Despair's Last Journey Part 16

'All right We'll tak' yo on in place of Ikey Blades. This is the fust chap yo'n ha' to tackle. Billy Tunks he is--comes from Virgin's End.'

Billy Tunks (or Tonks, more probably) carried one of the pale and staring faces Paul had already noticed. He and Paul surveyed each other.

The man in the rabbit-skin waistcoat, having arranged preliminaries, explained to Paul. This was 'a little bit of a friendly turn-up with the weepons of Natur',' intended to settle the disputed qualities of the youth of eight local parishes. Paul's presence, it appeared, was entirely providential, for, with the exception of the seven candidates here in search of glory, there was n.o.body present who had not at one time or another 'fowt' for money.

'I suppose,' said Paul's informant, 'you've never fowt for money?'

'No,' Paul answered, 'I've never fowt for money. Mek yourself easy on that score.'

'Oh,' said the other, 'I wasn't castin' no suspicion. But it's just a quiet bit o' fun like for them as ain't been blooded in a reg'lar way.

It's a bit o' fun for the young uns. Billy an' yov comes second.'

'All right,' said Paul.

He thought of Ralston's letter, and laughed. Lofty conduct breeds the lofty ideal. What would Ralston say to this, he wondered? Not that the thing had a touch of barbarism to his mind. It was rough, of course, but it was inspiring, and he was used to it. He had seen a great deal of this peculiar sport, and had a warm liking for it. Being in it was better than looking on, but even looking on was pleasant.

'Now, lads,' said the master of the ceremonies, 'get to your corners.

An', gentlemen-sports all, no shoutin'.'

The business of the afternoon began in earnest A brace of lads stood up, stripped to the waist They shook hands, and set to work. The men were mere clowns, but the exhibition was anything but clownish. In that part of the world, at least, the traditions of the game were kept alive, and there was plenty of sound scientific fighting to be seen. Paul knew enough to recognise it when he saw it, and he had not watched two minutes before he knew that in this instance he was hopelessly outcla.s.sed.

'I'm in for a hiding,' he said to himself. 'A chap in search of the lofty ideal will have to make up his mind to a pretty good hiding, too. If you're eating for honour, you mustn't leave anything on the trencher.' He watched the fight keenly, but he watched it with a heart that danced unevenly. 'Yes,' he thought; 'I shall have to take a bellyful.'

The combat was brief and decisive.

'Sivin an' a quarter minutes of a round,' said the master of the ceremonies; 'an' a pretty bit o' fightin.' Theed'st best get ready,'

turning to Paul. 'The little un's pumped. He'll ask for a second helpin', but that'll finish him.'

The prophecy was realized, and Paul found himself in a brief s.p.a.ce of time standing hand in hand with Master Tonks, and looking him squarely in the eye. The fist Paul held in his own was like a mason's mallet, but its owner was of a clumsy and shambling build. Paul silently breathed the one word 'tactics,' and he and his opponent fell back from each other. He thought Master Tonk's att.i.tude curiously awkward, but he had no guess as to what lay behind it. He sparred for an opening. It looked all opening, and he wondered, and half dropped his hands.

'Goo in!' said somebody, in a jeering voice. 'Goo in, one or t'other on ye!'

Paul went in, and Master Tonks went down. He was picked up, and knocked down again.

'Why, what is it,' asked Paul. 'You've got no guard, lad.'

'I told thee how it ud be,' said one of the onlookers, addressing Master Tonks, as he sat upon the turf nursing his nose in the hollow of his arm. 'Ye see, lads,' he continued, 'it's like this: This is Turn Tunks, this is--Billy's brother. They'm my nevews, the pair on 'em. Billy's laid up with a broken leg, and Turn's come here to show for him for the honour o' the family. I thought he knowed a bit about it, or I wouldn't ha' suffered him to come.'

So this part of the contest ended in fiasco, but the next combat and the next were spirited and skilful The four victors in the first bout drew straws for the second. The winner of the first fight fell to Paul's share.

'Lofty conduct!' said Paul to himself, with a little rueful grin. 'I'm in for it, and I must make the best of it.'

He made the best of it for one fast five minutes, and all on a sudden he found himself looking at the sky, his opponent and the little crowd clean vanished. He was dreamy and quiet, and had no opinions about anything, and no interest in anything. Somebody picked him up and set him on somebody else's knee, where he was sponged and fanned. There was a faint suggestion in his mind to the effect that somebody, somewhere, had a shocking headache. Then he knew that one or two men were roughly helping him to dress. He himself mechanically aided this work, and by-and-by found himself watching a new encounter, aware by this time that the headache was his own. He handled nose, and upper-lip, and eye delicately, and came to the conclusion that he presented a picture to the gaze of man. Then, gradually pulling himself together, he watched the business of the day with tranquil interest.

Four had had it out with four, and then two with two; and now the survivors of the match were engaged for the final prize of honour. Each man had fought twice already, and they were both too tired to do much execution upon each other; but at last Paul's late antagonist won, and the simple game was over. The man in the rabbit-skin waistcoat thanked Paul for having preserved the symmetry of the day.

'Eight's a shapely little handful,' this authority said. 'It's the pick of the basket for a number, eight is. Sixteen's on-widdy, and it knocks a hole in a long summer's day. Four's a flash in the pan; but eight's a pretty little number.' He added genially: 'We'm all very much obliged to you, young man.'

'Oh,' said Paul, 'I like to be neighbourly.'

The muscles of his face were stiffening, and his inclination to laugh cost him a twinge.

The man in the rabbit-skin waistcoat said his sentiment did him credit, and shook hands with him on the strength of it. The crowd went away as it had come, and left him where it found him. He was not going to walk home in broad daylight with such a visage as he carried. He paced about the trampled hollow to keep his blood in circulation, and in a little while the friendly darkness began to gather. Then he set out for home at leisure, choosing unlighted ways; and after a circuitous journey, climbed a gate and a garden wall or two, and landed at the office. There he made his toilet with the aid of a piece of yellow soap, a bucket of water, and a jack-towel, and then walked down the darkened garden to the house. He paced the paved yard on tiptoe, and peeping through the kitchen-window, saw his father seated alone at the fireside Armstrong looked up with his customary mild, abstracted gaze.

'Why, Paul, lad!' he cried. 'Who's handled ye like that?'

'There's no harm done, sir,' said Paul 'I've been putting a precept of Mr. Ralston's into effect in a way he never dreamt of.'

'Ye've been fighting,' said his father, with a voice of reproof. 'Unless ye've a vera guid reason for it, that's a blackgyard way of settling differences.'

'I'm like Oth.e.l.lo, sir,' Paul answered: "Nought I did in hate, but all in honour." I had no difference with the gentleman who did this for me.

We met and parted on the most excellent terms.'

But even when Paul had told his story, Armstrong was un-appeased, and declined to see any form of humour in it.

'It's just a wanton defacing of the Divine image,' he said, 'and a return upon the original beast.'

Paul was constrained to let the incident rest there, but he comforted himself by fighting the battle over again in fancy. In this wise he beat the champion of the afternoon hands down, and came off without a scar.

CHAPTER VII

Armstrong and Paul were keeping house alone, and were playing chess together. The big eight-day clock ticked, the cat purred noisily on Armstrong's shoulder, the clear burning fire made slight crisp sounds in the grate, and now and then slack fell from the bars. The two sat in silence, poring over the board. Paul made a move.

'That's vile play,' said Armstrong. 'Mate in four.'

'Go on, sir,' Paul answered.

'Chick,' said Armstrong.

'But you lose your castle.'

'Do I so? But I get a p.a.w.n for it, and chick again.'

'Yes,' said Paul, 'I see.' He turned down his king and sat absent-eyed.

'Ye're falling off, Paul,' said Armstrong, 'or else your mind's not on the game.'

'To tell you the truth, sir,' Paul returned, sitting up with a sudden sprightliness, 'my mind's not on the game.'

'Where is it, lad?'

'Well, sir, it's in London.' 'London?'

'London, sir. I can't stop here all my days. I want to see the world.'

Armstrong rose to light his pipe at the gas. He dropped into his seat slowly, took the cat from his shoulder, and set it on his knees. The purr rose louder as he stroked lingeringly.