sorry I forgot myself in your bar, Mr. Shillabeer, but no man can say I
hadn’t enough to make me. I’ll not talk big nor threaten, nor say what
I’ll do to him, but I’ll fight him for all he’s worth--to-morrow if he
likes."
"Now you’re talking sense," declared the innkeeper. "A fair fight no man
can object to, and if it’s known in the proper quarters and not in the
wrong ones, there ought to be a little money moving for both of you. How
do they stand for a match, Fogo? Come forward, David, and let
’Frosty-face’ have a look at you."
"Let ’em shake hands first," said Mr. Fogo.
"I’ll do so," declared Bowden, "on the understanding that we’re to fight
this side of Christmas."
"The sooner the better," retorted Crocker. Then they shook hands and
Mr. Fogo’s glittering eyes inspected them.
"Weight as near as can be," he said. "At least, I judge it without
seeing your barrels. This man’s the younger, I suppose."
He pointed to Bartley.
"I’m twenty-five," said Mr. Crocker.
"Ay; and stand six feet--?"
"Five feet eleven and a half."
"Weight eleven stone?"
"A bit less."
Mr. Fogo nodded.
"You’ve got the reach, t’other chap’s got the powder."
Then he examined David.
"Age?" he said.
"Twenty-eight."
"Height?"
"Five foot nine."
"Weight?"
"Eleven two, or thereabout."
"Do either of you know anything of the art?"
"I don’t," said Bartley.
"No more don’t I," added Bowden.
Fogo looked them up and down carefully.
"There’s no reason on the surface why you shouldn’t fight a pretty
mill."
"How long can you stop with me, ’Frosty’?" asked Mr. Shillabeer.
"Well, if there was a few yellow-boys[#] in it, I might go as far as
three weeks. I ought to see Tom King about something of the greatest
importance before long; but I can write it. If these chaps will come to
the scratch in three weeks, I’ll stop. And they both look hard and
healthy; and as neither of ’em know anything, it may be a short fight."
[#] Sovereigns.
Much talk followed and, in the midst, the visitor rose, put down his
pipe and left the bar.
Then up spoke Ernest Maunder in the majesty of the law.
"I warn you, souls," he said, "that I can’t countenance this. If
there’s to be fighting, you’ve got me against you, and to-morrow I shall
lay information with the Justice of the Peace and get a warrant out."
"I hope you’ll mind your own business," said Crocker, warmly. "The man
who spoils sport when Bowden and me meet, is like to get spoilt
himself."
"You won’t frighten me," returned Ernest. "As a common man I’d give you
best, Bartley; but in my blue and with right my side, you’ll find me an
ugly customer, I warn you. Bowden here was daring me to be up and doing
a bit ago. Well, you’ll soon see how ’tis if you try to plan to break
the law and fight a prize fight in this parish! I know my business, and
that you’ll find."
"And I’m with you," declared Mr. Moses. "Have no fear, Maunder. The
Church and the State are both o’ your side, and let vicar but get wind
of this and he’ll--"
"You keep out of it, Moses," said Mr. Shillabeer, warmly. "We be very
good friends and long may we remain so; but stick to your last,
shoemaker, and if these full-grown men be pleased to settle their
difference in the fine old way, ’tis very churlish in you to oppose it."
"Well said, ’Dumpling,’" shouted a young, odd-looking, hairy man with
the uneuphonious name of Screech; "if Moses here don’t like fair play
and nature’s weapons, let him keep out of it; but if he tries to
interfere, never a boot do he make for me again."
"Nor yet for me," cried Bowden. "You’ll do well to go back on that, Mr.
Moses, and keep away from the subject."
"Nor yet for me," echoed Timothy Mattacott, firmly. "I’m Maunder’s
friend, as you all know, and hope to remain so. But if there’s to be
the glad chance of a proper prize fight in this neighbourhood, I’m for
it heart and soul."
Mr. Fogo had returned and heard some of this conversation.
"If the gentleman’s a Jew," he said, "he ought to take kindly to the
sport. Some of the best boys as ever threw a beaver into the Ring were
Israelites--only to name Mendoza and Dutch Sam and Barney Aaron, ’the
Star of the East.’"
"I’m not a Jew," said Mr. Moses, "though I don’t blame you for thinking
so."
"Not with that name?"
"Not at all. My people are Devon all through."
"Well," said Fogo, "my humble custom is to make hay while the sun
shines. We Cockney blokes learn that quite as quick as you Johnny Raws
from the plough-tail; and as there’s a fight in the air, I’ll be so bold
as to sell a few of my verses to them brave blades that would like to
see what fighting was once."
On his arm he carried fifty broadsheets, and now the old sportsman began
to distribute them.
"Twopence each, gentlemen--all true and partickler with the names of the
Fancy present: Mr. Jackson, Mr. Gully, Tom Cribb, Jem Burn, Tom Spring,
and all the old originals. The poems go from the first fight that I
ever saw between Hen Pearce, ’the Game Chicken,’ and that poor, old,
one-eyed lion, Jem Belcher, in 1805; to the great mill between Mr.
Sayers and Mr. Heenan a year ago, when our man fought the Yankee with
one hand and jolly near beat him at that. All out of my own head,
gentlemen, and only twopence each!"
Mr. Fogo distributed his warlike verses in every direction; then when
not a poem remained, he began to collect them again. But the company
proved in very vein for these lays of blood. Both the future combatants
made several purchases; Mr. Snell also patronised the poet, while
Mattacott, Screech, and even Mr. Maunder himself, became possessed of
’Frosty-face’s’ sanguine chronicles.
It being now closing time, the storm-laden air was cleared; the noisy
company, with laughter and repetition of racy couplets from Mr. Fogo’s
muse, retired, and at last the two old friends were left alone.
Shillabeer shut up his bar and locked the house; ’Frosty’ counted the
contents of his pocket and gathered up the poems still unsold.
"I ought to share the booty with you, ’Dumpling,’" he said, but his host
scorned the thought.
"Hope you’ll be sold out long afore you go," he returned. "And as to
sharing, that’s nonsense. You’re a great man, and if you be going to
stop along of me for three weeks, you’ll bring a lot of custom, for the
people will come from far and near to see you."
"Of course if you put it that way, I say no more, because you know
best," declared Fogo.
Presently they sat together over a final pipe.
"Now talk of the wife," said Reuben.
Mr. Fogo obeyed, cast his acute countenance into a mould of melancholy,
appeared to draw a film over his piercing eyes, ceased joyously to
rattle the money in his breeches pocket, and shook his head sadly once
or twice to catch the spirit of the theme.
"The biggest and the best woman I ever saw, or ever hope to see," he
began. "I picture her now--as a young, gay creature in her father’s
shop at the corner of the Dials. Rabbits and caveys and birds he sold
and him a sportsman to the marrow. Thirteen stone in her maiden days,
they used to say, and very nearly six feet high--the wonder and the joy
of the male sex. And ’twas left for you to win that rare female. And
you did; and you was the envied of London, ’Dumpling’--the envied of
London."
Mr. Shillabeer nodded, sighed heavily, and licked his lips at these
picturesque words.
"It brings her back--so large as life--to hear you tell about her.
’Twas the weight she put on after marriage that killed her, ’Frosty,’"
he said. "You must see her grave in the burying-ground."
"And take my hat off to it--so I will."
"There’s room for me beside her, come my turn, Fogo."
"Quite right--perfectly right. You couldn’t wait for the trump of Doom
beside a better woman."
Reuben next gave all details of his wife’s last illness, and the subject
occupied him until midnight when conversation drifted from Mrs.
Shillabeer to other matters. They talked until the peat fire sank to a
red eye and the air grew cold. Then conversation waned and both heroes
began to grow sleepy.
Mr. Shillabeer rose first and concluded the wide survey.
"Ah, ’Frosty,’ the days we’ve seen!" he said.
"I’m with you," answered the poet, also rising. "’Tis all summed up in
that word and couldn’t be put better,--’The days we’ve seen!’"
*CHAPTER X*
*SOME INTERVIEWS*
Those from whom it was most desired to keep all information of the
coming fight were the first to hear of it. Mr. Moses told Mr. Merle,
the vicar, and Mr. Merle resented the news bitterly. He decided,
indeed, that such a proceeding would disgrace the parish.
"We might as well revive the horrors of our bull-ring," he said. "It
cannot and must not be."
The good man referred to a considerable tract of ground beneath the
southern wall of the churchyard--a region known as the ’bull-ring’ and
authentically connected with obsolete sports.
Ernest Maunder was most unfortunate in the ally that he had expected to
win. Sir Guy Flamank, the lord of the manor, though enrolled on the
Commission of the Peace, was before all else a sportsman, as he declared
at every opportunity. Somehow this gentleman, by means mysteriously
hidden, became aware of the little matter in hand on the very morning
after the arrangement, and though Ernest called at the Manor House, he
found the Justice unable to see him. Thrice he was thus evaded, and
when once he met Sir Guy on horseback, Mr. Maunder could not fail to
mark how the knight retreated before him with obvious and paltry
evasion. That a Justice of the Peace could thus ignore his
responsibilities, caused both Mr. Maunder and Mr. Moses much indignant
uneasiness.
At breakfast on the day after his undertaking, David Bowden announced
the thing he intended to do; and while his mother wept some natural
tears, nobody else showed any sorrowful emotion. Indeed Elias was
grimly glad.
"Well done thou!" he said. "I’ve long wanted for some son of mine to
show me a bit of valour above common, and now ’tis left for the eldest
to do it. You’ll trounce him to the truth of music, for there’s a
tougher heart in you than that man, and you’ve lived a tougher life."
"What’ll Madge say?" asked Dorcas.
"She needn’t know about it," declared David. "We’re to fight in about
three weeks, and the day’s to be kept a secret as long as possible."
"What d’you want to fight for?" asked his mother.
"It’s natural. We can’t be friends no more till we’ve had it out. You
see, he was after my Madge, and I bested him, and--besides--I had
another crow to pluck with the man."
A martial spirit awoke at the Warren House and Mr. Bowden frankly
revelled in this business, the more so because he believed that his son
must win easily. The twins took to sparring from that hour, and Napoleon
and Wellington fought their battles over again. Elias sent to Plymouth
for a pair of boxing gloves, and Joshua for the good of the cause,
albeit not fond of hard knocks, stood up to David for half an hour each
day. It was arranged that young Bowden should train at home for a
fortnight and then go to Plymouth and put himself in the hands of a
professional at that town for some final polish.
The brother and sister had a private talk of special significance soon
after the making of the match.
David met Rhoda returning from Sheepstor, and her face was grave.
"I’ve just heard more about that business than you told us, David," she
said. "’Tis as much for what he done to me as anything, that you be
going to fight him."
"No matter the reason. A licking will do him good--if I can give him
one."
"Look here," she said--impulsively for her--"I must be in this fight.
You’re everything to me, David--everything. I can’t keep away and I
won’t keep away. You know the sort of pluck I’ve got. Well, I must be
in that Ring--me and father--"
David gasped.
"Would you?"
"I tell you I must. Something calls out to me to do it. You can’t
fight without me there, and I don’t believe you can win without me. I
swear I feel it so. Wouldn’t you rather have me in your corner than any
man if it comes to that?"
"Yes," he admitted, "I would; but you can’t do what’s got to do."
"I can do all," she replied. "I talked to Mr. Shillabeer to-day, when
I’d made up my mind, and I axed him what the bottle-holder have to do;
and he told me. I can do it all--every bit of it."
"You shall then!" said David.
She flushed with pleasure.
"You won’t regret it. I may help you to win a bit. A woman that can
keep her head, like I can, is useful anywhere."
"’Twill be you and faither--and I suppose that Crocker will have the
’Dumpling’ and this queer, old, white-headed London man on his side."
"I’m gay and proud as you can trust me in such a thing," she said, her
breast heaving.
"Yes--and now I think on it--you and me being what we are each to
t’other--I will have it so. I couldn’t fight all I know if you wasn’t
there, Rhoda. But I warn you, ’tis ugly work. You mustn’t mind seeing
my head knocked into a lump of black and blue flesh."
"That’s nought so long as you win. ’Twill come right again."
"But I may not win. You never know how the luck will fall."
"You must win," she answered. "’Tisn’t in nature that such an evil man
as him can beat you."
"I shan’t stop so long as I can see, or so long as I can stand," he
said. "I think I shall win myself, but it don’t do to brag."
Then Rhoda told him something that disturbed him not a little.
"Margaret Stanbury knows about it," she said. "I met Mr. Snell, and he
was full of it, and we had a tell. Then he told me that Timothy
Mattacott was out Down Tor way, and met Madge, and went and told her.
So you’ll have to calm her down somehow."
"Better you do," he answered. "’Tis a woman’s job. Get over this
afternoon, like a good girl, and just make light of it. Tell her I’m
coming across o’ Sunday but can’t sooner."
Rhoda obeyed and later in the day saw Madge. David’s sweetheart was
tearful and much perturbed.
"’Tis all my fault," she said. "Oh, Rhoda, can’t nothing be done to
stop it? Such terrible strong men--they’ll kill each other."
"No, they won’t; and ’tisn’t all your fault," answered the elder. "It
had to come off afore they could be friends again. ’Tis to be a fair,
stand-up fight; and the best man will win; and that’s our David. Don’t
take on and make a fuss afore him, if you want to keep friends with him.
David’s like faither, all for valour. He’ll be vexed if you cry about
it. Time enough for us to cry if he’s worsted. But he won’t be."
"’Tis hard for me, because I know ’em both so well," said Margaret.
"And ’tis easy for me, because I know ’em both so well," answered Rhoda.
"No man ever wanted his beastly nature cooled down with a good hiding
more than what Bartley Crocker does. And, be it as ’twill, ’twas
Crocker that made the fight, not David."
"I shall go mad when the day comes," said Margaret.
"No, you won’t, because you won’t know the day. ’Tis to be kept a dark
secret. And I’m going in the Ring to look after my brother."
"Rhoda!"
"I am, though. He wants it. He will have it so."
"Be you made of iron?"
"Yes, where David’s good is the matter. He wants me there--and there I
shall be."
"The men will hoot you--’tis an unwomanly thing."
"D’you think I care for that, so long as I know it isn’t?"
"If any woman’s to be there, ’tis his future wife, I should think," said
Madge; but Rhoda laughed.
"You! You’d faint when--but there, don’t think no more about it. Men
will be men, when they’re built on the pattern of David. I come from
him to tell you not to fret, so mind you don’t."
"’Fret!’ I shall fret my hair grey, and so will mother," said the
promised wife. "To think of his beautiful face all smashed about--and
Bartley too--both such good-looking, kindly chaps! What ever do they
want to fight about? Can’t they settle their quarrels no other way?"
"You should know ’em better. ’Tis a deeper thing than a quarrel. If
they are to be friends, they must hammer one another a bit first. Why
not? You puzzle me. Do ’e want ’em to have their minds full of poison
to each other for evermore? Better fight and let it out."
"I shall pray David, if ever he loved me, not to do it."
"Don’t," said Rhoda. "Don’t be a fool, Madge. I know David better than
what you do; and, if you’re that sort, you never will know him as well
as I know him; because you’ll vex and cross him and he’ll hide himself
from you. He’s a strong, hard man and straight as sunlight. If you’re
going to be soft and silly over this, or over anything, you won’t make
him love you any the better. Take my advice and try to feel like I
do--like a man about it. It’s got to be, and if you are against it and
come to him with a long face and silly prayers not to fight for your
sake, and all that stuff, you won’t choke him off fighting, but you may
choke him off--"
"’Off me’ you were going to say. Well, that’s where I know him better
than you do, for all you know him so well, Rhoda. But don’t think I’m a
fool. ’Tis natural I don’t want the dear face I love to be bruised by
another man’s fist; but if ’tis to be--’tis to be. I only ask to know
_why_ ’tis to be. I suppose David can tell me that?"
"We’ll leave it so then, since you don’t know why," said the other.
"How’s the pup? Have it settled down?"
But if Margaret Stanbury viewed this battle with dismay, her emotions
were trivial compared with those of Bartley Crocker’s mother and Bartley
Crocker’s aunt.
In vain did the fighter try to keep his great secret from them. It was
impossible, and Mr. Moses laid every detail of the proposed encounter
before Nanny two mornings after he had heard about it.
Bartley was from home when Charles Moses arrived, and the shoemaker
harrowed and horrified his two listeners at leisure. Such palpitation
overtook Mrs. Crocker, that the very cotoneaster on the outer walls
seemed to throb to its berried crown; while as for Aunt Susan Saunders,
having once grasped the nature of the things to be, her heart quite
overcame her and she wept. But the mother of Bartley wept not: she
panted--panted with wrath till her expansive bust creaked. Her anger
flowed forth like a tide and swallowed first Mr. Shillabeer and the low
characters he encouraged at ’The Corner House’; next, David Bowden and
his family; next, the Stanburys, who doubtless were deeply involved in
this contemplated crime; and lastly, the aged stranger, Mr. Fogo,
concerning whose bloodthirsty and blood-stained career Charles Moses had
dropped some hints. Her son Mrs. Crocker blamed not at all. She
scoffed at the notion of her innocent and amiable boy seeking to batter
any man.
"Bring me my salts, Susan, and don’t snivel," said the mother. "For
Bartley to be up in arms like this here--why, I never will believe it!
And me a bailiff’s daughter, as everybody knows, and him with the blood
of the Saunders family in his veins. They’ve harried him into it along
of his pluck and courage; but it shan’t be if I can put my bosom between
him and bloodshed. Bartley to be struck and assaulted by a warrener, and
a common man at that! Wasn’t it enough thicky, empty-headed wench at
Coombeshead chose that yellow-haired Bowden, when she might have had a
Crocker? And now, if you please, the ruffian, not content with getting
the girl, wants to fight my boy!"
"It’s my duty to tell you, ma’am, that your son’s quite as set on it as
t’other," declared Mr. Moses.
"No doubt; and a good whipping he’d give the man if it came to it; but
it mustn’t come to it. We’re in a Christian land, and this firebrand,
that’s crept among us with his wicked rhymes, ought to be taken up and
led behind the cart-tail and flogged out of the parish."
"I’m glad you take such a high, womanly view," said the shoemaker;
"because you’m another on our side, and will be a tower of strength.
They are to fight in about three weeks’ time--afore Christmas. That is,
if we, on the side of law and order--namely, his reverence, and me, and
you, and Ernest Maunder, can’t prevent it. I’m sorry to say everybody
else wants to see them fight--even Sir Guy--more shame to him!"
"I’ll have the place by the ears rather than it should happen," said
Mrs. Crocker. "I’ll have Bartley took up rather than he should have his
face touched by that--that rabbit-catching good-for-nought up to
Ditsworthy. Why, I’ll even go up there myself and talk to Elias Bowden.
This thing shan’t be--not if a determined woman can prevent it."
Mr. Moses retired comforted in some sort, for he felt that Mrs. Crocker
was probably stronger than the policeman and the vicar put together.
But meantime, on the other side, matters developed steadily. Shillabeer
and ’Frosty-faced Fogo’ had taken charge of Bartley Crocker, and he
prepared for battle with the benefit of all their immense experience.
From the first, rumours of interference and interruption were rife; but
Fogo treated them with disdain.
"Leave all that to me," he said. "I’ve been evading the ’blues’ and the
’beaks’ ever since I came to man’s estate, and if I can’t hoodwink you
simple bumpkins--parsons and all--well, I’ll pay the stakes myself."
For stakes there were, and Mr. Fogo, who insisted on seeing all things
done decently and in order, arranged that five pounds a side should be
posted to bind the match and five pounds more paid in the day before the
battle. Mr. Bowden found the money for David, and no less a worthy than
Sir Guy Flamank himself, having first commanded terrific oaths of
secrecy from Mr. Fogo and Mr. Shillabeer, produced ten pounds for
Bartley Crocker. He was young and had never seen a fight.
A great many local sportsmen evinced the keenest interest in the
proceedings, but with British hypocrisy strove hard to conceal that
interest, out of respect to the people who were not sportsmen. As for
the combatants, to their surprise they found themselves rapidly
developing into men of renown. Even the hosts of the lesser Bowdens
were received with respect among their friends, in that they happened to
be actual brothers of a hero. It might have been remarked that while
most people at first expected Bowden to win, the larger number coupled
the prophecy with a hope that they would be mistaken. From the
beginning Bartley was the more popular combatant; and when certain
opinions respecting him left the narrow lips of Mr. Fogo at ’The Corner
House,’ a little betting opened and ruled at two to one on the younger
man.
Mr. Shillabeer set to work to teach Bartley the rudiments, but he found
himself too slow and scant of breath to be of any service. A young
boxer from Plymouth was therefore engaged--he who in Mr. Fogo’s skilful
hands had won a recent battle--and he swiftly initiated Crocker.
And then it was that the Londoner pronounced this raw material in many
respects above the average, and declared that Bartley, among his other
qualifications, had some unsuspected talent for milling. He was quick
and very active on his legs. He hit straight naturally, not round. His
left promised to be very useful and he had a vague idea of hitting on
the retreat and countering--arts usually quite unappreciated by the
novice. In fact, Mr. Fogo, from an attitude of indifference, presently
developed mild interest in the coming battle and was often at hand when
Bartley donned the mittens. He also superintended his training, and bore
him company, for a part of the distance, on some of those lengthy tramps
prescribed by Mr. Shillabeer.
Upon one of these occasions, however, Bartley was alone and chance
willed that he should meet Margaret returning from Ditsworthy. She was
depressed and he asked her why.
"For fifty reasons; and you know most of ’em," she answered. "I’ve just
been eating dinner to the Warren House. Somehow it always makes me
wisht. There’s that young fellow, by the name of Billy Screech, running
after Dorcas, and none of ’em like him or will hear of such a thing.
And then the silence! They won’t talk afore me. You can hear every
pair of teeth working and every bite and sup going down. But that’s not
what’s on my mind. ’Tis this awful fight. Oh, Bartley, can’t you make
it up?"
"We have, long ago. We’re quite friendly. ’Tis no more now than a
sporting fixture for ten pounds a side. There’ll be twenty pounds more
for furniture for your new home, Madge--if I’m licked."
"Don’t talk like that. ’Twould always be covered wi’ bloodstains in my
eyes. Can’t you use the gloves? Why do you want to knock your poor
noses crooked for? ’Tis like savage tigers more than Christian men."
"Don’t you worry. The colours be coming Monday. Of course I can’t ask
you to wear mine; but they’re prettier far than David’s. ’Twas Mr.
Fogo’s idea. I shall have the same as the mighty champion, Ben Caunt,
once had."
"I don’t want to hear nothing about it, and I pray to God every night on
my knees that it may be stopped."