“Montgomery--Craggs!” said he.
A great hush fell over the huge assembly. Even the dogs stopped
yapping; one might have thought that the monstrous room was empty.
The two men had stood up, the small white gloves over their hands.
They advanced from their corners and shook hands, Montgomery gravely,
Craggs with a smile. Then they fell into position. The crowd gave a
long sigh--the intake of a thousand excited breaths. The referee tilted
his chair on to its back legs, and looked moodily critical from the one
to the other.
It was strength against activity--that was evident from the first.
The Master stood stolidly upon his K leg. It gave him a tremendous
pedestal; one could hardly imagine his being knocked down. And he could
pivot round upon it with extraordinary quickness; but his advance or
retreat was ungainly. His frame, however, was so much larger and
broader than that of the student, and his brown, massive face looked so
resolute and menacing that the hearts of the Wilson party sank within
them. There was one heart, however, which had not done so. It was that
of Robert Montgomery.
Any nervousness which he may have had completely passed away now that he
had his work before him. Here was something definite--this hard-faced,
deformed Hercules to beat, with a career as the price of beating him.
He glowed with the joy of action; it thrilled through his nerves.
He faced his man with little in-and-out steps, breaking to the left,
breaking to the right, feeling his way, while Craggs, with a dull,
malignant eye, pivoted slowly upon his weak leg, his left arm half
extended, his right sunk low across the mark. Montgomery led with his
left, and then led again, getting lightly home each time. He tried
again, but the Master had his counter ready, and Montgomery reeled back
from a harder blow than he had given. Anastasia, the woman, gave a
shrill cry of encouragement, and her man let fly his right. Montgomery
ducked under it, and in an instant the two were in each other’s arms.
“Break away! Break away!” said the referee.
The Master struck upwards on the break, and shook Montgomery with the
blow. Then it was “time.” It had been a spirited opening round.
The people buzzed into comment and applause. Montgomery was quite
fresh, but the hairy chest of the Master was rising and falling.
The man passed a sponge over his head while Anastasia flapped the towel
before him. “Good lass! good lass!” cried the crowd, and cheered her.
The men were up again, the Master grimly watchful, Montgomery as alert
as a kitten. The Master tried a sudden rush, squattering along with his
awkward gait, but coming faster than one would think. The student
slipped aside and avoided him. The Master stopped, grinned, and shook
his head. Then he motioned with his hand as an invitation to
Montgomery to come to him. The student did so and led with his left,
but got a swinging right counter in the ribs in exchange. The heavy
blow staggered him, and the Master came scrambling in to complete his
advantage; but Montgomery, with his greater activity, kept out of danger
until the call of “time.” A tame round, and the advantage with the
Master.
“T’ Maister’s too strong for him,” said a smelter to his neighbour.
“Ay; but t’other’s a likely lad. Happen we’ll see some sport yet.
He can joomp rarely.”
“But t’ Maister can stop and hit rarely. Happen he’ll mak’ him joomp
when he gets his nief upon him.”
They were up again, the water glistening upon their faces. Montgomery
led instantly, and got his right home with a sounding smack upon the
master’s forehead. There was a shout from the colliers, and “Silence!
Order!” from the referee. Montgomery avoided the counter, and scored
with his left. Fresh applause, and the referee upon his feet in
indignation.
“No comments, gentlemen, if _you_ please, during the rounds.”
“Just bide a bit!” growled the Master.
“Don’t talk--fight!” said the referee, angrily.
Montgomery rubbed in the point by a flush hit upon the mouth, and the
Master shambled back to his corner like an angry bear, having had all
the worst of the round.
“Where’s thot seven to one?” shouted Purvis, the publican. “I’ll take
six to one!”
There were no answers.
“Five to one!”
There were givers at that. Purvis booked them in a tattered notebook.
Montgomery began to feel happy. He lay back with his legs outstretched,
his back against the corner-post, and one gloved hand upon each rope.
What a delicious minute it was between each round. If he could only
keep out of harm’s way, he must surely wear this man out before the end
of twenty rounds. He was so slow that all his strength went for
nothing.
“You’re fightin’ a winnin’ fight--a winnin’ fight,” Ted Barton whispered
in his ear. “Go canny; tak’ no chances; you have him proper.”
But the Master was crafty. He had fought so many battles with his
maimed limb that he knew how to make the best of it. Warily and slowly
he manoeuvred round Montgomery, stepping forward and yet again forward
until he had imperceptibly backed him into his corner. The student
suddenly saw a flash of triumph upon the grim face, and a gleam in the
dull, malignant eyes. The Master was upon him. He sprang aside and was
on the ropes. The Master smashed in one of his terrible upper-cuts, and
Montgomery half broke it with his guard. The student sprang the other
way and was against the other converging rope. He was trapped in the
angle. The Master sent in another with a hoggish grunt which spoke of
the energy behind it. Montgomery ducked, but got a jab from the left
upon the mark. He closed with his man.
“Break away! Break away!” cried the referee. Montgomery disengaged,
and got a swinging blow on the ear as he did so. It had been a damaging
round for him, and the Croxley people were shouting their delight.
“Gentlemen, I will _not_ have this noise!” Stapleton roared. “I have
been accustomed to preside at a well-conducted club, and not at a
bear-garden.” This little man, with the tilted hat and the bulging
forehead, dominated the whole assembly. He was like a head-master among
his boys. He glared round him, and nobody cared to meet his eye.
Anastasia had kissed the Master when he resumed his seat.
“Good lass. Do’t again!” cried the laughing crowd, and the angry Master
shook his glove at her, as she flapped her towel in front of him.
Montgomery was weary and a little sore, but not depressed. He had
learned something. He would not again be tempted into danger.
For three rounds the honours were fairly equal. The student’s hitting
was the quicker, the Master’s the harder. Profiting by his lesson,
Montgomery kept himself in the open, and refused to be herded into a
corner. Sometimes the Master succeeded in rushing him to the
side-ropes, but the younger man slipped away, or closed and then
disengaged. The monotonous “Break away! Break away!” of the referee
broke in upon the quick, low patter of rubber-soled shoes, the dull thud
of the blows, and the sharp, hissing breath of two tired men.
The ninth round found both of them in fairly good condition.
Montgomery’s head was still singing from the blow that he had in the
corner, and one of his thumbs pained him acutely and seemed to be
dislocated. The Master showed no sign of a touch, but his breathing was
the more laboured, and a long line of ticks upon the referee’s paper
showed that the student had a good show of points. But one of this
iron-man’s blows was worth three of his, and he knew that without the
gloves he could not have stood for three rounds against him. All the
amateur work that he had done was the merest tapping and flapping when
compared to those frightful blows, from arms toughened by the shovel and
the crowbar.
It was the tenth round, and the fight was half over. The betting now
was only three to one, for the Wilson champion had held his own much
better than had been expected. But those who knew the ring-craft as
well as the staying power of the old prize-fighter knew that the odds
were still a long way in his favour.
“Have a care of him!” whispered Barton, as he sent his man up to the
scratch. “Have a care! He’ll play thee a trick, if he can.”
But Montgomery saw, or imagined he saw, that his antagonist was tiring.
He looked jaded and listless, and his hands drooped a little from their
position. His own youth and condition were beginning to tell.
He sprang in and brought off a fine left-handed lead. The Master’s
return lacked his usual fire. Again Montgomery led, and again he got
home. Then he tried his right upon the mark, and the Master guarded it
downwards.
“Too low! Too low! A foul! A foul!” yelled a thousand voices.
The referee rolled his sardonic eyes slowly round. “Seems to me this
buildin’ is chock-full of referees,” said he. The people laughed and
applauded, but their favour was as immaterial to him as their anger.
“No applause, please! This is not a theatre!” he yelled.
Montgomery was very pleased with himself. His adversary was evidently
in a bad way. He was piling on his points and establishing a lead.
He might as well make hay while the sun shone. The Master was looking
all abroad. Montgomery popped one upon his blue jowl and got away
without a return. And then the Master suddenly dropped both his hands
and began rubbing his thigh. Ah! that was it, was it? He had muscular
cramp.
“Go in! Go in!” cried Teddy Barton.
Montgomery sprang wildly forward, and the next instant was lying half
senseless, with his neck nearly broken, in the middle of the ring.
The whole round had been a long conspiracy to tempt him within reach of
one of those terrible right-hand upper-cuts for which the Master was
famous. For this the listless, weary bearing, for this the cramp in the
thigh. When Montgomery had sprung in so hotly he had exposed himself to
such a blow as neither flesh nor blood could stand. Whizzing up from
below with a rigid arm, which put the Master’s eleven stone into its
force, it struck him under the jaw; he whirled half round, and fell a
helpless and half-paralysed mass. A vague groan and murmur,
inarticulate, too excited for words, rose from the great audience.
With open mouths and staring eyes they gazed at the twitching and
quivering figure.
“Stand back! Stand right back!” shrieked the referee, for the Master
was standing over his man ready to give him the _coup-de-grace_ as he
rose.
“Stand back, Craggs, this instant!” Stapleton repeated.
The Master sank his hands sulkily and walked backwards to the rope with
his ferocious eyes fixed upon his fallen antagonist. The timekeeper
called the seconds. If ten of them passed before Montgomery rose to his
feet, the fight was ended. Ted Barton wrung his hands and danced about
in an agony in his corner.
As if in a dream--a terrible nightmare--the student could hear the voice
of the timekeeper--three--four--five--he got up on his hand--six--
seven--he was on his knee, sick, swimming, faint, but resolute to rise.
Eight--he was up, and the Master was on him like a tiger, lashing
savagely at him with both hands. Folk held their breath as they watched
those terrible blows, and anticipated the pitiful end--so much more
pitiful where a game but helpless man refuses to accept defeat.
Strangely automatic is the human brain. Without volition, without
effort, there shot into the memory of this bewildered, staggering,
half-stupefied man the one thing which could have saved him--that blind
eye of which the Master’s son had spoken. It was the same as the other
to look at, but Montgomery remembered that he had said that it was the
left. He reeled to the left side, half felled by a drive which lit upon
his shoulder. The Master pivoted round upon his leg and was at him in
an instant.
“Yark him, lad! Yark him!” screamed the woman.
“Hold your tongue!” said the referee.
Montgomery slipped to the left again and yet again, but the Master was
too quick and clever for him. He struck round and got him full on the
face as he tried once more to break away. Montgomery’s knees weakened
under him, and he fell with a groan on the floor. This time he knew
that he was done. With bitter agony he realised, as he groped blindly
with his hands, that he could not possibly raise himself. Far away and
muffled he heard, amid the murmurs of the multitude, the fateful voice
of the timekeeper counting off the seconds.
“One--two--three--four--five--six--”
“Time!” said the referee.
Then the pent-up passion of the great assembly broke loose. Croxley
gave a deep groan of disappointment. The Wilsons were on their feet,
yelling with delight. There was still a chance for them. In four more
seconds their man would have been solemnly counted out. But now he had
a minute in which to recover. The referee looked round with relaxed
features and laughing eyes. He loved this rough game, this school for
humble heroes, and it was pleasant to him to intervene as a _Deus ex
machina_ at so dramatic a moment. His chair and his hat were both
tilted at an extreme angle; he and the timekeeper smiled at each other.
Ted Barton and the other second had rushed out and thrust an arm each
under Montgomery’s knee, the other behind his loins, and so carried him
back to his stool. His head lolled upon his shoulder, but a douche of
cold water sent a shiver through him, and he started and looked round
him.
“He’s a’ right!” cried the people round. “He’s a rare brave lad.
Good lad! Good lad!” Barton poured some brandy into his mouth.
The mists cleared a little, and he realised where he was and what he had
to do. But he was still very weak, and he hardly dared to hope that he
could survive another round.
“Seconds out of the ring!” cried the referee. “Time!”
The Croxley Master sprang eagerly off his stool.
“Keep clear of him! Go easy for a bit,” said Barton, and Montgomery
walked out to meet his man once more.
He had had two lessons--the one when the Master got him into his corner,
the other when he had been lured into mixing it up with so powerful an
antagonist. Now he would be wary. Another blow would finish him; he
could afford to run no risks. The Master was determined to follow up
his advantage, and rushed at him, slogging furiously right and left.
But Montgomery was too young and active to be caught. He was strong
upon his legs once more, and his wits had all come back to him. It was
a gallant sight--the line-of-battleship trying to pour its overwhelming
broadside into the frigate, and the frigate manoeuvring always so as to
avoid it. The Master tried all his ring-craft. He coaxed the student
up by pretended inactivity; he rushed at him with furious rushes
towards the ropes. For three rounds he exhausted every wile in trying
to get at him. Montgomery during all this time was conscious that his
strength was minute by minute coming back to him. The spinal jar from
an upper-cut is overwhelming, but evanescent. He was losing all sense
of it beyond a great stiffness of the neck. For the first round after
his downfall he had been content to be entirely on the defensive, only
too happy if he could stall off the furious attacks of the Master.
In the second he occasionally ventured upon a light counter. In the
third he was smacking back merrily where he saw an opening. His people
yelled their approval of him at the end of every round. Even the
iron-workers cheered him with that fine unselfishness which true sport
engenders. To most of them, unspiritual and unimaginative, the sight of
this clean-limbed young Apollo, rising above disaster and holding on
while consciousness was in him to his appointed task, was the greatest
thing their experience had ever known.
But the Master’s naturally morose temper became more and more murderous
at this postponement of his hopes. Three rounds ago the battle had been
in his hands; now it was all to do over again. Round by round his man
was recovering his strength. By the fifteenth he was strong again in
wind and limb. But the vigilant Anastasia saw something which
encouraged her.
“That bash in t’ ribs is telling on him, Jock,” she whispered.
“Why else should he be gulping t’ brandy? Go in, lad, and thou hast him
yet.”
Montgomery had suddenly taken the flask from Barton’s hand, and had a
deep pull at the contents. Then, with his face a little flushed, and
with a curious look of purpose, which made the referee stare hard at
him, in his eyes, he rose for the sixteenth round.
“Game as a pairtridge!” cried the publican, as he looked at the hard-set
face.
“Mix it oop, lad! Mix it oop!” cried the iron-men to their Master.
And then a hum of exultation ran through their ranks as they realised
that their tougher, harder, stronger man held the vantage, after all.
Neither of the men showed much sign of punishment. Small gloves crush
and numb, but they do not cut. One of the Master’s eyes was even more
flush with his cheek than Nature had made it. Montgomery had two or
three livid marks upon his body, and his face was haggard, save for that
pink spot which the brandy had brought into either cheek. He rocked a
little as he stood opposite his man, and his hands drooped as if he felt
the gloves to be an unutterable weight. It was evident that he was
spent and desperately weary. If he received one other blow it must
surely be fatal to him. If he brought one home, what power could there
be behind it, and what chance was there of its harming the colossus in
front of him? It was the crisis of the fight. This round must decide
it. “Mix it oop, lad! Mix it oop!” the iron-men whooped. Even the
savage eyes of the referee were unable to restrain the excited crowd.
Now, at last, the chance had come for Montgomery. He had learned a
lesson from his more experienced rival. Why should he not play his own
game upon him? He was spent, but not nearly so spent as he pretended.
That brandy was to call up his reserves, to let him have strength to
take full advantage of the opening when it came. It was thrilling and
tingling through his veins at the very moment when he was lurching and
rocking like a beaten man. He acted his part admirably. The Master
felt that there was an easy task before him, and rushed in with ungainly
activity to finish it once for all. He slap-banged away left and right,
boring Montgomery up against the ropes, swinging in his ferocious blows
with those animal grunts which told of the vicious energy behind them.
But Montgomery was too cool to fall a victim to any of those murderous
upper-cuts. He kept out of harm’s way with a rigid guard, an active
foot, and a head which was swift to duck. And yet he contrived to
present the same appearance of a man who is hopelessly done. The
Master, weary from his own shower of blows, and fearing nothing from so
weak a man, dropped his hand for an instant, and at that instant
Montgomery’s right came home.
It was a magnificent blow, straight, clean, crisp, with the force of the
loins and the back behind it. And it landed where he had meant it to--
upon the exact point of that blue-grained chin. Flesh and blood could
not stand such a blow in such a place. Neither valour nor hardihood can
save the man to whom it comes. The Master fell backwards, flat,
prostrate, striking the ground with so simultaneous a clap that it was
like a shutter falling from a wall. A yell, which no referee could
control, broke from the crowded benches as the giant went down. He lay
upon his back, his knees a little drawn up, his huge chest panting.
He twitched and shook, but could not move. His feet pawed convulsively
once or twice. It was no use. He was done. “Eight--nine--ten!” said
the timekeeper, and the roar of a thousand voices, with a deafening
clap like the broadside of a ship, told that the Master of Croxley was
the Master no more.
Montgomery stood half dazed, looking down at the huge, prostrate figure.
He could hardly realise that it was indeed all over. He saw the referee
motion towards him with his hand. He heard his name bellowed in triumph
from every side. And then he was aware of someone rushing towards him;
he caught a glimpse of a flushed face and an aureole of flying red hair,
a gloveless fist struck him between the eyes, and he was on his back in
the ring beside his antagonist, while a dozen of his supporters were
endeavouring to secure the frantic Anastasia. He heard the angry
shouting of the referee, the screaming of the furious woman, and the
cries of the mob. Then something seemed to break like an over-stretched
banjo string, and he sank into the deep, deep, mist-girt abyss of
unconsciousness.
The dressing was like a thing in a dream, and so was a vision of the
Master with the grin of a bulldog upon his face, and his three teeth
amiably protruded. He shook Montgomery heartily by the hand.
“I would have been rare pleased to shake thee by the throttle, lad, a
short while syne,” said he. “But I bear no ill-feeling again’ thee.
It was a rare poonch that brought me down--I have not had a better
since my second fight wi’ Billy Edwards in ’89. Happen thou might think
o’ goin’ further wi’ this business. If thou dost, and want a trainer,
there’s not much inside t’ ropes as I don’t know. Or happen thou might
like to try it wi’ me old style and bare knuckles. Thou hast but to
write to t’ iron-works to find me.”
But Montgomery disclaimed any such ambition. A canvas bag with his
share--190 sovereigns--was handed to him, of which he gave ten to the
Master, who also received some share of the gate-money. Then, with
young Wilson escorting him on one side, Purvis on the other, and Fawcett
carrying his bag behind, he went in triumph to his carriage, and drove
amid a long roar, which lined the highway like a hedge for the seven
miles, back to his starting-point.
“It’s the greatest thing I ever saw in my life. By George, it’s
ripping!” cried Wilson, who had been left in a kind of ecstasy by the
events of the day. “There’s a chap over Barnsley way who fancies
himself a bit. Let us spring you on him, and let him see what he can
make of you. We’ll put up a purse--won’t we, Purvis? You shall never
want a backer.”
“At his weight,” said the publican, “I’m behind him, I am, for twenty
rounds, and no age, country, or colour barred.”
“So am I,” cried Fawcett; “middle-weight champion of the world, that’s
what he is--here, in the same carriage with us.”
But Montgomery was not to be beguiled.
“No; I have my own work to do now.”
“And what may that be?”
“I’ll use this money to get my medical degree.”
“Well, we’ve plenty of doctors, but you’re the only man in the Riding
that could smack the Croxley Master off his legs. However, I suppose
you know your own business best. When you’re a doctor, you’d best come
down into these parts, and you’ll always find a job waiting for you at
the Wilson Coal-pits.”
Montgomery had returned by devious ways to the surgery. The horses were
smoking at the door, and the doctor was just back from his long journey.
Several patients had called in his absence, and he was in the worst of
tempers.
“I suppose I should be glad that you have come back at all,
Mr. Montgomery!” he snarled. “When next you elect to take a holiday, I
trust it will not be at so busy a time.”
“I am sorry, sir, that you should have been inconvenienced.”
“Yes, sir, I have been exceedingly inconvenienced.” Here, for the first
time, he looked hard at the assistant. “Good Heavens, Mr. Montgomery,
what have you been doing with your left eye?”
It was where Anastasia had lodged her protest. Montgomery laughed.
“It is nothing, sir,” said he.
“And you have a livid mark under your jaw. It is, indeed, terrible that
my representative should be going about in so disreputable a condition.
How did you receive these injuries?”
“Well, sir, as you know, there was a little glove-fight to-day over at
Croxley.”
“And you got mixed up with that brutal crowd?”
“I _was_ rather mixed up with them.”
“And who assaulted you?”
“One of the fighters.”
“Which of them?”
“The Master of Croxley.”
“Good Heavens! Perhaps you interfered with him?”
“Well, to tell the truth, I did a little.”
“Mr. Montgomery, in such a practice as mine, intimately associated as it
is with the highest and most progressive elements of our small
community, it is impossible--”
But just then the tentative bray of a cornet-player searching for his
key-note jarred upon their ears, and an instant later the Wilson
Colliery brass band was in full cry with, “See the Conquering Hero
Comes,” outside the surgery window. There was a banner waving, and a
shouting crowd of miners.
“What is it? What does it mean?” cried the angry doctor.
“It means, sir, that I have, in the only way which was open to me,
earned the money which is necessary for my education. It is my duty,
Dr. Oldacre, to warn you that I am about to return to the University,
and that you should lose no time in appointing my successor.”