The harbour was crowded with fishing boats, and fresh arrivals were
coming in every few minutes. Until the entrance was reached they came
scudding along with every appearance of haste, but then their mainsails
came tumbling down to the deck, and the boats with sufficient way left
on them moved easily over the still water, and felt their way to a
berth. Small boats conveyed the fish to the quay, where embryo
fishermen were appraising the catch with a wisdom beyond their years.
There was a glut of whiting. So many whiting, and going so cheaply that
it was enough to make them bite their tails from sheer vexation. Small
flat fish which slid away from their pile were carefully looked after
and coaxed back with the toe of a sea-boot, but whiting slid away
unnoticed until they vanished from mortal ken in the pockets of
predatory urchins.
In the small market, a short, red-faced man with a scrubby beard walked
in a disparaging fashion from heap to heap, using a favourite briar in
lieu of a hammer to knock down such fish as found bidders. The latter
were few and wary, and turning a deaf ear to eloquence expressed
opinions distasteful to an auctioneer’s ear in crude English.
The sense of the meeting being against him, the auctioneer truckled to
it, and coming to another heap consisting of a selection of the most
undesirable fish that swim Britannia’s realm, gazed at it indignantly.
There was a titter behind him, and he voiced his wrath impetuously.
“That’s Joe Gubbs’s catch,” he bawled. “S’elp me, I’d know that man’s
luck anywhere.”
He turned the fish over scornfully with his foot, and, with a severe
glance at the hapless Gubbs, moved away to something more saleable.
“Where d’ye get ’em from, Gubbs?” inquired an aggravating voice. “We
never get such things in our nets. I’ve never seen some o’ them things
afore.”
“There’s a lot you ain’t seen, Bob Tarbut,” said Gubbs, turning upon
him, “and what you do see don’t do you much good.”
“I’d be ashamed to bring home such a queer-looking lot,” jeered the
other.
“They mayn’t be up to much, but there’s none on ’em would care to
change faces with you, I expect,” related Gubbs.
“You leave my face alone,” said Tarbut, whose physiognomy was much used
in the village for purposes of comparison.
“A skate’s handsome to you,” said Gubbs, following up his advantage.
He jumped back suddenly as the fist of the sensitive Tarbut shot
suddenly out, and treading on a small fish, whirled round wildly with
his hands in the air in the effort to retain his balance, and sat down
heavily. The bystanders instantly separated into two groups, and two or
three anxious sympathisers helped the fallen man to his feet, and
indicated those parts of Tarbut’s frame which in their opinion were
least adapted to offer resistance to his fist.
“Stand up,” said Gubbs, sternly, as he shook himself free from these
friends.
“I am a-standin’ up!” said Tarbut, breathing hard.
The two combatants approached each other stealthily, and manœuvring
round the heaps of fish, struck safely at each other over these
convenient barriers.
“Get ’em in the road,” cried an excited voice, “they can’t ’urt each
other here.”
A dozen kindly hands helped them there, and finding too much strategy
for sport in a large ring, at the bidding of the resourceful individual
who had last spoken, gradually made it smaller and smaller. Two or
three small blows warmed the combatants, and they set to work in
earnest. Then Gubbs, under a heavy blow from Tarbut, went to the ground
and stayed there.
It was three minutes before he came thoroughly round, and then he sat
up in a dazed fashion and looked round for his opponent.
“Did I kill ’im?” he inquired, in a whisper.
“No, not quite,” said one of his friends, gently.
Gubbs rubbed his eyes. “What are they patting him on the back for?” he
inquired, eyeing the group who were making a fuss over Tarbut.
“’Cos he’s won,” said his friend.
Gubbs staggered to his feet.
“It’s no good,” said the landlord of the “Three Fishers,” who had run
over to the scene of the fray; “you wasn’t properly trained, you know.
Now, look ’ere. If you put yourself in my hands, in three weeks you can
beat him holler.”
“You do as Mr. Larkins ses, Joe,” said his friend, impressively.
“I lived among prizefighters afore I come down ’ere,” said Mr. Larkins,
expanding his small frame. “In three weeks’ time, Gubbs, you’ll be able
to knock him silly.”
“Well, what about Tarbut? He ought to be trained too,” said one of the
men. “Fair play’s fair play any day.”
“I’ll train ’im,” said an old ex-coastguardsman.
“I don’t want no training,” said Tarbut, surlily. “I’ve beat ’im, beat
’im easy.”
“Well, beat ’im again, Tarbut,” said one of his friends. “I’ll put my
five bob on you. Who’ll take me?”
For the next five minutes, heedless of the assertions of both men that
they wouldn’t fight any more, bets were freely taken, Tarbut, in view
of his recent success, being a hot favourite.
A jarring element was introduced into the proceedings by a small,
elderly man wearing a piece of blue ribbon, who, pushing his way in
eagerly, inquired what it was all about. Nobody troubling to give him a
correct answer, he tried to solve it for himself, and was then caught,
just in the nick of time, trying to make the enemies shake hands.
“You go off to your Mother’s Meeting, Peter Morgan,” said an incensed
voice.
“It’s a fight,” said the little man, raising his voice. “Oh, my
friends——”
“It’s nothing o’ the kind,” said Larkins, hotly. “I’m training ’em for
a race, that’s all. They’re just going to see who’s the best runner.”
Morgan, disregarding the publican, looked to others for information.
“It’s quite right,” said a bystander. “You can believe me, can’t you?”
“When’s it going to be?” asked Morgan.
“I don’t know,” said the other, turning away.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,” said Morgan, warmly. “It’s bad
enough to make a couple of men fight what don’t want to without telling
a lot of lies about it.”
“It’s none o’ your business,” said Larkins, surlily. “Ask no questions
and you’ll hear no lies. You’ll get some idea into that ’ead of yours
and then go and split, and have it stopped.”
“I never told of anything in my life,” said Morgan, sharply. “My mates
here know that. That ain’t my way. My way’s persuasion and example, not
forcing people to do what I want.”
“There’s a purse o’ fifteen and six made up for the winner,” said
Larkins, turning away and whispering the news to Gubbs. “The spot for
the picnic’ll be made known later on. Them what’s in the know is
respectfully asked to keep their mouths shut to save trouble all
round.”
He went back to his bar, and the other men, after standing about a bit,
strolled off one by one to their teas. Mr. Morgan was one of the last
to leave, and went as far as Tarbut’s door with him to tell him an
anecdote of a man who was struck behind the ear in a fight and killed
on the spot.
A comfortable meal and a good night’s rest restored Mr. Gubbs to his
wonted serenity of mind, and he awoke at six o’clock feeling determined
to shake hands with Tarbut and let the matter drop. A persistent
hammering at the door, which gradually got louder and louder,
interfering with his meditations, he roused Mrs. Gubbs, who was
sleeping peacefully, and with some asperity bade her get up and stop
it.
“It’s Mr. Larkins, Joe,” said the lady, hastily withdrawing her head
from the window.
Mr. Gubbs sat up in bed, and then with a mighty yawn rose, and, pushing
open the casement again, gazed indignantly at the small publican, who
was standing below keeping up an incessant rapping on the door with a
small cane.
“Morning, Mr. Larkins, sir,” said Gubbs, sniffing at the cool morning
air.
“Halloa!” said Larkins, looking up. “This won’t do, you know. You’re
wasting time. You ought to be up and out by now.”
“I’ve changed my mind,” said Gubbs, leaning out and speaking in a low
voice to defeat the intentions of Mrs. Gubbs, who was listening. “I
dreamt I killed Tarbut, an’ it’s give me such a fright that I’ve
resolved not to fight.”
“That’s all right,” said Larkins, briskly; “dreams always go by
contraries.”
“Well there ain’t much comfort in that,” said Gubbs, who was anxious to
get back to his warm bed, sharply.
“You dress and come down,” said the imperious Larkins. “You ought to be
ashamed of yourself after all the trouble I’m taking on your behalf.”
Mr. Gubbs rubbed his eyes and pondered. “What’s the towel for?” he
demanded, suspiciously.
“Rub you down with after you’ve bathed,” said the other.
“_Bathed?_” said Mr. Gubbs, with emphasis. “Bathed? What for?”
“Training,” replied Mr. Larkins. “Hurry up.”
“I don’t believe old Bullock’s going to make Tarbut bathe,” said Gubbs,
shivering; “it’s weakening.”
“You do as you’re told,” said the autocratic Larkins. “Bullock don’t
know nothing about it.”
Mr. Gubbs sighed and withdrew his head, and explaining to his
astonished wife that he was going for a little stroll, gloomily dressed
himself and joined his trainer below.
“Shoulders back,” said the small publican. “Head up.”
He led the way down to the beach, and, ignoring the looks of aversion
which Mr. Gubbs bestowed upon the silver sea, stood by while he
disrobed and picked his way painfully over the shingle to the edge of
the water. It was a bright morning, but somewhat chill, and Mr. Gubbs’s
breathless gaspings furnished an excellent clue to the temperature of
the water.
“How do you feel?” inquired Mr. Larkins, anxiously, as he rubbed him
down.
“I feel ill,” said the other, shivering.
“You’ll feel better when you’ve had your run,” said Larkins, cheerily.
“’Ad my w—w—_wot?_” inquired Mr. Gubbs, staring at him offensively, and
rubbing himself furiously with the towel.
“Your run,” repeated Larkins, sternly. “You don’t want your coat. I’ll
hold that. And mind, I don’t want you to go running like a
steam-engine, or a runaway horse.”
“I wasn’t goin’ to,” said Gubbs.
“Just trot easy,” continued the other, “for about half a mile. Go as
far as that gate over there, then rest two minutes and trot back
again.”
His manner was so dictatorial that Mr. Gubbs, remembering in time his
score at the “Three Fishers,” swallowed something he was going to
say—and it was nearly strong enough to choke him—and set off at a
strange, weird gait towards the indicated goal. He reached it at last,
and after a long two minutes started back again in response to the
semaphore-like appeals of the enthusiastic Larkins.
“I’ve got my work cut out for me, I can see,” said the latter, as his
victim, puffing and blowing, sat down on the ground. “But I’ll soon get
you in trim, and mind you keep quiet about it. I don’t want Bullock to
know.”
“Why not?” demanded Mr. Gubbs.
“Because he’d train Tarbut the same way,” said Larkins, with a cunning
grin.
“Well, why shouldn’t Tarbut ’ave a doing same as me?” said Mr. Gubbs,
vindictively. “Why should ’e be a-laying in comfort in ’is bed while
I’m catching cold bathing and killing myself running?”
“Don’t you be a fool,” said Larkins, affectionately patting him on the
shoulder. “Come into my place when you have time, and I’ll put the
gloves on with you a bit; and be careful what you eat, mind, else
you’ll undo all the good I’ve done you.”
If it is possible for a man to expectorate sarcastically, Mr. Gubbs
achieved that feat.
“Only two cups of tea with your breakfast,” continued Larkins,
solemnly, “and no greens for dinner, and I’ll send you in one pint of
old ale every day free gratis.”
The tensity of Mr. Gubbs’s features relaxed, and he smiled faintly as
he rose and accompanied his friend back. Larkins saw him to his door,
and after explaining fluently to Mrs. Gubbs that her husband was
training for a race, gave her explicit instructions as to his diet, and
departed.
It was a source of much joy to Mr. Larkins, though he was unable to
persuade Gubbs to share in his feelings, that Tarbut’s trainer was
satisfied with a less vigorous system for his man. He let Tarbut off
with a cold sponging on rising, and as Tarbut had his own ideas as to
what constituted a cold sponging, both parties were well pleased with
each other.
The business-like nature of these proceedings was keenly appreciated by
the inhabitants of the fishing quarter. Fights had happened before and
doubtless would again, but they were mere rough-and-tumble affairs, and
over before any proper excitement could be worked up. The purse had
steadily mounted up to thirty-five shillings, and the betting varied
from day to day.
Each man had his knot of supporters, and enthusiasm had reached such a
pitch that Gubbs, who was naturally of a retiring disposition, had to
take his matutinal tub before quite a circle of admirers. Opposition on
the part of the ladies was balked by continuing to allude to the affair
as a race, though Mrs. Gubbs, who got up one morning to see her man
run, went home in a state of mind bordering upon stupefaction.
An uneasy feeling was caused by the anxiety of the excellent Mr. Morgan
to discover the time and place of meeting. No information was afforded
him, and as he had indignantly denied any intention of giving the
alarm, the gentlemen interested were much exercised as to the reasons
for his curiosity.
The battle was fixed for a Saturday evening, the two trainers, after
much wordy warfare, having selected a site which Mr. Larkins insisted
had been made purposely by Nature with a view to affairs of the kind.
Lofty cliffs hid it from view, and the ground itself consisted of turf
so soft and spongy that Larkins predicted that Tarbut would bounce up
from it like an indiarubber ball. The principals expressed themselves
as satisfied, though their niggardliness in the matter of thanks for
the trouble which had been taken over the arrangements formed food for
conversation for the trainers all the way home.
The boats got in early on Friday afternoon with their fish. The catch
was small and soon disposed of, and then the attentive trainers,
rescuing their men from admirers, who were feeling their arms and
putting leading questions as to their wind and state of mind, sent them
indoors with concise instructions as to how they were to spend the last
evening. Larkins officiously sent his man off for a short, sharp walk
after his tea, and later on, going to the quay, found that Bullock had
given his man the same instructions.
“Don’t you go worrying of ’em, mind,” said Larkins sternly to the
group, “an’ let ’em have an easy time of it to-morrow in the boats.
Both of ’em,” he added, generously.
“Spoke like a Briton, Mr. Larkins,” said an old fisherman.
“What I want is fair play and no favour,” said Mr. Larkins; “it’s to be
a genuine sporting affair. No bad blood or anything of that kind. After
the little affair, all what go to see it are welcome to one drink at my
expense.”
“It’s time my man was back,” said Bullock, looking up the road which
led over the cliffs. “I told him to go just as far as the ground and
back.”
“Old Peter Morgan’s gone down to the place too, I think,” piped a small
lad in huge boots. “I saw ’im following of Tarbut.”
The landlord of the “Three Fishers” started uneasily. “It’s on my
mind,” he said, in a melancholy voice, “that that blessed old
teetotaller’ll have the thing stopped. He’ll tell the police or
something.”
“No he won’t,” said the old fisherman who had spoken before. “Me an’
Peter was boys together, an’ he’s never done anything o’ that sort in
his life. Before old Peter got religious there was nothing he liked
better than to see a fight, or to take part in one either, an’ it’s my
opinion he’d like to see this one, only he don’t like to say so.”
“Well, he won’t,” said Larkins, grimly; “it may be as you say, but
we’re not going to take any risks.”
Conversation became general, and in view of the nearness of the event,
animated, but still the two gladiators failed to put in an appearance.
“He’s overdoing it, that’s what he is,” said Mr. Larkins, referring to
the ardent Gubbs. “You can ’ave a man too willing. He’ll go and knock
hisself up.”
The small boy came up, his big boots clattering over the stones, and,
shading his eyes with his hands, looked up the road. The other men,
following his gaze, saw three men advancing lovingly arm-in-arm towards
them.
“It—it can’t be old Morgan with ’em?” said Mr. Larkins.
“It is, though,” said the old fisherman, peering through screwed-up
eyes. “They’ve made it up through old Peter, that’s wot they’ve done.
He’s been talking at ’em and getting at ’em, and now there won’t be no
fight.”
His disappointed auditors groaned in chorus. “Won’t there,” said
Larkins, savagely. “Ho—won’t there—— You don’t think me and my friend
Bullock here are going to slave three weeks for nothing, do you?”
“There won’t be no fight,” repeated the old man. “Look how loving they
are! All three of ’em as close together as sweethearts.”
The advancing trio certainly bore out the old man’s words to the
letter. Mr. Peter Morgan was in the centre, and appeared to be
half-embracing his companions.
“Why, they can hardly walk,” said Bullock; “they’ve been too far.”
“Yes, that’s what it is,” said Larkins, in a hollow voice.
“Seems to me,” said the boy, slowly, “that they’ve ’ad a bit of a scrap
already.”
The crowd, with bated breath, stepped out to meet them, Larkins and
Bullock leading. It was evident that the two heroes were clinging to
Mr. Morgan more for support than from any motives of affection, and it
was no less evident that the lad’s remark as to a bit of a scrap was
capable of wide interpretation. In a few minutes both parties were face
to face, and the two trainers gazing at their charges speechless with
indignation.
“Which is Gubbs?” demanded Larkins at last, in an unnatural voice.
The figure on Morgan’s right arm managed to open an eye and to twist
its swollen lips into something intended for a smile.
“What ’ave you been doing?” vociferated the incensed landlord.
“Fightin’,” said Gubbs, speaking with some difficulty; “it’s all over
now. It was a draw, and we’re going to halve the money between us.”
“Oh, are you,” said Larkins, bitterly. “Well, you won’t have a damned
ha’penny of it. What do you mean by it? Eh?”
“I’ll tell you all about it,” said Morgan, who was looking radiantly
happy. “I saw Tarbut going up the road and I followed him and talked to
him, and by and by up comes Gubbs, and I talked to him. Then I found
out what, of course, I knew before, that all you men were trying to
induce these poor souls to knock each other about for money.”
Mr. Larkins, choking helplessly, looked sternly at Mr. Morgan, and
pointed an incriminating finger at Tarbut’s visage.
“I urged ’em not to make such a brutal show of themselves for money,”
continued Mr. Morgan, “but they said as ’ow they would. Gubbs said it
would be the easiest thirty-five shillings he’d ever earned, and Tarbut
said it was him as was going to earn it. After a little talk o’ this
kind, Gubbs here ’it Tarbut smack in the eye.”
Tarbut gave a faint groan in confirmation.
“Then they both started to peel,” continued Mr. Morgan.
“Why didn’t you stop ’em?” inquired the ex-coastguard; “it was your
duty as a Christian to stop ’em.”
“I thought it was better for ’em to fight like that than to make a
brutal exhibition of themselves,” said Mr. Morgan, with dignity. “It
was a revolting spectacle, shocking, and I’m glad and thankful there
was nobody there but me to see ’em make such brute beasts of
themselves.”
A threatening murmur broke from the crowd.
“There in that sweet secluded spot,” said Mr. Morgan, shaking his
head, “these two men, stripped to the waist, knocked one another about
for fifteen rounds. First blood fell to Tarbut, he got in with his left
on Gubbs’s nose, then Gubbs up with a fearful blow and knocked him
flat. It was as clean a blow as ever I see. I took Tarbut on my
knee—poor fellow, he was doing wrong, but still he was suffering, and
Peter Morgan’s always got a knee for the sufferer. Second round he was
more cautious, and watching ’is opportunity, he clenched and fell with
Gubbs underneath. It was a disgusting spectacle.”
Mr. Larkins bent savagely over to Mr. Bullock and whispered in his ear.
“When time was called”—said Mr. Morgan.
“Who called it?” inquired a voice, with the air of one making a point.
“I did,” said Mr. Morgan; “there was nobody else;—both of ’em walked
round each other a bit, sparring and looking for opportunities. I think
the third round was the longest of all. Both of ’em kept getting in a
lot of little knocks and then dodging away again. Then Tarbut caught
Gubbs one in the bread-ba—in the wind—and then followed up on his jaw
and knocked him down again. It was a disgusting spectacle.”
“Must ha’ been,” said a dejected voice.
“After that there was twelve more rounds,” continued the narrator;
“sometimes Tarbut had the best of it, and sometimes Gubbs. Both men was
very determined and fought very fair. It was good, solid hard hitting,
and they were marked all over before they’d finished. Once Gubbs gave
Tarbut a blow over the heart, and I thought he wouldn’t get up to
time.”
“I wouldn’t if you hadn’t blowed water into my face out of that
puddle,” said Tarbut.
“It was a most disgusting spectacle,” said Mr. Peter Morgan, hurriedly.
“Seems to me——” began Larkins, ferociously.
“Two fine strong men, stripped to the waist, hard as nails, knocking
each other about for money,” said Mr. Morgan. “They’re never going to
fight any more. I made ’em promise they wouldn’t. They’re good friends
now; ain’t you, lads?”
With an utter disregard of the feelings of the bystanders the two men
shook hands.
“And though I regard fighting with horror,” concluded Mr. Morgan,
beaming on them, “I think that, as it was a bargain, you should divide
the purse between ’em.”
“They won’t get a farthing of it,” said Mr. Larkins, explosively,
“unless you like to give it to ’em out of your own pocket.”
“_Me!_” said Mr. Morgan, opening his eyes. “Why?”
“Ask yourself,” said Mr. Larkins, pointedly. “I should say if any man
ever ’ad thirty-five shillingsworth of sport all to hisself, you have;
and, what’s more, you know it, Mr. Peter Morgan.”
The peacemaker sighed, and, turning, led his charges gently away. The
crowd watched them as far as the “Three Fishers,” and observing that
they detached themselves by force from their guide and friend, crossed
the road and followed them in.