THE DOG FIGHT.
Saturday afternoon walks, when there were no special games on hand,
became an institution among what may be called Jack Simpson's set at
Stokebridge. The young fellows had followed his lead with all
seriousness, and a stranger passing would have been astonished at the
talk, so grave and serious was it. In colliery villages, as at school,
the lad who is alike the head of the school and the champion at all
games, is looked up to and admired and imitated, and his power for good
or for evil is almost unlimited among his fellows. Thus the Saturday
afternoon walks became supplements to the evening classes, and questions
of all kinds were propounded to Jack, whose attainments they regarded as
prodigious.
On such an afternoon, as Jack was giving his friends a brief sketch of
the sun and its satellites, and of the wonders of the telescope, they
heard bursts of applause by many voices, and a low, deep growling of
dogs.
"It is a dog fight," one of the lads exclaimed.
"It is a brutal sport," Jack said. "Let us go another way."
One of the young fellows had, however, climbed a gate to see what was
going on beyond the hedge.
"Jack," he exclaimed, "there is Bill Haden fighting his old bitch Flora
against Tom Walker's Jess, and I think the pup is a-killing the old
dorg."
With a bound Jack Simpson sprang into the field, where some twenty or
thirty men were standing looking at a dog fight. One dog had got the
other down and was evidently killing it.
"Throw up the sponge, Bill," the miners shouted. "The old dorg's no good
agin the purp."
Jack dashed into the ring, with a kick he sent the young dog flying
across the ring, and picked up Flora, who, game to the last, struggled
to get at her foe.
A burst of indignation and anger broke from the men.
"Let un be." "Put her down." "Dang thee, how dare'st meddle here?" "I'll
knock thee head off," and other shouts sounded loudly and threateningly.
"For shame!" Jack said indignantly. "Be ye men! For shame, Bill Haden,
to match thy old dog, twelve year old, wi' a young un. She's been a good
dorg, and hast brought thee many a ten-pun note. If be'est tired of her,
gi' her poison, but I woant stand by and see her mangled."
"How dare 'ee kick my dorg?" a miner said coming angrily forward; "how
dare 'ee come here and hinder sport?"
"Sport!" Jack said indignantly, "there be no sport in it. It is brutal
cruelty."
"The match be got to be fought out," another said, "unless Bill Haden
throws up the sponge for his dog."
"Come," Tom Walker said putting his hand on Jack's shoulder, "get out o'
this; if it warn't for Bill Haden I'd knock thee head off. We be coom to
see spoort, and we mean to see it."
"Spoort!" Jack said passionately. "If it's spoort thee want'st I'll give
it thee. Flora sha'n't go into the ring agin, but oi ull. I'll fight the
best man among ye, be he which he will."
A chorus of wonder broke from the colliers.
"Then thou'st get to fight me," Tom Walker said. "I b'liev'," he went on
looking round, "there bean't no man here ull question that. Thou'st
wanted a leathering for soom time, Jack Simpson, wi' thy larning and thy
ways, and I'm not sorry to be the man to gi' it thee."
"No, no," Bill Haden said, and the men round for the most part echoed
his words. "'Taint fair for thee to take t' lad at his word. He be
roight. I hadn't ought to ha' matched Flora no more. She ha' been a good
bitch in her time, but she be past it, and I'll own up that thy pup ha'
beaten her, and pay thee the two pounds I lay on her, if ee'll let this
matter be."
"Noa," Tom Walker said, "the young 'un ha' challenged the best man here,
and I be a-goaing to lick him if he doant draw back."
"I shall not draw back," Jack said divesting himself of his coat,
waistcoat, and shirt. "Flora got licked a'cause she was too old, maybe
I'll be licked a'cause I be too young; but she made a good foight, and
so'll oi. No, dad, I won't ha' you to back me. Harry here shall do
that."
The ring was formed again. The lads stood on one side, the men on the
other. It was understood now that there was to be a fight, and no one
had another word to say.
"I'll lay a fi'-pound note to a shilling on the old un," a miner said.
"I'll take 'ee," Bill Haden answered. "It hain't a great risk to run,
and Jack is as game as Flora."
Several other bets were made at similar odds, the lads, although they
deemed the conflict hopeless, yet supporting their champion.
Tom Walker stood but little taller than Jack, who was about five feet
six, and would probably grow two inches more; but he was three stone
heavier, Jack being a pound or two only over ten while the pitman
reached thirteen. The latter was the acknowledged champion of the
Vaughan pits, as Jack was incontestably the leader among the lads. The
disproportion in weight and muscle was enormous; but Jack had not a
spare ounce of flesh on his bones, while the pitman was fleshy and out
of condition.
It is not necessary to give the details of the fight, which lasted over
an hour. In the earlier portion Jack was knocked down again and again,
and was several times barely able to come up to the call of time; but
his bull-dog strain, as he called it, gradually told, while intemperate
habits and want of condition did so as surely upon his opponent.
The derisive shouts with which the men had hailed every knock-down blow
early in the fight soon subsided, and exclamations of admiration at the
pluck with which Jack, reeling and confused, came up time after time
took their place.
"It be a foight arter all," one of them said at the end of the first ten
minutes. "I wouldn't lay more nor ten to one now."
"I'll take as many tens to one as any o' ye like to lay," Bill Haden
said, but no one cared to lay even these odds.
At the end of half an hour the betting was only two to one. Jack, who
had always "given his head," that is, had always ducked so as to receive
the blows on the top of his head, where they were supposed to do less
harm, was as strong as he was after the first five minutes. Tom Walker
was panting with fatigue, wild and furious at his want of success over
an adversary he had despised.
The cheers of the lads, silent at first, rose louder with each round,
and culminated in a yell of triumph when, at the end of fifty-five
minutes, Tom Walker, having for the third time in succession been
knocked down, was absolutely unable to rise at the call of "time" to
renew the fight.
[Illustration: JACK IS VICTORIOUS.]
Never had an event created such a sensation in Stokebridge. At first the
news was received with absolute incredulity, but when it became
thoroughly understood that Bill Haden's boy, Jack Simpson, had licked
Tom Walker, the wonder knew no bounds. So struck were some of the men
with Jack's courage and endurance, that the offer was made to him that,
if he liked to go to Birmingham and put himself under that noted
pugilist the "Chicken," his expenses would be paid, and L50 be
forthcoming for his first match. Jack, knowing that this offer was made
in good faith and with good intentions, and was in accordance with the
custom of mining villages, declined it courteously and thankfully, but
firmly, to the surprise and disappointment of his would-be backers, who
had flattered themselves that Stokebridge was going to produce a
champion middle-weight.
He had not come unscathed from the fight, for it proved that one of his
ribs had been broken by a heavy body hit; and he was for some weeks in
the hands of the doctor, and was longer still before he could again take
his place in the pit.
Bill Haden's pride in him was unbounded, and during his illness poor old
Flora, who seemed to recognize in him her champion, lay on his bed with
her black muzzle in the hand not occupied with a book.
The victory which Jack had won gave the finishing stroke to his
popularity and influence among his companions, and silenced definitely
and for ever the sneers of the minority who had held out against the
change which he had brought about. He himself felt no elation at his
victory, and objected to the subject even being alluded to.
"It was just a question of wind and last," he said. "I was nigh being
done for at the end o' the first three rounds. I just managed to hold
on, and then it was a certainty. If Tom Walker had been in condition he
would have finished me in ten minutes. If he had come on working as a
getter, I should ha' been nowhere; he's a weigher now and makes fat, and
his muscles are flabby. The best dorg can't fight when he's out o'
condition."
But in spite of that, the lads knew that it was only bull-dog courage
that had enabled Jack to hold out over these bad ten minutes.
As for Jane Haden, her reproaches to her husband for in the first place
matching Flora against a young dog, and in the second for allowing Jack
to fight so noted a man as Tom Walker, were so fierce and vehement, that
until Jack was able to leave his bed and take his place by the fire,
Bill was but little at home; spending all his time, even at meals, in
that place of refuge from his wife's tongue,--"the Chequers."