting to undress again.
"And glad of the chance."
The navvies cheered. "'Ear. 'Ear. That's a toff, that's sport.
Clear the ring, mates. Let the two toffs set to."
The stewards cleared the ring again, the navvies stepped back in
expectant silence, they expected something exceptional this time.
Charlie stepped up to Carstairs. "I'll be your second, mister. Let
this yer bloke (pointing to Bounce) be referee." He was as brisk and
lively as ever again.
"Thanks," Carstairs said. "You and I must have a drink together
before I go back."
Charlie grinned with real pleasure. "Thank ye, sir," he said.
Darwen stripped with alacrity, his big brown eyes gleamed with
abnormal joy: there was sufficient of the Gaul in him to make him
"More than man before the fight. Less than woman afterwards." He
was attended to by two navvies; a tall red-headed man and a slender
dark man with rather a thoughtful, melancholy cast of countenance. A
young gipsy youth, slouch-hatted, slovenly, wandered up to the group,
and stood beside Darwen for a minute or two; his piercing eyes moved
with a quick alert expression under the wide drooping brim of his
hat; his face was very dirty and his hands thrust deep into his
trousers' pockets. The navvies took no notice of him, and he
wandered nonchalantly across the ring and took up a position near
Carstairs.
"How many rounds?" he asked.
"To a finish," Bounce answered.
"I'll put a bob on this 'un, he's got the look of a winner," he
growled out in a surly, gruff voice.
Carstairs glanced up at him quickly, but he turned round and
sauntered off.
"Get ready."
They stepped out into the ring, two splendid specimens of English
manhood. Darwen six feet in his socks, and Carstairs half an inch
shorter. They were in the pink of condition, and both of them full
of steam. Somewhere near at hand was the girl they both wanted, and
they had this in mind. Darwen, for the first time in his life, was
in love, really in love, with all the ardour of his passionate nature.
"Shake hands," Darwen's seconds called, but Carstairs took no notice,
and the five hundred spectators settled themselves to witness a
battle of real hatred.
"Time," Bounce called.
Promptly Darwen sprang in with a realistic feint, then, smiling,
broke ground and worked round his antagonist. Carstairs watched him,
keeping the centre of the ring, pivoting slowly on his own axis.
Darwen sprang in again with another feint, but still Carstairs gave
no opening, then quick as a flash Darwen gave a left lead and
followed up with a heavy right swing; both got home, though not with
their full effect.
Darwen was at the zenith of a strong man's powers; his head was
singularly clear, and his speed almost supernatural. There was a
sort of feline fascination about him, his eyes, too, were something
catlike, or snakey; there was an undulating ease in his movements
that was beautiful, fascinating; he had risen to the sort of
hysterical height which the Latins seem capable of, and still the
English blood in him kept him cool. As he stood, that day, he was
almost the perfect, scientific fighter. He feinted with wonderful
expression, he "drew" Carstairs' leads with extremely skilful acting,
and timed his counters marvellously. At the end of the round,
Carstairs was battered and bruised, but Darwen was as fresh as a
daisy.
The navvies maintained a glum silence; this feinting and drawing
savoured, to them, of deceit, and the way Carstairs took his
punishment, melted their hearts. The ex-marine whispered in his ear:
"steady does it, stick to 'im."
The young gipsy reappeared from the crowd. "My money's still on this
'un," he said.
Next round, Carstairs attacked, persistently, all the time; his wind
was good and he knew it; from his earliest infancy he had led a
spotlessly clean and wholesome life, and he was sound as a bell from
the crown of his head to the sole of his foot; he was alert and quick
too, but it was the staccato briskness of the terrier, and his eyes
were the eyes of an Englishman, an engineer. With a fine disregard
of punishment, he hustled Darwen through the whole of the round.
The navvies buzzed with excitement, and the young gipsy had to be
turned out of the ring by the stewards.
Darwen's seconds performed their office enthusiastically, but their
sympathies were really with the other man.
For four rounds Carstairs took all the punishment steadily. He bored
in all the time, attacking persistently, never once had he feinted or
tried to keep away. Darwen's smile began to fade, he was getting
angry. This man was such a fool that apparently he could not see
that he was beaten. There was a devilish gleam of temper in his eyes
as they faced each other for the fifth round.
Carstairs' left foot and left fist moved in the old, old way.
Instead of steadily countering as he had been doing, Darwen dashed in
to hustle matters to a close. Next minute Bounce was standing over
him counting out the seconds. For the first time in the fight
Carstairs had feinted--and successfully.
The navvies cheered fervidly.
At the seventh second, Darwen jumped up furiously and sprang at
Carstairs like a fiend incarnate. "You devil," he screamed, "I'll
kill you."
But he didn't. Carstairs knocked him down again, and he lay like a
log. Still he was up again before the last second was counted. It
was astonishing where he got the power from, but he rushed in again
like a whirlwind.
Carstairs, cool and precise, but very quick, his grey eyes hard as
steel, jabbed him off, and off, and off, till he saw what he wanted,
then his wide shoulders swept a half circle in the air, swinging
cleanly from the hips; his great, strong, right leg, trailing to the
rear like a stay, braced itself suddenly rigid; and the right fist,
tightly clenched at the moment of impact, shot out clean and true in
a perfectly straight line to the point of Darwen's eagerly extended
jaw: it was a perfect blow, showing a beautiful, smooth ripple as one
muscle after the other took up its task; then remaining rigid like a
statue for one second, with lips firmly closed, and the eyes--the
entire expression of the face, full of definite, resolute purpose;
Carstairs for that second seemed more than a man. None but a man
with his long record of clean living and strict training could have
risen to such a blow after receiving such a pounding as he had.
Darwen dropped for the last time.
There was a tense silence as Bounce stood over him, the tenth second
was called and still he lay there; his seconds picked him up and
dabbed his face with a wet handkerchief; slowly the light of
intelligence returned to his eyes. He sat up and looked round.
There was a subdued cheer; the navvies were unusually moved, they
felt, somehow, that this was more than an ordinary fight, every one
was still for fully a minute, the silence was oppressive. God knows
what was passing in those five hundred rugged minds. Carstairs
himself was strangely impressed; in after life he never forgot it.
He felt, he said, as though he had come suddenly to the last peak of
a majestic mountain, and saw a wondrous valley spread out below him.
Darwen's seconds stood behind him holding up his shoulders. They
were quite still, they said no word as he looked slowly and vacantly
round; then, without warning, he bent his head forward into his hands
and wept like a child.
A beaten man is the most pathetic sight in all Nature: these men were
used to death, they had seen their bosom chums killed, squashed flat
by falling rocks, buried alive in the earth, mangled by machinery;
but when Darwen wept they turned their heads.
The young gipsy moved up to Carstairs, as he stood alone, and
whispered in his ear: "I knew you'd win. You'll always win, win
whatever you want." A small hand reached out and dropped an emerald
ring on to the little heap of his clothes over which he was bending;
as he put out his hand to pick it up, he felt the pressure of warm,
soft lips on his cheek. He started up in amazement, but the gipsy
had melted into the crowd like a shadow. One or two of the navvies
who had seen it grinned from ear to ear, and Carstairs blushed from
his forehead to his neck.
"That was a girl," a navvy said. "I thought he was slim like, too."
Carstairs said nothing, but dressed very quickly.