AN INTERNATIONAL COMBAT.
“EXCUSE my want of ceremony,” said Noel Brooke nonchalantly. “I would
have waited for an introduction but there wasn’t time.”
“Who are you?” gasped Jake Amsden.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” said the Englishman, raising his hat as
ceremoniously as if he were addressing a Chicago millionaire. “I am the
Hon. Noel Brooke, of England, at your service.”
“An Englishman? That is worse than all. That Jake Amsden should live to
be floored by an Englishman!”
“My friend, I hope that is no disgrace. There are plenty of your
countrymen who could floor me.”
“But I can’t understand it,” said Jake, rising with difficulty from his
recumbent position. “You don’t weigh within twenty-five pounds of me.”
“It isn’t always weight that counts—it’s science. I learned how to box
when I was at Eton.”
“I think I could lick you in a fair fight,” went on Jake, surveying the
trim figure of his antagonist, who was at least three inches shorter
than himself. “You hit me when I wasn’t lookin’.”
“True enough! Would you like to try it again?”
“Yes.”
“I’m ready.”
Gerald awaited the result not without anxiety. Certainly the two
did not look very well matched. Jake Amsden was a broad-shouldered,
powerfully built man of five feet ten, and would tip the scales at a
hundred and eighty pounds. Noel Brooke was three inches shorter, and
did not look to weigh over a hundred and fifty.
“I am afraid Jake will be too much for him,” he thought, “and if he is,
it will be my turn next.”
Evidently Jake was of the same opinion.
“Why, you’re a Bantam compared to me,” he said. “You’ll think you’ve
been struck by a cyclone.”
“Strike away—cyclone!” said the Englishman calmly.
Jake Amsden took him at his word. He advanced confidently, waving his
arms like a flail, and tried to overwhelm his opponent at the first
onslaught. But, intent on attack, he did not provide for defense, and
received a powerful blow for which he was unprepared, and which quite
staggered him. Now he began to get angry and renewed the attack with
even less prudence than before. The result may easily be guessed.
A blow behind the ear prostrated him, and he resumed his recumbent
position.
“That’s the end of the first round,” said the Englishman with unruffled
composure. “Will you try another?”
“No, I’ve got enough,” returned Amsden, raising himself on his elbow.
“I say, stranger, you’re a reg’lar steam _en_gine. Do all Englishmen
fight like that?”
Noel Brooke laughed.
“Not all,” he said, “but some Americans fight better. I put on the
gloves in New York with a member of the Manhattan Athletic Club, and he
served me as I have served you.”
“I’m glad of that.”
“You have no hard feelings, I trust, my mountain friend.”
“No, but I’m glad you’ve found your match in America.”
“And you perhaps feel the same, Gerald?” said Mr. Brooke.
“I am a true American boy, Mr. Brooke,” returned Gerald.
“You are right there, and I respect you the more for it, but we won’t
let any international rivalry interfere with our friendly feelings.”
“Agreed!” said Gerald cordially.
“Now,” continued Noel Brooke, turning to Amsden, “you’ll tell me why
you attacked my young friend here.”
Jake Amsden looked a little sheepish.
“I thought he didn’t use me right,” he answered.
“Suppose you tell me the particulars. I’ll arbitrate between you.”
“He took a wallet full of bills from me when I was drunk.”
“I didn’t take it,” said Gerald. “It was the gentleman who was with me
that took it.”
“How came you with a wallet full of bills?” asked the Englishman.
“I found it.”
“Where did you find it?”
“I can’t remember exactly where.”
“Then I will help you,” put in Gerald. “You found it in our cabin
during the night, when Mr. Wentworth, our visitor, was asleep.”
“That puts rather a different face upon the matter, it strikes me,”
said the tourist.
“Mr. Wentworth owed me some money anyway,” retorted Amsden doggedly.
“He owed you money? What for?” asked Gerald in unfeigned surprise.
“He hired me to hunt for some papers that he said were in your cabin
somewhere.”
“Is this true?” demanded Gerald in amazement.
“Yes; it’s true as preachin’.”
“And was that why you came there that night?”
“Yes.”
“You came for the papers?”
“Yes.”
“How about the wallet?”
“I saw it on the floor and I thought I’d take it—payment in advance.”
“Do you believe this story, Gerald? Do you know anything about the
papers this man speaks of?” asked Mr. Brooke.
“Yes, I think his story is true as far as that goes. My father had some
papers which Mr. Wentworth tried to buy, first of my father, and next
of me. They were the records of a debt which he owed father. But I
didn’t think he would stoop to such means to obtain them.”
“What kind of a man is this Wentworth?”
“I cannot consider him an honorable man, or he would have treated us
differently.”
“What are his relations with you?”
“Unfriendly. He will do me an injury if he gets a chance. But I will
tell you more of this hereafter.”
“I have heard your story, Mr. Amsden,” said the Englishman, “and I am
obliged to decide against you. You had no right to tackle Gerald——”
“It was hard on a poor man to lose so much money,” grumbled Amsden.
“No doubt, only it happened that it was money to which you had no
rightful claim.”
“You don’t know what is it to be poor, squire.”
“I have no doubt it is very uncomfortable, but there are others who
are in the same condition. Gerald here is poor, but he doesn’t pick up
wallets belonging to other people. I advise you to go to work—there
are few Americans who don’t work—and no nation is more prosperous. Go
to work, and you won’t have so much reason to complain.”
“That’s all very well to say, but if a fellow hasn’t a cent to bless
himself with, it’s a poor lookout.”
“Are you so poor as that?”
“If gold mines were sellin’ for a nickel apiece, I couldn’t raise the
nickel,” asseverated Amsden in a melancholy tone.
“Come, that’s a pity. I didn’t know any American was ever so poor
as that. As I’ve knocked you down twice, perhaps it is only fair to
compensate you for affording me such a chance for healthful exercise.
Here, my friend, here are two silver dollars, one for each time I
floored you.”
“You’re a gentleman!” exclaimed Amsden, his face lighting up with
satisfaction as he pocketed the coins. Then, as he turned, a sudden
idea struck him, and he asked insinuatingly: “Wouldn’t you like to
knock me down ag’in, stranger?”
“No, I think not,” responded the tourist laughing. “However, we’ll
suppose I have, and here’s another dollar.”
“Thank you, squire.”
Jake Amsden departed with alacrity, making a bee-line for his friend
Pete Johnson’s saloon.
Gerald and his friend then sat down to breakfast, which, it is
needless to say, they both heartily enjoyed. As they rose from the
table a knock was heard at the cabin door.
Gerald answered it in some surprise, for visitors and calls were
infrequent, and found outside a man of about forty, holding by the hand
a boy of twelve.