Rodney Stone, Arthur Conan Doyle [the best books of all time .TXT] 📗

“Give ’im a wipe over the mouth,” said a hoarse voice.

“Joe Berks,” said Jackson, “I’d save the hangman the job of breaking your neck if His Royal Highness wasn’t in the room.”

“That’s as it may be, guv’nor,” said the half-drunken ruffian, staggering to his feet.  “If I’ve said anything wot isn’t genelmanlike—”

“Sit down, Berks!” cried my uncle, with such a tone of command that the fellow collapsed into his chair.

“Vy, vitch of you would look Tom Slack in the face?” piped the old fellow; “or Jack Broughton?—him vot told the old Dook of Cumberland that all he vanted vas to fight the King o’ Proosia’s guard, day by day, year in, year out, until ’e ’ad worked out the whole regiment of ’em—and the smallest of ’em six foot long.  There’s not more’n a few of you could ’it a dint in a pat o’ butter, and if you gets a smack or two it’s all over vith you.  Vich among you could get up again after such a vipe as the Eytalian Gondoleery cove gave to Bob Vittaker?”

“What was that, Buckhorse?” cried several voices.

“’E came over ’ere from voreign parts, and ’e was so broad ’e ’ad to come edgewise through the doors.  ’E ’ad so, upon my davy!  ’E was that strong that wherever ’e ’it the bone had got to go; and when ’e’d cracked a jaw or two it looked as though nothing in the country could stan’ against him.  So the King ’e sent one of his genelmen down to Figg and he said to him: ‘’Ere’s a cove vot cracks a bone every time ’e lets vly, and it’ll be little credit to the Lunnon boys if they lets ’im get avay vithout a vacking.’  So Figg he ups, and he says, ‘I do not know, master, but he may break one of ’is countrymen’s jawbones vid ’is vist, but I’ll bring ’im a Cockney lad and ’e shall not be able to break ’is jawbone with a sledge ’ammer.’  I was with Figg in Slaughter’s coffee-’ouse, as then vas, ven ’e says this to the King’s genelman, and I goes so, I does!”  Again he emitted the curious bell-like cry, and again the Corinthians and the fighting-men laughed and applauded him.

“His Royal Highness—that is, the Earl of Chester—would be glad to hear the end of your story, Buckhorse,” said my uncle, to whom the Prince had been whispering.

“Vell, your R’yal ’Ighness, it vas like this.  Ven the day came round, all the volk came to Figg’s Amphitheatre, the same that vos in Tottenham Court, an’ Bob Vittaker ’e vos there, and the Eytalian Gondoleery cove ’e vas there, and all the purlitest, genteelest crowd that ever vos, twenty thousand of ’em, all sittin’ with their ’eads like purtaties on a barrer, banked right up round the stage, and me there to pick up Bob, d’ye see, and Jack Figg ’imself just for fair play to do vot was right by the cove from voreign parts.  They vas packed all round, the folks was, but down through the middle of ’em was a passage just so as the gentry could come through to their seats, and the stage it vas of wood, as the custom then vas, and a man’s ’eight above the ’eads of the people.  Vell, then, ven Bob was put up opposite this great Eytalian man I says ‘Slap ’im in the vind, Bob,’ ’cos I could see vid ’alf an eye that he vas as puffy as a cheesecake; so Bob he goes in, and as he comes the vorriner let ’im ’ave it amazin’ on the conk.  I ’eard the thump of it, and I kind o’ velt somethin’ vistle past me, but ven I looked there vas the Eytalian a feelin’ of ’is muscles in the middle o’ the stage, and as to Bob, there vern’t no sign’ of ’im at all no more’n if ’e’d never been.”

His audience was riveted by the old prize-fighter’s story.  “Well,” cried a dozen voices, “what then, Buckhorse: ’ad ’e swallowed ’im, or what?”

“Yell, boys, that vas vat I wondered, when sudden I seed two legs a-stickin’ up out o’ the crowd a long vay off, just like these two vingers, d’ye see, and I knewed they vas Bob’s legs, seein’ that ’e ’ad kind o’ yellow small clothes vid blue ribbons—vich blue vas ’is colour—at the knee.  So they up-ended ’im, they did, an’ they made a lane for ’im an’ cheered ’im to give ’im ’eart, though ’e never lacked for that.  At virst ’e vas that dazed that ’e didn’t know if ’e vas in church or in ’Orsemonger Gaol; but ven I’d bit ’is two ears ’e shook ’isself together.  ‘Ve’ll try it again, Buck,’ says ’e.  ‘The mark!’ says I.  And ’e vinked all that vas left o’ one eye.  So the Eytalian ’e lets swing again, but Bob ’e jumps inside an’ ’e lets ’im ’ave it plumb square on the meat safe as ’ard as ever the Lord would let ’im put it in.”

“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