Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) (465 page)

“Well?  Well?”

“Vell, the Eytalian ‘e got a touch of the gurgles, an’ ‘e shut ‘imself right up like a two-foot rule.  Then ‘e pulled ‘imself straight, an’ ‘e gave the most awful Glory Allelujah screech as ever you ‘eard.  Off ‘e jumps from the stage an’ down the passage as ‘ard as ‘is ‘oofs would carry ‘im.  Up jumps the ‘ole crowd, and after ‘im as ‘ard as they could move for laughin’.  They vas lyin’ in the kennel three deep all down Tottenham Court road wid their ‘ands to their sides just vit to break themselves in two.  Vell, ve chased ‘im down ‘Olburn, an’ down Fleet Street, an’ down Cheapside, an’ past the ‘Change, and on all the vay to Voppin’ an’ we only catched ‘im in the shippin’ office, vere ‘e vas askin’ ‘ow soon ‘e could get a passage to voreign parts.”

There was much laughter and clapping of glasses upon the table at the conclusion of old Buckhorse’s story, and I saw the Prince of Wales hand something to the waiter, who brought it round and slipped it into the skinny hand of the veteran, who spat upon it before thrusting it into his pocket.  The table had in the meanwhile been cleared, and was now studded with bottles and glasses, while long clay pipes and tobacco-boxes were handed round.  My uncle never smoked, thinking that the habit might darken his teeth, but many of the Corinthians, and the Prince amongst the first of them, set the example of lighting up.  All restraint had been done away with, and the prize-fighters, flushed with wine, roared across the tables to each other, or shouted their greetings to friends at the other end of the room.  The amateurs, falling into the humour of their company, were hardly less noisy, and loudly debated the merits of the different men, criticizing their styles of fighting before their faces, and making bets upon the results of future matches.

In the midst of the uproar there was an imperative rap upon the table, and my uncle rose to speak.  As he stood with his pale, calm face and fine figure, I had never seen him to greater advantage, for he seemed, with all his elegance, to have a quiet air of domination amongst these fierce fellows, like a huntsman walking carelessly through a springing and yapping pack.  He expressed his pleasure at seeing so many good sportsmen under one roof, and acknowledged the honour which had been done both to his guests and himself by the presence there that night of the illustrious personage whom he should refer to as the Earl of Chester.  He was sorry that the season prevented him from placing game upon the table, but there was so much sitting round it that it would perhaps be hardly missed (cheers and laughter).  The sports of the ring had, in his opinion, tended to that contempt of pain and of danger which had contributed so much in the past to the safety of the country, and which might, if what he heard was true, be very quickly needed once more.  If an enemy landed upon our shores it was then that, with our small army, we should be forced to fall back upon native valour trained into hardihood by the practice and contemplation of manly sports.  In time of peace also the rules of the ring had been of service in enforcing the principles of fair play, and in turning public opinion against that use of the knife or of the boot which was so common in foreign countries.  He begged, therefore, to drink “Success to the Fancy,” coupled with the name of John Jackson, who might stand as a type of all that was most admirable in British boxing.

Jackson having replied with a readiness which many a public man might have envied, my uncle rose once more.

“We are here to-night,” said he, “not only to celebrate the past glories of the prize ring, but also to arrange some sport for the future.  It should be easy, now that backers and fighting men are gathered together under one roof, to come to terms with each other.  I have myself set an example by making a match with Sir Lothian Hume, the terms of which will be communicated to you by that gentleman.”

Sir Lothian rose with a paper in his hand.

“The terms, your Royal Highness and gentlemen, are briefly these,” said he.  “My man, Crab Wilson, of Gloucester, having never yet fought a prize battle, is prepared to meet, upon May the 18th of this year, any man of any weight who may be selected by Sir Charles Tregellis.  Sir Charles Tregellis’s selection is limited to men below twenty or above thirty-five years of age, so as to exclude Belcher and the other candidates for championship honours.  The stakes are two thousand pounds against a thousand, two hundred to be paid by the winner to his man; play or pay.”

It was curious to see the intense gravity of them all, fighters and backers, as they bent their brows and weighed the conditions of the match.

“I am informed,” said Sir John Lade, “that Crab Wilson’s age is twenty-three, and that, although he has never fought a regular P.R. battle, he has none the less fought within ropes for a stake on many occasions.”

“I’ve seen him half a dozen times at the least,” said Belcher.

“It is precisely for that reason, Sir John, that I am laying odds of two to one in his favour.”

“May I ask,” said the Prince, “what the exact height and weight of Wilson may be?”

“Five foot eleven and thirteen-ten, your Royal Highness.”

“Long enough and heavy enough for anything on two legs,” said Jackson, and the professionals all murmured their assent.

“Read the rules of the fight, Sir Lothian.”

“The battle to take place on Tuesday, May the 18th, at the hour of ten in the morning, at a spot to be afterwards named.  The ring to be twenty foot square.  Neither to fall without a knock-down blow, subject to the decision of the umpires.  Three umpires to be chosen upon the ground, namely, two in ordinary and one in reference.  Does that meet your wishes, Sir Charles?”

My uncle bowed.

“Have you anything to say, Wilson?”

The young pugilist, who had a curious, lanky figure, and a craggy, bony face, passed his fingers through his close-cropped hair.

“If you please, zir,” said he, with a slight west-country burr, “a twenty-voot ring is too small for a thirteen-stone man.”

There was another murmur of professional agreement.

“What would you have it, Wilson?”

“Vour-an’-twenty, Sir Lothian.”

“Have you any objection, Sir Charles?”

“Not the slightest.”

“Anything else, Wilson?”

“If you please, zir, I’d like to know whom I’m vighting with.”

“I understand that you have not publicly nominated your man, Sir Charles?”

“I do not intend to do so until the very morning of the fight.  I believe I have that right within the terms of our wager.”

“Certainly, if you choose to exercise it.”

“I do so intend.  And I should be vastly pleased if Mr. Berkeley Craven will consent to be stake-holder.”

That gentleman having willingly given his consent, the final formalities which led up to these humble tournaments were concluded.

And then, as these full-blooded, powerful men became heated with their wine, angry eyes began to glare across the table, and amid the grey swirls of tobacco-smoke the lamp-light gleamed upon the fierce, hawk-like Jews, and the flushed, savage Saxons.  The old quarrel as to whether Jackson had or had not committed a foul by seizing Mendoza by the hair on the occasion of their battle at Hornchurch, eight years before, came to the front once more.  Dutch Sam hurled a shilling down upon the table, and offered to fight the Pride of Westminster for it if he ventured to say that Mendoza had been fairly beaten.  Joe Berks, who had grown noisier and more quarrelsome as the evening went on, tried to clamber across the table, with horrible blasphemies, to come to blows with an old Jew named Fighting Yussef, who had plunged into the discussion.  It needed very little more to finish the supper by a general and ferocious battle, and it was only the exertions of Jackson, Belcher, Harrison, and others of the cooler and steadier men, which saved us from a riot.

And then, when at last this question was set aside, that of the rival claims to championships at different weights came on in its stead, and again angry words flew about and challenges were in the air.  There was no exact limit between the light, middle, and heavyweights, and yet it would make a very great difference to the standing of a boxer whether he should be regarded as the heaviest of the light-weights, or the lightest of the heavy-weights.  One claimed to be ten-stone champion, another was ready to take on anything at eleven, but would not run to twelve, which would have brought the invincible Jem Belcher down upon him.  Faulkner claimed to be champion of the seniors, and even old Buckhorse’s curious call rang out above the tumult as he turned the whole company to laughter and good humour again by challenging anything over eighty and under seven stone.

But in spite of gleams of sunshine, there was thunder in the air, and Champion Harrison had just whispered in my ear that he was quite sure that we should never get through the night without trouble, and was advising me, if it got very bad, to take refuge under the table, when the landlord entered the room hurriedly and handed a note to my uncle.

He read it, and then passed it to the Prince, who returned it with raised eyebrows and a gesture of surprise.  Then my uncle rose with the scrap of paper in his hand and a smile upon his lips.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “there is a stranger waiting below who desires a fight to a finish with the best men in the room.”

CHAPTER XI - THE FIGHT IN THE COACH-HOUS
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The curt announcement was followed by a moment of silent surprise, and then by a general shout of laughter.  There might be argument as to who was champion at each weight; but there could be no question that all the champions of all the weights were seated round the tables.  An audacious challenge which embraced them one and all, without regard to size or age, could hardly be regarded otherwise than as a joke - but it was a joke which might be a dear one for the joker.

“Is this genuine?” asked my uncle.

“Yes, Sir Charles,” answered the landlord; “the man is waiting below.”

“It’s a kid!” cried several of the fighting-men.  “Some cove is a gammonin’ us.”

“Don’t you believe it,” answered the landlord.  “He’s a real slap-up Corinthian, by his dress; and he means what he says, or else I ain’t no judge of a man.”

My uncle whispered for a few moments with the Prince of Wales.  “Well, gentlemen,” said he, at last, “the night is still young, and if any of you should wish to show the company a little of your skill, you could not ask a better opportunity.”

“What weight is he, Bill?” asked Jem Belcher.

“He’s close on six foot, and I should put him well into the thirteen stones when he’s buffed.”

“Heavy metal!” cried Jackson.  “Who takes him on?”

They all wanted to, from nine-stone Dutch Sam upwards.  The air was filled with their hoarse shouts and their arguments why each should be the chosen one.  To fight when they were flushed with wine and ripe for mischief - above all, to fight before so select a company with the Prince at the ringside, was a chance which did not often come in their way.  Only Jackson, Belcher, Mendoza, and one or two others of the senior and more famous men remained silent, thinking it beneath their dignity that they should condescend to so irregular a bye-battle.

“Well, you can’t all fight him,” remarked Jackson, when the babel had died away.  “It’s for the chairman to choose.”

“Perhaps your Royal Highness has a preference,” said my uncle.

“By Jove, I’d take him on myself if my position was different,” said the Prince, whose face was growing redder and his eyes more glazed.  “You’ve seen me with the mufflers, Jackson!  You know my form!”

“I’ve seen your Royal Highness, and I have felt your Royal Highness,” said the courtly Jackson.

“Perhaps Jem Belcher would give us an exhibition,” said my uncle.

Belcher smiled and shook his handsome head.

“There’s my brother Tom here has never been blooded in London yet, sir.  He might make a fairer match of it.”

“Give him over to me!” roared Joe Berks.  “I’ve been waitin’ for a turn all evenin’, an’ I’ll fight any man that tries to take my place.  ‘E’s my meat, my masters.  Leave ‘im to me if you want to see ‘ow a calf’s ‘ead should be dressed.  If you put Tom Belcher before me I’ll fight Tom Belcher, an’ for that matter I’ll fight Jem Belcher, or Bill Belcher, or any other Belcher that ever came out of Bristol.”

It was clear that Berks had got to the stage when he must fight some one.  His heavy face was gorged and the veins stood out on his low forehead, while his fierce grey eyes looked viciously from man to man in quest of a quarrel.  His great red hands were bunched into huge, gnarled fists, and he shook one of them menacingly as his drunken gaze swept round the tables.

“I think you’ll agree with me, gentlemen, that Joe Berks would be all the better for some fresh air and exercise,” said my uncle.  “With the concurrence of His Royal Highness and of the company, I shall select him as our champion on this occasion.”

“You do me proud,” cried the fellow, staggering to his feet and pulling at his coat.  “If I don’t glut him within the five minutes, may I never see Shropshire again.”

“Wait a bit, Berks,” cried several of the amateurs.  “Where’s it going to be held?”

“Where you like, masters.  I’ll fight him in a sawpit, or on the outside of a coach if it please you.  Put us toe to toe, and leave the rest with me.”

“They can’t fight here with all this litter,” said my uncle.  “Where shall it be?”

“‘Pon my soul, Tregellis,” cried the Prince, “I think our unknown friend might have a word to say upon that matter.  He’ll be vastly ill-used if you don’t let him have his own choice of conditions.”

“You are right, sir.  We must have him up.”

“That’s easy enough,” said the landlord, “for here he comes through the doorway.”

I glanced round and had a side view of a tall and well-dressed young man in a long, brown travelling coat and a black felt hat.  The next instant he had turned and I had clutched with both my hands on to Champion Harrison’s arm.

“Harrison!” I gasped.  “It’s Boy Jim!”

And yet somehow the possibility and even the probability of it had occurred to me from the beginning, and I believe that it had to Harrison also, for I had noticed that his face grew grave and troubled from the very moment that there was talk of the stranger below.  Now, the instant that the buzz of surprise and admiration caused by Jim’s face and figure had died away, Harrison was on his feet, gesticulating in his excitement.

“It’s my nephew Jim, gentlemen,” he cried.  “He’s not twenty yet, and it’s no doing of mine that he should be here.”

“Let him alone, Harrison,” cried Jackson.  “He’s big enough to take care of himself.”

“This matter has gone rather far,” said my uncle.  “I think, Harrison, that you are too good a sportsman to prevent your nephew from showing whether he takes after his uncle.”

“It’s very different from me,” cried Harrison, in great distress.  “But I’ll tell you what I’ll do, gentlemen.  I never thought to stand up in a ring again, but I’ll take on Joe Berks with pleasure, just to give a bit o’ sport to this company.”

Boy Jim stepped across and laid his hand upon the prize-fighter’s shoulder.

“It must be so, uncle,” I heard him whisper.  “I am sorry to go against your wishes, but I have made up my mind, and I must carry it through.”

Harrison shrugged his huge shoulders.

“Jim, Jim, you don’t know what you are doing!  But I’ve heard you speak like that before, boy, and I know that it ends in your getting your way.”

“I trust, Harrison, that your opposition is withdrawn?” said my uncle.

“Can I not take his place?”

“You would not have it said that I gave a challenge and let another carry it out?” whispered Jim.  “This is my one chance.  For Heaven’s sake don’t stand in my way.”

The smith’s broad and usually stolid face was all working with his conflicting emotions.  At last he banged his fist down upon the table.

“It’s no fault of mine!” he cried.  “It was to be and it is.  Jim, boy, for the Lord’s sake remember your distances, and stick to out-fightin’ with a man that could give you a stone.”

“I was sure that Harrison would not stand in the way of sport,” said my uncle.  “We are glad that you have stepped up, that we might consult you as to the arrangements for giving effect to your very sporting challenge.”

“Whom am I to fight?” asked Jim, looking round at the company, who were now all upon their feet.

“Young man, you’ll know enough of who you ‘ave to fight before you are through with it,” cried Berks, lurching heavily through the crowd.  “You’ll need a friend to swear to you before I’ve finished, d’ye see?”

Jim looked at him with disgust in every line of his face.

“Surely you are not going to set me to fight a drunken man!” said he.  “Where is Jem Belcher?”

“My name, young man.”

“I should be glad to try you, if I may.”

“You must work up to me, my lad.  You don’t take a ladder at one jump, but you do it rung by rung.  Show yourself to be a match for me, and I’ll give you a turn.”

“I’m much obliged to you.”

“And I like the look of you, and wish you well,” said Belcher, holding out his hand.  They were not unlike each other, either in face or figure, though the Bristol man was a few years the older, and a murmur of critical admiration was heard as the two tall, lithe figures, and keen, clean-cut faces were contrasted.

“Have you any choice where the fight takes place?” asked my uncle.

“I am in your hands, sir,” said Jim.

“Why not go round to the Five’s Court?” suggested Sir John Lade.

“Yes, let us go to the Five’s Court.”

But this did not at all suit the views of the landlord, who saw in this lucky incident a chance of reaping a fresh harvest from his spendthrift company.

“If it please you,” he cried, “there is no need to go so far.  My coach-house at the back of the yard is empty, and a better place for a mill you’ll never find.”

There was a general shout in favour of the coach-house, and those who were nearest the door began to slip through, in the hope of scouring the best places.  My stout neighbour, Bill Warr, pulled Harrison to one side.

“I’d stop it if I were you,” he whispered.

“I would if I could.  It’s no wish of mine that he should fight.  But there’s no turning him when once his mind is made up.”  All his own fights put together had never reduced the pugilist to such a state of agitation.

“Wait on ‘im yourself, then, and chuck up the sponge when things begin to go wrong.  You know Joe Berks’s record?”

“He’s since my time.”

“Well, ‘e’s a terror, that’s all.  It’s only Belcher that can master ‘im.  You see the man for yourself, six foot, fourteen stone, and full of the devil.  Belcher’s beat ‘im twice, but the second time ‘e ‘ad all ‘is work to do it.”

“Well, well, we’ve got to go through with it.  You’ve not seen Boy Jim put his mawleys up, or maybe you’d think better of his chances.  When he was short of sixteen he licked the Cock of the South Downs, and he’s come on a long way since then.”

The company was swarming through the door and clattering down the stair, so we followed in the stream.  A fine rain was falling, and the yellow lights from the windows glistened upon the wet cobblestones of the yard.  How welcome was that breath of sweet, damp air after the fetid atmosphere of the supper-room.  At the other end of the yard was an open door sharply outlined by the gleam of lanterns within, and through this they poured, amateurs and fighting-men jostling each other in their eagerness to get to the front.  For my own part, being a smallish man, I should have seen nothing had I not found an upturned bucket in a corner, upon which I perched myself with the wall at my back.

It was a large room with a wooden floor and an open square in the ceiling, which was fringed with the heads of the ostlers and stable boys who were looking down from the harness-room above.  A carriage-lamp was slung in each corner, and a very large stable-lantern hung from a rafter in the centre.  A coil of rope had been brought in, and under the direction of Jackson four men had been stationed to hold it.

“What space do you give them?” asked my uncle.

“Twenty-four, as they are both big ones, sir.”

“Very good, and half-minutes between rounds, I suppose?  I’ll umpire if Sir Lothian Hume will do the same, and you can hold the watch and referee, Jackson.”

With great speed and exactness every preparation was rapidly made by these experienced men.  Mendoza and Dutch Sam were commissioned to attend to Berks, while Belcher and Jack Harrison did the same for Boy Jim.  Sponges, towels, and some brandy in a bladder were passed over the heads of the crowd for the use of the seconds.

“Here’s our man,” cried Belcher.  “Come along, Berks, or we’ll go to fetch you.”

Jim appeared in the ring stripped to the waist, with a coloured handkerchief tied round his middle.  A shout of admiration came from the spectators as they looked upon the fine lines of his figure, and I found myself roaring with the rest.  His shoulders were sloping rather than bulky, and his chest was deep rather than broad, but the muscle was all in the right place, rippling down in long, low curves from neck to shoulder, and from shoulder to elbow.  His work at the anvil had developed his arms to their utmost, and his healthy country living gave a sleek gloss to his ivory skin, which shone in the lamplight.  His expression was full of spirit and confidence, and he wore a grim sort of half-smile which I had seen many a time in our boyhood, and which meant, I knew, that his pride had set iron hard, and that his senses would fail him long before his courage.