TWO YELLOW-FACED FOREIGNERS
Very carefully Tony sprinkled a little Bengal pepper over the
perfectly grilled sole which Spalding had set down in front of him.
Then he returned the bottle to the cruet-stand and looked across the
table at his cousin.
"You really ought to come to-night, Guy," he said. "It will be a
beautiful fight while it lasts."
Guy Oliver shook his head. He was a tall, rather gaunt young man
with a pleasant but too serious expression. "My dear Tony," he
replied, "my tastes may be peculiar, but as I have told you before,
it really gives me no pleasure to watch two lads striking each other
violently about the face and body."
"You were always hard to please," complained Tony sadly. "Fighting
is one of the few natural and healthy occupations left to humanity."
Guy adjusted his glasses. "I am not criticizing fighting in its
proper place," he said. "I think there are times when it may be
necessary and even enjoyable. All I do object to is regarding it as
a pastime. There are some things in life that we are not meant to
make a popular spectacle out of. What would you say if someone
suggested paying people to make love to each other on public
platforms?"
"I should say it would be most exciting," said Tony. "Especially the
heavy-weight championship." He poured himself out half a glass of
sherry and held it up to the light. "Talking of heavy-weights," he
added, "how did you find our dear Cousin Henry?"
"Henry was very well," said Guy. "He is coming to see you."
Tony put down his glass and surveyed his cousin reproachfully. "And
you call yourself a secretary and a friend?" he remarked.
"I think it is very good for you to entertain Cousin Henry
occasionally," returned Guy. "He is an excellent antidote to the
Cosmopolitan Club and Brooklands." He paused. "Besides, he has a
suggestion to make with which I am thoroughly in sympathy."
A depressed expression flitted across Tony's face. "I am sure it has
something to do with my duty," he said.
Guy nodded. "I wish you would try and look on it in that light.
Henry has put himself to a lot of trouble about it, and he will be
very hurt if you don't take it seriously."
"My dear Guy!" said Tony. "A proposal of Henry's with which you are
in sympathy couldn't possibly be taken any other way. What is it?"
"He has set his heart on your going into Parliament as you know.
Well, he told me that last week he had spoken about you to the Chief
Whip, and that they are arranging for you to stand as Government
candidate for Balham North at the next general election."
There was a long pause.
"For where?" inquired Tony faintly.
"For Balham North. It's a large constituency in South London close
to Upper Tooting."
"It would be," said Tony. "And may I ask what I have done to deserve
this horrible fate?"
"That's just it," said Guy. "You haven't done anything. Henry
feels--indeed we all feel that as head of the family it is quite time
you made a start."
"You don't understand," said Tony with some dignity. "I am sowing my
wild oats. It is what every wealthy young baronet is expected to do."
"Leaving out the war," retorted Guy, "you have been sowing them for
exactly six years and nine months."
Tony smiled contentedly. "I always think," he observed, "that if a
thing is worth doing at all, it is worth doing well."
There was another pause, while Guy, crumbling a bit of bread between
his fingers, regarded his cousin with a thoughtful scrutiny.
"As far as I can see, Tony," he said, "there is only one thing that's
the least likely to do you any good. You want a complete change in
your life--something that will wake you up to a sense of duty and
responsibility. I think you ought to get married."
Tony, who was helping himself to a glass of champagne, paused
abruptly in the middle of that engaging occupation.
"How remarkable!" he exclaimed. "Only yesterday Aunt Fanny made
exactly the same suggestion. It must be something in the spring air."
"I don't always agree with Aunt Fanny," said Guy, "but I think that
for once in a way she was giving you excellent advice. A good wife
would make a tremendous difference in your life."
"Tremendous!" assented Tony with a shudder. "I should probably have
to give up smoking in bed and come down to breakfast every morning."
"You would be all the better for it," said Guy firmly. "I was
thinking, however, more of your general outlook on things. Marriage
with the right woman might make you realize that your position
carries with it certain duties that you ought to regard both as a
privilege and a pleasure."
"Is going into Parliament one of them?" asked Tony.
"Certainly. As a large landowner you are just the type of man who is
badly wanted in the House of Commons."
"They must be devilish hard up for legislators," said Tony. "Still,
if you and Henry have made up your minds, I expect I shall have to do
it." He paused. "I don't think I should like to be the member for
Balham North though," he added reflectively. "It sounds like the
sort of place where a chorus girl's mother would live."
Any defence of the constituency which Guy may have had to offer was
cut short by the re-entrance of Spalding.
"The car is at the door, sir," he observed.
"Aren't you going to finish your dinner?" inquired Guy, as Tony
pushed back his chair.
The latter shook his head. "I never eat much before a fight," he
said. "It prevents my getting properly excited." He got up from his
seat. "Besides," he added, "I always take Bugg round to Shepherd's
after he has knocked out his man, and we celebrate the victory with
stout and oysters. It's Bugg's idea of Heaven."
He passed out into the hall where Spalding helped him on with his
coat. Outside the front door stood a beautifully appointed
Rolls-Royce limousine, painted the colour of silver and upholstered
in grey Bedford cord. Jennings was at the wheel and inside sat Tiger
Bugg and a large red-faced man with little twinkling black eyes.
This latter was Mr. "Blink" McFarland, the celebrated proprietor of
the Hampstead Heath Gymnasium, who acted as Tiger's trainer and
sparring partner. They both touched their caps as Tony appeared.
"I wouldn't let 'im get out, sir," observed McFarland in a gruff
voice. "Might 'a took a chill hangin' around."
"Quite right, Blink," replied Tony gravely. "Lopez isn't to be
sneezed at even by a future champion."
He lit himself a cigarette, and stepping inside closed the door
behind him. Spalding made a signal to Jennings and the big car slid
off noiselessly down the drive.
Tony turned to Bugg. "Feeling all right?" he inquired.
The young prize-fighter grinned amiably. "Fine, sir, thank ye, sir."
With an affectionate gesture, McFarland laid an enormous mottled hand
on his charge's knee. "He's fit to jump out of 'is skin, sir; you
take it from me. If he don't knock two sorts of blue 'ell out of
that dirty faced dago I'll give up trainin' fighters and start
keepin' rabbits."
"Lopez is supposed to have a bit of a punch himself, isn't he?"
inquired Tony.
McFarland made a hoarse rumbling noise which was presumably intended
for a laugh.
"All the better for us, sir. The harder 'e hits the more 'e'll hurt
hisself. It's a forlorn jog punchin' Tiger. You might as well kick
a pavin' stone."
Bugg, who was evidently susceptible to compliments, blushed like a
schoolgirl, and then to cover his confusion turned an embarrassed
gaze out of the window. The long descent of Haverstock Hill was
flying past at a rare pace, for whatever might be Jenning's
shortcomings as a cheerful companion he could certainly drive a car.
Indeed it could scarcely have been more than ten minutes from the
moment they left the Heath, until, with a loud blast from the horn,
they glided round the corner of the street into Covent Garden.
The pavement and roadway in front of the Cosmopolitan were filled by
the usual rough-looking crowd that invariably congregates outside the
Club on the occasion of a big fight. With surprising swiftness,
however, a space was cleared for Tony's car, and as its three
occupants stepped out, a hoarse excited buzz of "That's 'im! that's
Tiger!" rose up all round them.
Bugg and McFarland hurried through into the Club; Tony stopping
behind for a moment to give some directions to Jennings.
"You can put the car up at the R.A.C.," he said. "I'll telephone
over when I want you."
He followed the others across the pavement, amid encouraging
observations of, "Good-luck, me lord!" and one or two approving pats
on the back from hearty if not overclean hands.
Bugg and his trainer had of course gone direct to their
dressing-room, where Tony made no attempt to pursue them. He knew
that Tiger's preparations were safe in McFarland's hands, so
relinquishing his coat to one of the hall porters, he walked straight
through to the big gymnasium where the Club contests were held.
It was an animated scene that met his eyes as he entered. A
preliminary bout was in progress and round the raised and roped dais
in the centre, with its blinding glare of light overhead, sat a
thousand or fifteen hundred of London's most eminent "sportsmen."
They were nearly all in evening dress: the dazzling array of white
shirt fronts and diamond studs affording a vivid testimony to the
interest taken in pugilism by the most refined and educated classes.
As soon as the round was ended, Tony made his way slowly towards his
seat by the ring-side, exchanging innumerable greetings as he passed
along. Almost everybody seemed to know him, and he seemed to have a
smile and a cheery word for them all.
A few yards from his destination he came across the Marquis da
Freitas. That distinguished statesman was seated in the front row of
chairs enjoying a big cigar, while beside him lounged a dark,
squarely built, rather coarse-featured youth, who greeted Tony with
an affable if slightly condescending wave of his hand. The latter
was none other than His Majesty King Pedro the Fifth, the rightful
though temporarily discarded ruler of Livadia.
Tony pulled up at this mark of Royal recognition and shook hands with
the Marquis and his monarch. It was understood that on such
occasions as the present the ex-king preferred to be regarded as an
ordinary member of the Club.
"Everything is good I hope," he observed to Tony. "Your man he is up
to the scratch--eh?"
He spoke English confidently, but with a marked foreign accent.
"Rather," said Tony. "Never been fitter in his life. No excuses if
we're beaten."
Da Freitas blew out a philosophic puff of smoke. "Ah, Sir Antony,"
he observed, "that is one of your national virtues. You are good
losers, you English. Perhaps you do not feel defeat as deeply as
Southerners."
"Perhaps not," admitted Tony cheerfully. "Anyhow, it's not much good
making a song about things, is it? One's bound to strike a snag
occasionally."
The Marquis nodded. "In Livadia," he said softly, "we do not like to
be beaten. We----"
There was a loud _tang_ from the gong and the two boxers sprang up
out of their respective corners to resume the fight. With a gesture
of apology Tony moved along to his seat, where he found himself next
to "Doggy" Donaldson, who was discharging his customary rôle of
Master of the Ceremonies. He welcomed Tony with a grip of the hand.
"Glad you've turned up," he said. "I never feel really happy till
both parties are in the Club. All serene?"
"As far as we're concerned," replied Tony.
Donaldson rubbed his hands. "That's good," he observed contentedly.
"We'll have 'em in the ring by nine-thirty at latest. That'll just
give us time to--Hullo! Look at that! Damned if Young Alf isn't
chucking it."
One of the two contesting youths had suddenly stepped back and held
out his hand to his opponent. He had just received a severe dig in
the stomach, which had apparently convinced him for the moment that
boxing was an unfriendly and over-rated amusement.
With a grunt of disgust at such pusillanimity Donaldson clambered up
into the ring, and in a stentorian voice announced the name of the
winner. He then introduced two more lithe-limbed active-looking
lads, who promptly set about the task of punching each other's heads
with refreshing accuracy and vigour.
It was about a quarter-past nine when this bout came to an end, and
preparations were begun for the principal event. Two buckets of
clean water were brought in, and a large cardboard box containing a
couple of new pairs of boxing-gloves was deposited in the centre of
the ring. Then, while a truculent looking gentleman in flannel
trousers and a sweater strolled about crushing lumps of resin beneath
his feet, Doggy Donaldson again hoisted himself into the roped
square, and held up his hand for silence.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I have the pleasure to announce that the
Committee has decided to match the winner of to-night's contest
against Jack Rivers, the holder of the Lonsdale Welter Weight Belt."
The applause that greeted this statement had scarcely died away, when
a louder and more enthusiastic outburst proclaimed the appearance of
the boxers. They came on from different sides of the building each
with a small army of seconds in attendance. Climbing up into
opposite corners of the ring they bowed their acknowledgments to the
audience, and then, after carefully rubbing their feet in the resin,
seated themselves on the small stools that had been placed in
readiness.
A number of lengthy preliminaries followed. The bandages that each
man wore on his hands were gravely inspected by one of his rival's
seconds, while another opened the cardboard box, and selected one of
the two pairs of gloves for his principal. They were nice-looking
gloves, but to the casual observer they would have appeared to be
constructed more for the purpose of conforming to the law than of
really deadening the effect of a blow. By dint of much pulling and
straining, however, each boxer managed to get them on, and then sat
with a dressing-gown over his shoulders while "Doggy" Donaldson made
the inevitable introductions.
"Gentlemen! A twenty three-minute round contest between 'Lightning'
Lopez of Livadia on my right, and 'Tiger' Bugg of Hampstead on my
left. The bout will be refereed by Mr. 'Dick' Fisher."
An elderly man in evening dress with a weather-beaten face, hard blue
eyes, and a chin like the toe of a boot stepped up alongside the
speaker and jerked his head at the audience. He was an ex-amateur
champion of England, and one of the best judges of boxing in the
world.
The gong sounded as a signal to clear the ring, and the cluster of
seconds each side made a leisurely exit through the ropes. For a
moment the two boxers were left sitting on their respective stools
facing each other across the brilliantly lighted arena. Then came
another clang, and with a simultaneous movement they leaped lightly
to their feet, and advanced swiftly but cautiously towards the centre.
To any one sufficiently pagan to admire the human form they made a
pleasing and effective picture. Both nude, except for a pair of very
short blue trunks, they moved forward with the lithe grace of a
couple of young panthers. Under the pitiless glare of the big arc
lamps the rippling muscles on their backs and shoulders were plainly
visible. Bugg's white skin stood out in dazzling contrast to the
swarthy colour of his opponent, but as far as bodily perfection went
there seemed to be nothing to choose between them.
For a few seconds they circled stealthily round the ring sparring for
an opening. Lopez, who had adopted a slightly crouching pose, was
the more aggressive of the two. He was famed for the fierce
impetuousness of his methods, and on his last appearance at the Club
he had signalized the occasion by knocking out his adversary in the
second round.
In the present instance, however, he appeared to be a little at a
loss. There was nothing very unusual to the eye about Bugg's style,
but the almost contemptuous ease with which he brushed aside a couple
of lightning-like left leads was distinctly disconcerting to his
opponent.
Realizing apparently that as far as quickness and skill went he had
met more than his match, the Livadian evidently decided that his
usual robust tactics might be the most effective. He drew back a
pace, and then slightly dropping his head, sprang in with the vicious
fury of a wildcat, hitting out fiercely with both hands.
The suddenness of the attack would have taken most boxers by
surprise, but that embarrassing emotion appeared to have no place in
Bugg's philosophy. With the swiftness of light he stepped to one
side, and just as the human battering ram in front of him hurled
itself forward, he brought up his right hand in a whizzing upper cut
that caught his adversary under the angle of the jaw. The blow was
so perfectly timed and delivered with such tremendous force that it
lifted Lopez clean off his feet. With his arms flung out wide each
side of him he made a sort of convulsive jerk into the air, and then
crashed over backwards on to the floor, where he lay a huddled and
inert mass.
For an instant the whole house remained hushed in a stupefied
silence. Then as the time-keeper began to count off the fateful
seconds a sudden hoarse roar broke out all over the building. Above
the din could be heard the voices of Lopez' seconds, howling abuse
and entreaty at their unconscious principal. In vain the referee
waved his arms, entreating some sort of order for the count.
"Doggy" Donaldson clutched Tony by the wrist. "Damn it!" he shouted
excitedly, "I believe he's broken his neck."
Even as he spoke came the clang of the time-keeper's gong, signifying
that the ten seconds had passed. In a moment half a dozen figures
were swarming over the ropes, but before any one of them could reach
him, Bugg had picked up his limp, unconscious adversary in his arms,
and was carrying him across the ring to his own corner. He seemed to
be by far the coolest and most collected person present.
Almost immediately Tony became the centre of a number of friends and
acquaintances who were wringing his hand and congratulating him on
the victory. After a minute or two he managed to free himself, and
pushing his way through to the ringside, inquired anxiously after the
health of the unfortunate Lopez. "Doggy" Donaldson, who was amongst
the crowd surrounding that fallen warrior, bent down with an air of
considerable relief upon his honest countenance.
"It's all right," he said, "the beggar's coming round. I really
thought for a moment he was a goner though. Gad, what a kick that
boy of yours has got!"
"Well, I'm glad it's no worse," said Tony.
The other nodded. "Yes," he observed, "we must all be thankful for
that. It would have been a rotten thing for the Club if he'd broken
his neck."
He turned away, and following suit, Tony suddenly found himself face
to face with the Marquis da Freitas, and his royal master, who had
apparently stepped forward in order to learn the news. The Marquis
appeared as suave as ever, but anything more sulky looking than His
Majesty it would have been difficult to imagine.
Da Freitas bowed with the faintest ironical exaggeration. "Permit me
to congratulate you, Sir Antony. Your victory is indeed crushing."
Tony regarded him with his usual amiable smile. "Thanks," he said.
"I am awfully glad your man isn't seriously hurt. It was bad luck
his running into a punch like that." He turned to Pedro. "You can
have a return match you know any time, if you care about it."
His Majesty scowled. "I will see him dead before I back him again,"
he observed bitterly.
The Marquis da Freitas showed his white teeth in a polite smile. "I
fear you are rather too strong for us in the boxing-ring, Sir Antony.
Perhaps some day we may find a more favourable battle-ground."
"I hope so," said Tony. "I rather like having a shade of odds
against me. It's so much more interesting."
He nodded cheerfully to the pair of them, and moving off from the
ring-side began to make his way across the hall. It was slow work,
for friends kept on pulling him up with boisterous words of
congratulation, while several of them made strenuous endeavours to
persuade him to join a party at some neighbouring night club, to
which they were going on for supper.
Tony, however, declined the invitation on the plea of a previous
engagement. As he had told Guy at dinner it was his invariable
custom after a successful fight to take Bugg out to Shepherd's, the
celebrated oyster bar in Coventry Street--a resort much frequented by
gentlemen of pugilistic and sporting tastes. The simple-minded Tiger
had not many weaknesses, but on these occasions it afforded him such
extreme pleasure to be seen therewith his patron, that Tony wouldn't
have missed gratifying him for the most festive supper party in
London.
On reaching the dressing-room he found Bugg fully clothed and in the
centre of a small levee of pressmen and fellow pugilists. McFarland,
immensely in his element, was dispensing champagne to the visitors,
and explaining how very lately his own unrivalled training methods
had contributed to the result.
Tony stopped and chatted amiably for a few minutes until he could
manage to extract Bugg from the centre of his admirers. When at last
they succeeded in getting away they slipped out quietly by the side
door of the Club in order to avoid the crowd who were still hanging
about the front, and with a breath of relief found themselves in the
cool night air of Long Acre.
Tony lit a cigarette and offered one to his companion.
"You positively surpassed yourself to-night, Bugg," he said. "The
worst of it is that if you go on improving in this way, I shall have
to find a new profession. No one will dare to bet against you."
"I 'ope I didn't shove it across 'im too sudden, sir?" inquired Bugg
anxiously. "You said you was in a hurry."
"It was perfect," said Tony. "The only person who had any complaint
to make was King Pedro."
Bugg sniffed contemptuously. "'E ain't much of a king, sir. I don't
wonder they give 'im the chuck. A real king wouldn't taike on abaht
droppin' a few quids."
"I daresay you're right," said Tony. "A certain recklessness in
finance----"
He suddenly pulled up and for a moment remained where he was, staring
across the street. On the opposite pavement, in the bright circle of
light thrown by one of the big electric standards, he had caught
sight of the figure of a girl, who at that distance reminded him
curiously of Molly Monk. She had apparently just come out of the
entrance to some flats above, and with a bag in her hand she was
standing there in an uncertain, indefinite sort of way, as though she
scarcely knew what to do next.
Realizing that it couldn't be Molly, who was of course at the
theatre, Tony was just about to move on again, when something checked
him.
Two well-dressed men in dark overcoats and soft hats had suddenly
appeared out of the shadow ahead and advanced quickly to where the
girl was standing. For an instant they all three remained facing
each other under the light, and then taking off his hat, one of them
addressed her.
With a little frightened gesture the girl shrank back against the
wall, where she glanced wildly round as though seeking for some means
of escape. The man who had spoken followed her forward, his hat
still in his hand, apparently making an effort to reassure her.
Tony turned to Bugg. "We really can't allow this sort of thing in
Long Acre," he observed. "It has always been a most respectable
street."
He threw away his cigarette, and followed by the future champion of
England started off briskly across the road.
On hearing their footsteps the two men spun round with some
abruptness. They were both obviously foreigners, and the sight of
their sallow faces and black moustaches filled Tony with a pleasant
sense of patriotic morality.
Without paying any attention to either of them he walked straight up
to the girl, and taking off his hat made her a slight bow.
"I beg your pardon," he said, "but from the other side of the road it
looked as if these gentlemen were annoying you. Can I be of any
assistance?"
She gazed up at him with grateful eyes. At close quarters her
resemblance to Molly, though still remarkable, was not quite so
convincing. She was a little younger and slighter, and there was a
delicate air of distinction about her that was entirely her own.
"Oh, if you would be so kind," she said in a delightfully soft voice.
"I do not wish to speak with these men. If you could send them
away--right away----"
"Why, of course," replied Tony with his most cheerful smile, "please
don't distress yourself."
He turned to the two sallow-faced strangers who seemed to have been
utterly disconcerted by his sudden appearance on the scene.
"Go away," he said, "and hurry up about it."