The boxing-stage was raised a clear three and a half feet above the
deck, and the mat showed glaringly white in the northern sunshine. The
corner-posts were padded and wound with many layers of red and blue
bunting. A glance round showed a great amphitheatre of faces, rising
tier on tier up to the crouching figures of men on the main-derrick,
funnel-casings, and masts. The spectators numbered, perhaps, close on
three thousand, and there was hardly a man among them who had not
qualified as a critic by personal experience at the game. The last two
competitors had just left the ring in a storm of hand-clapping, and
the white-sweatered seconds ceased their professional chatter and
their basin-splashing employment to jump up and place the chairs back
against the corner-posts as the next two officers entered.
Lieutenant Cairnley of H.M. T.B.D. ---- pulled the loose sleeves of
his monkey-jacket across his chest and stretched out his legs as he
sat down in the Blue corner. He looked across at his opponent, who was
standing talking in a low voice to a second. Yes, he was evidently
only just inside the middle-weight limit, and he, Cairnley, must be
giving away all of half a stone. Still, that was half a stone less to
carry about the ring, and he felt really fit and well-trained. An
officer was standing in the ring, with a paper in one hand, and the
other raised to call for silence.
"First round of the Officers' Middle-weights. In the Red corner,
Lieutenant Santon of the----, in the Blue corner, Lieutenant Cairnley
of the----." He slipped under the ropes and jumped down from the stage
as the voice of the timekeeper followed his own--"Seconds out!"
Cairnley felt the coat plucked from his shoulders, and he stood up as
his chair was drawn away. "_Clang!_" went the heavy gong, and he
walked forward with his right hand out and his eyes on his opponent's
chest, in the midst of a great silence. As their gloves touched,
Cairnley jumped quickly to one side and began his invariable habit of
working round to his opponent's left hand. He was not allowed much
time for "routine work." He had an impression of a looming figure
getting larger, a whirl of feinting, and he was being rushed back
across the ring in a storm of punches. His habit of keeping his chin
down, shoulders up, and elbows in, saved him. He felt a thrill of
respect for Santon's punch as his head rocked from heavy hook-blows on
either side, and then he was inside his opponent's elbows, working his
head forward, and lowering his right for a body punch before they
struck the ropes. As he felt their springing contact at his back, he
stiffened up and pushed his man away. The recoil of the hemp assisted
him, and Santon gave ground a yard. Cairnley jumped at him, and,
taking an even chance, sent a straight right over, which landed
cleanly on the mouth. His left followed at once, but only touched
lightly. Santon gave ground again, and the lighter man slid after him,
sending a long left home to the nose. Cairnley thrilled as it landed.
This man was strong, he felt, but not quick enough in defence. He
half-feinted with his right, and sent his left out again. As the punch
extended he slightly lifted his chin, and the ring whirled round him
as he took a tremendous cross-counter that came in over his elbow. He
came forward quickly to get to close quarters, but his opponent had no
intention of letting him. There was a whirl of gloves and a sound of
heavy, grunting hitting, and Cairnley found himself on his hands and
knees, with a very groggy feeling in his head, looking across at
Santon's white knees by the ropes at the far side of the ring. He
stretched his neck, took a long breath, and rose shakily. He did not
feel as shaky as he looked, for he had been in the ring before, and
knew that a knock-down blow sometimes entraps the optimistic giver of
it into sudden defeat, but in this case he was engaged with a boxer
who took no chances. Santon approached quickly and began rapid
feinting just outside hitting distance. Cairnley gave ground slightly
and waited for the rush. This chap had a wicked right, he reflected,
and he did not want to get caught napping again. Then Santon was on
him slamming in lefts and rights, and working furiously to get him
into a corner. Cairnley stooped and struggled to get in close. A
muscular change in the body a foot from his eyes gave him warning of
an approaching upper-cut, and he brought his right glove in front of
his face in time to stop it. He felt Santon's left on the back of his
head, and instantly shifted feet and escaped round his opponent's left
side. As he shifted he jerked a hard, short left punch into the mark,
and then repeated the blow. Santon broke away, and received a
perfectly-timed straight left on the nose as the gong rang. There was
a storm of applause as the men went to their corners, for Cairnley's
recovery had been well guarded, and his quick hitting at the end of
the round showed that he had not lost much speed. He lay back in his
chair while his seconds fussed around him, and thought hard. That
right cross-counter of Santon's was certainly a beauty, so much so
that it must be his favourite punch. Could he be absolutely certain of
its being produced if he gave it the same chance? Well, he had to win
this on a knock-out, or not at all. He could not pick up all the
points he had lost in the first round with only two to go, so it was a
case of chancing it on his brains alone. Yes, he would just check his
idea once, and if that proved that Santon would use the same punch for
the same lead, he would go all out on the next. _Clang!_ He rose and
walked straight forward to meet his man. At six-feet range he jumped
in and drove his left for the mark. It did not land true, but it
enabled him to close and start a succession of furious body punches.
The two hammering, gasping white figures reeled about the ring for
half a minute, heads down and arms working like pistons.
Cairnley knew that his man was too strong for him at that game, but for
that round, brain and not muscle was his guide, and he wanted Santon to
be warmed up and made to act by habit and use. They locked in a clinch,
and a moment later broke clear at the word of the Referee--the first he
had spoken in that fight. For a second they stood on guard swaying from
side to side as they waited for an opening. Then Cairnley leaped in and
sent out a full straight left. Even with his chin tucked well down he
felt the jar of the right that slid again over his elbow, and striking
full on the cheek, made his head ring and his neck ache. He stopped the
left that followed, then landed on the face with his own left and closed
again to hammer in short arm punches. He felt as he did so that the work
he was engaged on must be done soon, as at this high-speed work he would
not have the strength for a hard punch for long. Santon appeared to be a
little inclined for a rest, too, for it was he who clinched this time.
Cairnley rested limply against him and took a long breath as the voice
of the Referee called them apart. He caught his breath again and called
up all his reserve strength as they posed at long range, then he jumped
forward as before, sent his left out three-quarters of the way, and
showed his chin clear of his chest. Without a check in the movement his
left dropped, his body pivoted, and he sent a full "haymaker" right up
and across to the half-glimpsed head in front of him. A bony right wrist
glanced from the top of his bent head, and at the same instant a jar,
from his right knuckles to his back, told him that brains had beaten
skill. He slipped aside, his hands mechanically raised in defence, and
stumbled over Santon's falling body. As he scrambled up to cross the
ring he looked back, and knew at once that not ten nor twenty seconds
would be enough for that limp figure to recover in.