Snake and Sword Part 30

"Wot a werry ugly bloke," observed Seaman Arthur Andrews to Seaman Henry Smith. "'E reminds me o' Hadmiral Sir Percy 'Opkinton, so 'e do.

P'raps 'e's a pore relation."

"Yus," agreed Seaman Smith. "A crost between our beloved 'Oppy an' ole Bill Jones 'ere. Bill was reported to 'ave 'ad a twin brother--but it was allus serposed Bill ate 'im when 'e wasn' lookin'."

The backers of Corporal Dowdall were encouraged at seeing a man who looked like a gentleman and bore none of the traditional marks of the prize-fighter. His head was not cropped to the point of bristly baldness, his nose was unbroken, his eyes well opened and unblackened, his ears unthickened, his body untattooed. He had the white skin, small trim moustache, high-bred features, small extremities, and general appearance and bearing of an officer.

Ho, G'rilla Dowdall would make short work of _that_ tippy young toff.

Why, look at him!

And indeed it made you shudder to think of that enormous ferocity, that dynamic truculence, doing its best to destroy you in a s.p.a.ce twenty-four feet square.

Let the challenger wait till G'rilla put his fighting face on--fair terrifyin'.

Not an Artilleryman but felt sure that the garrison-gunner would successfully defend the t.i.tle and "give the sw.a.n.kin' Queen's Greys something to keep them _choop_[25] for a bit. Gettin' above 'emselves they was, becos' this bloke of theirs had won Best Man-at-Arms and had the nerve to challenge G'rilla Dowdall, R.G.A."

Even the R.H.A. admitted the R.G.A. to terms of perfect equality on that great occasion.

But a few observant and experienced officers, gymnasium instructors, and ancient followers of the n.o.ble Art were not so sure.

"Put steel-and-whalebone against granite and I back the former," said Major Decoulis to Colonel Hanking; "other things being equal of course--skill and ring-craft. And I hear that No. 2--the Queen's Greys' man--is unusually fast for a heavy-weight."

"I'd like to see him win," admitted the Colonel. "The man looks a gentleman. _Doesn't_ the other look a Bill Sykes, by Jove!"

The Staff Sergeant Instructor of the Motipur Gymnasium stepped into the ring.

"Silence, please," he bawled. "Fifteen-round contest between Corporal Dowdall, 111th Battery, Royal Garrison Artillery, Heavy-Weight Champion of Hindia, fourteen twelve (Number 1--on my right 'and) and Trooper Matthewson, Queen's Greys, fourteen stun (Number 2--on my left 'and). Please keep silence durin' the rounds. The winner is Heavy-Weight Champion of Hindia, winner of the Motipur Cup and 'older of the Elliott Belt. All ready there?"

Both combatants were ready.

"Come here, both of you," said the referee.

As he arose to obey, Dam was irresistibly reminded of his fight with Bully Harberth and smiled.

"Nervous sort o' grin on the figger-'ead o' the smaller wessel, don't it," observed Seaman Smith.

"There wouldn't be no grin on _your_ fat face at all," returned Seaman Jones. "It wouldn't be there. You'd be full-steam-ahead, bearings 'eated, and showin' no lights, for them tents--when you see wot you was up against."

The referee felt Dam's gloves to see that they contained no foreign bodies in the shape of plummets of lead or other illegal gratifications. (He had known a man fill the stuffing-compartments of his gloves with plaster of Paris, that by the third or fourth round he might be striking with a kind of stone cestus as the plaster moulded with sweat and water, and hardened to the shape of the fist.)

As he stepped back, Dam looked for the first time at his opponent, conned his bruiser face and Herculean body, and, with a gasp and shudder, was aware that a huge tattooed serpent reared its head in the centre of his vast chest while smaller ones encircled the mighty biceps of his arms. He clutched the rope and leant trembling against the post as the referee satisfied himself (with very great care in this case) of the innocence of the Gorilla's gloves.

"I know you of old, Dowdall," he said, "and I shall only caution you once mind. Second offence--and out you go."

Corporal Dowdall grinned sheepishly. He appeared to think that a delicate and gentlemanly compliment had been paid to his general downiness, flyness, and ring-craft,--the last of which, for Corporal Dowdall, included every form of foul that a weak referee would pa.s.s, an inexperienced one misunderstand, or a lazy one miss. Major O'Halloran, first-cla.s.s bruiser himself, was in the habit of doing his refereeing inside the ring and within a foot or two of the princ.i.p.als, where he expected foul play.

As the Major cautioned the Gorilla, Dam pa.s.sed his hand wearily across his face, swallowed once or twice and groaned aloud.

It was _not_ fair. Why should the Snake be allowed to humiliate him before thousands of spectators? Why should It be brought here to shame him in the utmost publicity, to make him fail his comrades, disgrace his regiment, make the Queen's Greys a laughing-stock?

But--he had fought an emissary of the Snake before--and he had won.

This villainous-looking pugilist was perhaps _the Snake Itself in human form_--and, see, he was free, he was in G.o.d's open air, no chains bound him, he was not gagged, this place was not a pit dug beneath the Pit itself! This was all tangible and real. He would have fair play and be able to defend himself. This was not a blue room with a mud floor. Nay, he would be able to attack--to fight, fight like a wounded pantheress for her cubs. This accursed Snake in Human Form would only be able to use puny fists. Mere trivial human fists and human strength. Everything would be on the human plane. It would be unable to wrap him in its awful coils and crush and crush the soul and life and manhood out of him, as it did at night before burrowing its way ten million miles below the floor of h.e.l.l with him, and immuring him in a molten incandescent tomb where he could not even scream or writhe.

"Get to your corners," said the referee, and Dam returned to his place with a cruel smile upon his compressed lips. By the Merciful Living G.o.d he had the Snake Itself delivered unto him in human form--to do with as he could. Oh, that It might last out the fifteen times of facing him in his wrath, his pent-up vengeful wrath at a ruined life, a dishonoured name and _a lost Lucille!_

When would they give the word for him to spring upon it and batter it lifeless to the ground?

"Don't grind yer silly teeth like that," whispered Hawker, his grim ugly face white with anxiety and suspense (for he loved Damocles de Warrenne as the faithfullest of hounds loves the best of masters).

"You're awastin' henergy all the time."

"G.o.d! if they don't give the word in a minute I shall be unable to hold off It," replied Dam wildly.

"That's the sperrit, c.o.c.ky," approved Hawker, "but donchew fergit you gotter larst fifteen bloomin' rahnds. 'Taint no kindergarters.

'_E_'ll stick it orlrite, an' you'll avter win on _points_----"

"Seconds out of the Ring," cried the time-keeper, staring at his watch.

"Don't get knocked out, dear boy," implored Trooper Bear. "Fight to win on points. You _can't_ knock him out. I'm going to pray like h.e.l.l through the rounds----"

_"Time"_ barked the time-keeper, and, catching up the chair as Dam rose, Trooper Bear dropped down from the boards of the ring to the turf, where already crouched Hawker and Goate, looking like men about to be hanged.

The large a.s.sembly drew a deep breath as the combatants approached each other with extended right hands--Dam clad in a pair of blue silk shorts, silk socks and high, thin, rubber-soled boots, the Gorilla in an exiguous bathing-garment and a pair of gymnasium shoes.

Dam a picture of the Perfect Man, was the taller, and the Gorilla, a perfect Caliban, was the broader and had the longer reach. Their right hands touched in perfunctory shake, Dam drew back to allow the Snake to a.s.sume sparring att.i.tude, and, as he saw the huge shoulders hunch, the great biceps rise, and the clenched gloves come to position, he a.s.sumed the American "crouch" att.i.tude and sprang like a tiger upon the incarnation of the utter d.a.m.nation and Ruin that had cursed his life to living death.

The Gorilla was shocked and pained! The tippy pink-and-white blasted rookie was "all over him" and he was sent staggering with such a rain of smas.h.i.+ng blows as he had never, never felt, nor seen others receive. The whole a.s.sembly of soldiers, saving the Garrison Artillerymen, raised a wild yell, regardless of the referee's ferocious expostulations (in dumb-show) and even the ranks of the Horse-Gunners could scarce forbear to cheer. The Queen's Greys howled like fiends and Hawker, unknown to himself, punched the boards before him with terrific violence. Never had anything like it been seen.

Matthewson was a human whirlwind, and Dowdall had not had a chance to return a blow. More than half the tremendous punches, hooks and in-fighting jabs delivered by his opponent had got home, and he was "rattled". A fair hook to the chin might send him down and out at any moment.

Surely never had human being aimed such an unceasing, unending, rain of blows in the s.p.a.ce of two minutes as had Trooper Matthewson. His arms had worked like the piston rods of an express engine--as fast and as untiringly. He had taken the Gorilla by surprise, had rushed him, and had never given him a fraction of time in which to attack. Beneath the rain of sledge-hammer blows the Gorilla had shrunk, guarding for dear life. Driven into a corner, he cowered down, crouched beneath his raised arms, and allowed his face to sink forward. Like a whirling piece of machinery Dam's arm flew round to administer the _coup-de-grace_, the upper cut, that would lay the Snake twitching and unconscious on the boards.

The Gorilla was expecting it.

As it came, his bullet head was jerked aside, and as the first swung harmlessly up, he arose like a flash, and, as he did so, his mighty right shot up, took Darn on the chin and laid him flat and senseless in the middle of the ring.

The Gorilla breathed heavily and made the most of the respite. He knew it must be about "Time," and that he had not won. If it wasn't "Time,"

and the cub arose he'd knock him to glory as he did so. Yes, the moment the most liberal-minded critic could say he was just about on his feet, he'd give him a finisher that he'd bear the mark of. The bloomin' young swine had nearly "had" him--him, the great G'rilla Dowdall, about to buy himself out with his prize-money, and take to pugilism as a profession.

"_One--two--three--four,_" counted the timekeeper amid the most deathly silence, and, as he added, _"five--six--Time,"_ a shout arose that was heard for miles.

Trooper Matthewson was saved--if his seconds could pull him round in time.

At sound of the word "Time," the seconds leapt into the ring. Hawker and Bear rushed to the prostrate Dam, hauled him to his feet, and dragged him to the chair which Goate had placed ready. As he was dropped into it, a spongeful of icy water from Goate's big sponge brought Dam to consciousness.

"Breave for all y'r worf," grunted Hawker, as he mightily swung a big bath-towel in swift eddies, to drive refres.h.i.+ng air upon the heaving, panting body of his princ.i.p.al.

Bear and Goate applied ma.s.saging hands with skilled violence.

"By Jove, I thought you had him," panted Goate as he kneaded triceps and biceps. "And then I thought he had you. It's anybody's fight, Matty--but _don't_ try and knock him out. You couldn't do it with an axe."

"No," agreed Bear. "You've got to keep on your feet and win on points."