The Green Flag, by Arthur Conan Doyle

The Croxley Master

1

Mr. Robert Montgomery was seated at his desk, his head upon his hands, in a state of the blackest despondency. Before him was the open ledger with the long columns of Dr. Oldacre’s prescriptions. At his elbow lay the wooden tray with the labels in various partitions, the cork box, the lumps of twisted sealing-wax, while in front a rank of bottles waited to be filled. But his spirits were too low for work. He sat in silence with his fine shoulders bowed and his head upon his hands.

Outside, through the grimy surgery window over a foreground of blackened brick and slate, a line of enormous chimneys like Cyclopean pillars upheld the lowering, dun-coloured cloud-bank. For six days in the week they spouted smoke, but today the furnace fires were banked, for it was Sunday. Sordid and polluting gloom hung over a district blighted and blasted by the greed of man. There was nothing in the surroundings to cheer a desponding soul, but it was more than his dismal environment which weighed upon the medical assistant. His trouble was deeper and more personal. The winter session was approaching. He should be back again at the University completing the last year which would give him his medical degree; but, alas! he had not the money with which to pay his class fees, nor could he imagine how he could procure it. Sixty pounds were wanted to make his career, and it might have been as many thousand for any chance there seemed to be of his obtaining it. He was roused from his black meditation by the entrance of Dr. Oldacre himself, a large, clean-shaven, respectable man, with a prim manner and an austere face. He had prospered exceedingly by the support of the local Church interest, and the rule of his life was never by word or action to run a risk of offending the sentiment which had made him. His standard of respectability and of dignity was exceedingly high, and he expected the same from his assistants. His appearance and words were always vaguely benevolent. A sudden impulse came over the despondent student. He would test the reality of this philanthropy.

“I beg your pardon, Dr. Oldacre,” said he, rising from his chair; “I have a great favour to ask of you.”

The doctor’s appearance was not encouraging. His mouth suddenly tightened, and his eyes fell.

“Yes, Mr. Montgomery?”

“You are aware, sir, that I need only one more session to complete my course.”

“So you have told me.”

“It is very important to me, sir.”

“Naturally.”

“The fees, Dr. Oldacre, would amount to about sixty pounds.”

“I am afraid that my duties call me elsewhere, Mr. Montgomery.”

“One moment, sir! I had hoped, sir, that perhaps, if I signed a paper promising you interest upon your money, you would advance this sum to me. I will pay you back, sir, I really will. Or, if you like, I will work it off after I am qualified.”

The doctor’s lips had thinned into a narrow line. His eyes were raised again, and sparkled indignantly.

“Your request is unreasonable, Mr. Montgomery. I am surprised that you should have made it. Consider, sir, how many thousands of medical students there are in this country. No doubt there are many of them who have a difficulty in finding their fees. Am I to provide for them all? Or why should I make an exception in your favour? I am grieved and disappointed, Mr. Montgomery, that you should have put me into the painful position of having to refuse you.” He turned upon his heel, and walked with offended dignity out of the surgery.

The student smiled bitterly, and turned to his work of making up the morning prescriptions. It was poor and unworthy work — work which any weakling might have done as well, and this was a man of exceptional nerve and sinew. But, such as it was, it brought him his board and One pound a week — enough to help him during the summer months and let him save a few pounds towards his winter keep. But those class fees! Where were they to come from? He could not save them out of his scanty wage. Dr. Oldacre would not advance them. He saw no way of earning them. His brains were fairly good, but brains of that quality were a drug in the market. He only excelled in his strength, and where was he to find a customer for that? But the ways of Fate are strange, and his customer was at hand.

“Look y’ere!” said a voice at the door. Montgomery looked up, for the voice was a loud and rasping one. A young man stood at the entrance — a stocky, bull-necked young miner, in tweed Sunday clothes and an aggressive neck-tie. He was a sinister-looking figure, with dark, insolent eyes, and the jaw and throat of a bulldog.

“Look y’ere!” said he again. “Why hast thou not sent t’ medicine oop as thy master ordered?”

Montgomery had become accustomed to the brutal frankness of the northern worker. At first it had enraged him, but after a time he had grown callous to it, and accepted it as it was meant. But this was something different. It was insolence — brutal, overbearing insolence, with physical menace behind it.

“What name?” he asked coldly.

“Barton. Happen I may give thee cause to mind that name, yoong man. Mak’ oop t’ wife’s medicine this very moment, look ye, or it will be the worse for thee.”

Montgomery smiled. A pleasant sense of relief thrilled softly through him. What blessed safety-valve was this through which his jangled nerves might find some outlet. The provocation was so gross, the insult so unprovoked, that he could have none of those qualms which take the edge off a man’s mettle. He finished sealing the bottle upon which he was occupied, and he addressed it and placed it carefully in the rack. “Look here!” said he, turning round to the miner, “your medicine will be made up in its turn and sent down to you. I don’t allow folk in the surgery. Wait outside in the waiting-room if you wish to wait at all.”

“Yoong man,” said the miner, “thou’s got to mak’ t’ wife’s medicine here, and now, and quick, while I wait and watch thee, or else happen thou might need some medicine thysel’ before all is over.”

“I shouldn’t advise you to fasten a quarrel upon me.” Montgomery was speaking in the hard, staccato voice of a man who is holding himself in with difficulty. “You’ll save trouble if you’ll go quietly. If you don’t you’ll be hurt. Ah, you would? Take it, then!”

The blows were almost simultaneous — a savage swing which whistled past Montgomery’s ear, and a straight drive which took the workman on the chin. Luck was with the assistant. That single whizzing uppercut, and the way in which it was delivered, warned him that he had a formidable man to deal with. But if he had underrated his antagonist, his antagonist had also underrated him, and had laid himself open to a fatal blow.

The miner’s head had come with a crash against the corner of the surgery shelves, and he had dropped heavily on to the ground. There he lay with his bandy legs drawn up and his hands thrown abroad, the blood trickling over the surgery tiles.

“Had enough?” asked the assistant, breathing fiercely through his nose.

But no answer came. The man was insensible. And then the danger of his position came upon Montgomery, and he turned as white as his antagonist. A Sunday, the immaculate Dr. Oldacre with his pious connection, a savage brawl with a patient; he would irretrievably lose his situation if the facts came out. It was not much of a situation, but he could not get another without a reference, and Oldacre might refuse him one. Without money for his classes, and without a situation — what was to become of him? It was absolute ruin.

But perhaps he could escape exposure after all. He seized his insensible adversary, dragged him out into the centre of he room, loosened his collar, and squeezed the surgery sponge over his face. He sat up at last with a gasp and a scowl. “Domn thee, thou’s spoilt my neck-tie,” said he, mopping up the water from his breast.

“I’m sorry I hit you so hard,” said Montgomery, apologetically.

“Thou hit me hard! I could stan’ such fly-flappin’ all day. ’Twas this here press that cracked my pate for me, and thou art a looky man to be able to boast as thou hast outed me. And now I’d be obliged to thee if thou wilt give me t’ wife’s medicine.”

Montgomery gladly made it up and handed it to the miner.

“You are weak still,” said he. “Won’t you stay awhile and rest?”

“T’ wife wants her medicine,” said the man, and lurched out at the door.

The assistant, looking after him, saw him rolling, with an uncertain step, down the street, until a friend met him, and they walked on arm in arm. The man seemed in his rough Northern fashion to bear no grudge, and so Montgomery’s fears left him. There was no reason why the doctor should know anything about it. He wiped the blood from the floor, put the surgery in order, and went on with his interrupted task, hoping that he had come scathless out of a very dangerous business.

Yet all day he was aware of a sense of vague uneasiness, which sharpened into dismay when, late in the afternoon, he was informed that three gentlemen had called and were waiting for him in the surgery. A coroner’s inquest, a descent of detectives, an invasion of angry relatives — all sorts of possibilities rose to scare him. With tense nerves and a rigid face he went to meet his visitors.

They were a very singular trio. Each was known to him by sight; but what on earth the three could be doing together, and, above all, what they could expect from him, was a most inexplicable problem. The first was Sorley Wilson, the son of the owner of the Nonpareil Coalpit. He was a young blood of twenty, heir to a fortune, a keen sportsman, and down for the Easter Vacation from Magdalene College. He sat now upon the edge of the surgery table, looking in thoughtful silence at Montgomery and twisting the ends of his small, black, waxed moustache. The second was Purvis, the publican, owner of the chief beer-shop, and well known as the local bookmaker. He was a coarse, clean-shaven man, whose fiery face made a singular contrast with his ivory-white bald head. He had shrewd, light-blue eyes with foxy lashes, and he also leaned forward in silence from his chair, a fat, red hand upon either knee, and stared critically at the young assistant. So did the third visitor, Fawcett, the horse-breaker, who leaned back, his long, thin legs, with their boxcloth riding-gaiters, thrust out in front of him, tapping his protruding teeth with his riding-whip, with anxious thought in every line of his rugged, bony face. Publican, exquisite, and horse-breaker were all three equally silent, equally earnest, and equally critical. Montgomery seated in the midst of them, looked from one to the other.

“Well, gentlemen?” he observed, but no answer came.

The position was embarrassing.

“No,” said the horse-breaker, at last. “No. It’s off. It’s nowt.”

“Stand oop, lad; let’s see thee standin’.” It was the publican who spoke. Montgomery obeyed. He would learn all about it, no doubt, if he were patient. He stood up and turned slowly round, as if in front of his tailor.

“It’s off! It’s off!” cried the horse-breaker. “Why, mon, the Master would break him over his knee.”

“Oh, that be hanged for a yarn!” said the young Cantab. “You can drop out if you like, Fawcett, but I’ll see this thing through, if I have to do it alone. I don’t hedge a penny. I like the cut of him a great deal better than I liked Ted Barton.”

“Look at Barton’s shoulders, Mr. Wilson.”

“Lumpiness isn’t always strength. Give me nerve and fire and breed. That’s what wins.”

“Ay, sir, you have it theer — you have it theer!” said the fat, red-faced publican, in a thick suety voice. “It’s the same wi’ poops. Get ’em clean-bred an’ fine, an’ they’ll yark the thick ‘uns — yark ’em out o’ their skins.”

“He’s ten good pund on the light side,” growled the horse-breaker.

“He’s a welter weight, anyhow.”

“A hundred and thirty.”

“A hundred and fifty, if he’s an ounce.”

“Well, the Master doesn’t scale much more than that.”

“A hundred and seventy-five.”

“That was when he was hog-fat and living high. Work the grease out of him and I lay there’s no great difference between them. Have you been weighed lately, Mr. Montgomery?”

It was the first direct question which had been asked him. He had stood in the midst of them like a horse at a fair, and he was just beginning to wonder whether he was more angry or amused.

“I am just eleven stone,” said he.

“I said that he was a welter weight.”

“But suppose you was trained?” said the publican. “Wot then?”

“I am always in training.”

“In a manner of speakin’, no doubt, he is always in trainin’,” remarked the horse-breaker. “But trainin’ for everyday work ain’t the same as trainin’ with a trainer; and I dare bet, with all respec’ to your opinion, Mr. Wilson, that there’s half a stone of tallow on him at this minute.”

The young Cantab put his fingers on the assistant’s upper arm, then with his other hand on his wrist, he bent the forearm sharply, and felt the biceps, as round and hard as a cricket-ball, spring up under his fingers.

“Feel that!” said he.

The publican and horse-breaker felt it with an air of reverence. “Good lad! He’ll do yet!” cried Purvis.

“Gentlemen,” said Montgomery, “I think that you will acknowledge that I have boon very patient with you. I have listened to all that you have to say about my personal appearance, and now I must really beg that you will have the goodness to tell me what is the matter.”

They all sat down in their serious, business-like way.

“That’s easy done, Mr. Montgomery,” said the fat-voiced publican. “But before sayin’ anything we had to wait and see whether, in a way of speakin’, there was any need for us to say anything at all. Mr. Wilson thinks there is. Mr. Fawcett, who has the same right to his opinion, bein’ also a backer and one o’ the committee, thinks the other way.”

“I thought him too light built, and I think so now,” said the horse-breaker, still tapping his prominent teeth with the metal head of his riding-whip. “But happen he may pull through, and he’s a fine-made, buirdly young chap, so if you mean to back him, Mr. Wilson —

“Which I do.”

“And you, Purvis?”

“I ain’t one to go back, Fawcett.”

“Well, I’ll stan’ to my share of the purse.”

“And well I knew you would,” said Purvis, “for it would be somethin’ new to find Isaac Fawcett as a spoil-sport. Well, then, we will make up the hundred for the stake among us, and the fight stands — always supposin’ the young man is willin’.”

“Excuse all this rot, Mr. Montgomery,” said the University man, in a genial voice. “We’ve begun at the wrong end, I know, but we’ll soon straighten it out, and I hope that you will see your way to falling in with our views. In the first place, you remember the man whom you knocked out this morning? He is Barton — the famous Ted Barton.”

“I’m sure, sir, you may well be proud to have outed him in one round,” said the publican. “Why, it took Morris, the ten-stone-six champion, a deal more trouble than that before he put Barton to sleep. You’ve done a fine performance, sir, and happen you’ll do a finer, if you give yourself the chance.”

“I never heard of Ted Barton, beyond seeing the name on a medicine label,” said the assistant.

“Well, you may take it from me that he’s a slaughterer,” said the horse-breaker. “You’ve taught him a lesson that he needed, for it was always a word and a blow with him, and the word alone was worth five shillin’ in a public court. He won’t be so ready now to shake his nief in the face of everyone he meets. However, that’s neither here nor there.”

Montgomery looked at them in bewilderment.

“For goodness’ sake, gentlemen, tell me what it is you want me to do!” he cried.

“We want you to fight Silas Craggs, better known as the Master of Croxley.”

“But why?”

“Because Ted Barton was to have fought him next Saturday. He was the champion of the Wilson coal-pits, and the other was the Master of the iron-folk down at the Croxley smelters. We’d matched our man for a purse of a hundred against the Master. But you’ve queered our man, and he can’t face such a battle with a two-inch cut at the back of his head. There’s only one thing to be done, sir, and that is for you to take his place. If you can lick Ted Barton you may lick the Master of Croxley, but if you don’t we’re done, for there’s no one else who is in the same street with him in this district. It’s twenty rounds, two-ounce gloves, Queensberry rules, and a decision on points if you fight to the finish.”

For a moment the absurdity of the thing drove every other thought out of Montgomery’s head. But then there came a sudden revulsion. A hundred pounds!— all he wanted to complete his education was lying there ready to his hand, if only that hand were strong enough to pick it up. He had thought bitterly that morning that there was no market for his strength, but here was one where his muscle might earn more in an hour than his brains in a year. But a chill of doubt came over him. “How can I fight for the coal-pits?” said he. “I am not connected with them.”

“Eh, lad, but thou art!” cried old Purvis. “We’ve got it down in writin’, and it’s clear enough ‘Anyone connected with the coal-pits.’ Doctor Oldacre is the coal-pit club doctor; thou art his assistant. What more can they want?”

“Yes, that’s right enough,” said the Cantab. “It would be a very sporting thing of you, Mr. Montgomery, if you would come to our help when we are in such a hole. Of course, you might not like to take the hundred pounds; but I have no doubt that, in the case of your winning, we could arrange that it should take the form of a watch or piece of plate, or any other shape which might suggest itself to you. You see, you are responsible for our having lost our champion, so we really feel that we have a claim upon you.”

“Give me a moment, gentlemen. It is very unexpected. I am afraid the doctor would never consent to my going — in fact, I am sure that he would not.”

“But he need never know — not before the fight, at any rate. We are not bound to give the name of our man. So long as he is within the weight limits on the day of the fight, that is all that concerns anyone.”

The adventure and the profit would either of them have attracted Montgomery. The two combined were irresistible. “Gentlemen,” said he, “I’ll do it!”

The three sprang from their seats. The publican had seized his right hand, the horse-dealer his left, and the Cantab slapped him on the back.

“Good lad! good lad!” croaked the publican. “Eh, mon, but if thou yark him, thou’ll rise in one day from being just a common doctor to the best-known mon ‘twixt here and Bradford. Thou art a witherin’ tyke, thou art, and no mistake; and if thou beat the Master of Croxley, thou’ll find all the beer thou want for the rest of thy life waiting for thee at the ‘Four Sacks.’”

“It is the most sporting thing I ever heard of in my life,” said young Wilson. “By George, sir, if you pull it off, you’ve got the constituency in your pocket, if you care to stand. You know the out-house in my garden?”

“Next the road?”

“Exactly. I turned it into a gymnasium for Ted Barton. You’ll find all you want there: clubs, punching ball, bars, dumb-bells, everything. Then you’ll want a sparring partner. Ogilvy has been acting for Barton, but we don’t think that he is class enough. Barton bears you no grudge. He’s a good-hearted fellow, though cross-grained with strangers. He looked upon you as a stranger this morning, but he says he knows you now. He is quite ready to spar with you for practice, and he will come any hour you will name.”

“Thank you; I will let you know the hour,” said Montgomery; and so the committee departed jubilant upon their way.

The medical assistant sat for a time in the surgery turning it over a little in his mind. He had been trained originally at the University by the man who had been middle-weight champion in his day. It was true that his teacher was long past his prime, slow upon his feet, and stiff in his joints, but even so he was still a tough antagonist; but Montgomery had found at last that he could more than hold his own with him. He had won the University medal, and his teacher, who had trained so many students, was emphatic in his opinion that he had never had one who was in the same class with him. He had been exhorted to go in for the Amateur Championships, but he had no particular ambition in that direction. Once he had put on the gloves with Hammer Tunstall in a booth at a fair and had fought three rattling rounds, in which he had the worst of it, but had made the prize fighter stretch himself to the uttermost. There was his whole record, and was it enough to encourage him to stand up to the Master of Croxley? He had never heard of the Master before, but then he had lost touch of the ring during the last few years of hard work. After all, what did it matter? If he won, there was the money, which meant so much to him. If he lost, it would only mean a thrashing. He could take punishment without flinching, of that he was certain. If there were only one chance in a hundred of pulling it off, then it was worth his while to attempt it.

Dr. Oldacre, new come from church, with an ostentatious Prayer-book in his kid-gloved hand, broke in upon his meditation.

“You don’t go to service, I observe, Mr. Montgomery” said he, coldly.

“No, sir; I have had some business to detain me.”

“It is very near to my heart that my household should set a good example. There are so few educated people in this district that a great responsibility devolves upon us. If we do not live up to the highest, how can we expect these poor workers to do so? It is a dreadful thing to reflect that the parish takes a great deal more interest in an approaching glove fight than in their religious duties.”

“A glove fight, sir?” said Montgomery, guiltily.

“I believe that to be the correct term. One of my patients tells me that it is the talk of the district. A local ruffian, a patient of ours, by the way, matched against a pugilist over at Croxley. I cannot understand why the law does not step in and stop so degrading an exhibition. It is really a prize fight.”

“A glove fight, you said.”

“I am informed that a 2oz. glove is an evasion by which they dodge the law, and make it difficult for the police to interfere. They contend for a sum of money. It seems dreadful and almost incredible — does it not?— to think that such scenes can be enacted within a few miles of our peaceful home. But you will realise, Mr. Montgomery, that while there are such influences for us to counteract, it is very necessary that we should live up to our highest.”

The doctor’s sermon would have had more effect if the assistant had not once or twice had occasion to test his highest, and come upon it at unexpectedly humble elevations. It is always so particularly easy to “compound for sins we’re most inclined to by damning those we have no mind to.” In any case, Montgomery felt that of all the men concerned in such a fight — promoters, backers, spectators — it is the actual fighter who holds the strongest and most honourable position. His conscience gave him no concern upon the subject. Endurance and courage are virtues, not vices, and brutality is, at least, better than effeminacy.

There was a little tobacco-shop at the corner of the street, where Montgomery got his bird’s-eye and also his local information, for the shopman was a garrulous soul, who knew everything about the affairs of the district. The assistant strolled down there after tea and asked, in a casual way, whether the tobacconist had ever heard of the Master of Croxley.

“Heard of him! Heard of him!” the little man could hardly articulate in his astonishment. “Why, sir, he’s the first mon o’ the district, an’ his name’s as well known in the West Riding as the winner o’ t’ Derby. But Lor,’ sir,”— here he stopped and rummaged among a heap of papers. “They are makin’ a fuss about him on account o’ his fight wi’ Ted Barton, and so the Croxley Herald has his life an’ record, an’ here it is, an’ thou canst read it for thysel’”

The sheet of the paper which he held up was a lake of print around an islet of illustration. The latter was a coarse wood-cut of a pugilist’s head and neck set in a cross-barred jersey. It was a sinister but powerful face, the face of a debauched hero, clean-shaven, strongly eye-browed, keen-eyed, with huge, aggressive jaw, and an animal dewlap beneath it. The long, obstinate cheeks ran flush up to the narrow, sinister eyes. The mighty neck came down square from the ears and curved outwards into shoulders, which had lost nothing at the hands of the local artist. Above was written “Silas Craggs,” and beneath, “The Master of Croxley.”

“Thou’ll find all about him there, sir,” said the tobacconist. “He’s a witherin’ tyke, he is, and we’re proud to have him in the county. If he hadn’t broke his leg he’d have been champion of England.”

“Broke his leg, has he?”

“Yes, and it set badly. They ca’ him owd K, behind his back, for that is how his two legs look. But his arms — well, if they was both stropped to a bench, as the sayin’ is, I wonder where the champion of England would be then.”

“I’ll take this with me,” said Montgomery; and putting the paper into his pocket he returned home.

It was not a cheering record which he read there. The whole history of the Croxley Master was given in full, his many victories, his few defeats.

Born in 1857 (said the provincial biographer), Silas Craggs, better known in sporting circles as the Master of Croxley, is now in his fortieth year.

“Hang it, I’m only twenty-three!” said Montgomery to himself, and read on more cheerfully.

Having in his youth shown a surprising aptitude for the game, he fought his way up among his comrades, until he became the recognised champion of the district and won the proud title which he still holds. Ambitious of a more than local fame, he secured a patron, and fought his first fight against Jack Barton, of Birmingham, in May 1880, at the old Loiterers’ Club. Craggs, who fought at ten stone-two at the time, had the better of fifteen rattling rounds, and gained an award on points against the Midlander. Having disposed of James Dunn, of Rotherhithe, Cameron, of Glasgow, and a youth named Fernie, he was thought so highly of by the fancy that he was matched against Ernest Willox, at that time middle-weight champion of the North of England, and defeated him in a hard-fought battle, knocking him out in the tenth round after a punishing contest. At this period it looked as if the very highest honours of the ring were within the reach of the young Yorkshireman, but he was laid upon the shelf by a most unfortunate accident. The kick of a horse broke his thigh, and for a year he was compelled to rest himself. When he returned to his work the fracture had set badly, and his activity was much impaired. It was owing to this that he was defeated in seven rounds by Willox, the man whom he had previously beaten, and afterwards by James Shaw, of London, though the latter acknowledged that he had found the toughest customer of his career. Undismayed by his reverses, the Master adapted the style of his fighting to his physical disabilities and resumed his career of victory — defeating Norton (the black), Hobby Wilson, and Levi Cohen, the latter a heavy-weight. Conceding two stone, he fought a draw with the famous Billy McQuire, and afterwards, for a purse of fifty pounds, he defeated Sam Hare at the Pelican Club, London. In 1891 a decision was given against him upon a foul when fighting a winning fight against Jim Taylor, the Australian middle weight, and so mortified was he by the decision, that he withdrew from the ring. Since then he has hardly fought at all save to accommodate any local aspirant who may wish to learn the difference between a bar-room scramble and a scientific contest. The latest of these ambitious souls comes from the Wilson coal-pits, which have undertaken to put up a stake of 100 pounds and back their local champion. There are various rumours afloat as to who their representative is to be, the name of Ted Barton being freely mentioned; but the betting, which is seven to one on the Master against any untried man, is a fair reflection of the feeling of the community.

Montgomery read it over twice, and it left him with a very serious face. No light matter this which he had undertaken; no battle with a rough-and-tumble fighter who presumed upon a local reputation. The man’s record showed that he was first-class — or nearly so. There were a few points in his favour, and he must make the most of them. There was age — twenty-three against forty. There was an old ring proverb that “Youth will be served,” but the annals of the ring offer a great number of exceptions. A hard veteran full of cool valour and ring-craft, could give ten or fifteen years and a beating to most striplings. He could not rely too much upon his advantage in age. But then there was the lameness; that must surely count for a great deal. And, lastly, there was the chance that the Master might underrate his opponent, that he might be remiss in his training, and refuse to abandon his usual way of life, if he thought that he had an easy task before him. In a man of his age and habits this seemed very possible. Montgomery prayed that it might be so. Meanwhile, if his opponent were the best man who ever jumped the ropes into a ring, his own duty was clear. He must prepare himself carefully, throw away no chance, and do the very best that he could. But he knew enough to appreciate the difference which exists in boxing, as in every sport, between the amateur and the professional. The coolness, the power of hitting, above all the capability of taking punishment, count for so much. Those specially developed, gutta-percha-like abdominal muscles of the hardened pugilist will take without flinching a blow which would leave another man writhing on the ground. Such things are not to be acquired in a week, but all that could be done in a week should be done.

The medical assistant had a good basis to start from. He was 5ft. 11 ins.— tall enough for anything on two legs, as the old ring men used to say — lithe and spare, with the activity of a panther, and a strength which had hardly yet ever found its limitations. His muscular development was finely hard, but his power came rather from that higher nerve-energy which counts for nothing upon a measuring tape. He had the well-curved nose and the widely opened eye which never yet were seen upon the face of a craven, and behind everything he had the driving force, which came from the knowledge that his whole career was at stake upon the contest. The three backers rubbed their hands when they saw him at work punching the ball in the gymnasium next morning; and Fawcett, the horse-breaker, who had written to Leeds to hedge his bets, sent a wire to cancel the letter, and to lay another fifty at the market price of seven to one.

Montgomery’s chief difficulty was to find time for his training without any interference from the doctor. His work took him a large part of the day, but as the visiting was done on foot, and considerable distances had to be traversed, it was a training in itself. For the rest, he punched the swinging ball and worked with the dumb-bells for an hour every morning and evening, and boxed twice a day with Ted Barton in the gymnasium, gaining as much profit as could be got from a rushing, two-handed slogger. Barton was full of admiration for his cleverness and quickness, but doubtful about his strength. Hard hitting was the feature of his own style, and he exacted it from others.

“Lord, sir, that’s a turble poor poonch for an eleven-stone man!” he would cry. “Thou wilt have to hit harder than that afore t’ Master will know that thou art theer. All, thot’s better, mon, thot’s fine!” he would add, as his opponent lifted him across the room on the end of a right counter. “Thot’s how I likes to feel ’em. Happen thou’lt pull through yet.” He chuckled with joy when Montgomery knocked him into a corner. “Eh, mon, thou art coming along grand. Thou hast fair yarked me off my legs. Do it again, lad, do it again!”

The only part of Montgomery’s training which came within the doctor’s observation was his diet, and that puzzled him considerably.

“You will excuse my remarking, Mr. Montgomery, that you are becoming rather particular in your tastes. Such fads are not to be encouraged in one’s youth. Why do you eat toast with every meal?”

“I find that it suits me better than bread, sir.”

“It entails unnecessary work upon the cook. I observe, also, that you have turned against potatoes.”

“Yes, sir; I think that I am better without them.”

“And you no longer drink your beer?”

“No, sir.”

“These causeless whims and fancies are very much to be deprecated, Mr. Montgomery. Consider how many there are to whom these very potatoes and this very beer would be most acceptable.”

“No doubt, sir, but at present I prefer to do without them.”

They were sitting alone at lunch, and the assistant thought that it would be a good opportunity of asking leave for the day of the fight.

“I should be glad if you could let me have leave for Saturday, Dr. Oldacre.”

“It is very inconvenient upon so busy a day.”

“I should do a double day’s work on Friday so as to leave everything in order. I should hope to be back in the evening.”

“I am afraid I cannot spare you, Mr. Montgomery.”

This was a facer. If he could not get leave he would go without it.

“You will remember, Dr. Oldacre, that when I came to you it was understood that I should have a clear day every month. I have never claimed one. But now there are reasons why I wish to have a holiday upon Saturday.”

Dr. Oldacre gave in with a very bad grace. “Of course, if you insist upon your formal rights, there is no more to be said, Mr. Montgomery, though I feel that it shows a certain indifference to my comfort and the welfare of the practice. Do you still insist?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good. Have your way.”

The doctor was boiling over with anger, but Montgomery was a valuable assistant — steady, capable, and hardworking — and he could not afford to lose him. Even if he had been prompted to advance those class fees, for which his assistant had appealed, it would have been against his interests to do so, for he did not wish him to qualify, and he desired him to remain in his subordinate position, in which he worked so hard for so small a wage. There was something in the cool insistence of the young man, a quiet resolution in his voice as he claimed his Saturday, which aroused his curiosity.

“I have no desire to interfere unduly with your affairs, Mr. Montgomery, but were you thinking of having a day in Leeds upon Saturday?”

“No, sir.

“In the country?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are very wise. You will find a quiet day among the wild flowers a very valuable restorative. Have you thought of any particular direction?”

“I am going over Croxley way.”

“Well, there is no prettier country when once you are past the iron-works. What could be more delightful than to lie upon the Fells, basking in the sunshine, with perhaps some instructive and elevating book as your companion? I should recommend a visit to the ruins of St. Bridget’s Church, a very interesting relic of the early Norman era. By the way, there is one objection which I see to your going to Croxley on Saturday. It is upon that date, as I am informed, that that ruffianly glove fight takes place. You may find yourself molested by the blackguards whom it will attract.”

“I will take my chance of that, sir,” said the assistant.

On the Friday night, which was the last night before the fight, Montgomery’s three backers assembled in the gymnasium and inspected their man as he went through some light exercises to keep his muscles supple. He was certainly in splendid condition, his skin shining with health, and his eyes with energy and confidence. The three walked round him and exulted.

“He’s simply ripping!” said the undergraduate.

“By gad, you’ve come out of it splendidly. You’re as hard as a pebble, and fit to fight for your life.”

“Happen he’s a trifle on the fine side,” said the publican. “Runs a bit light at the loins, to my way of thinking’.”

“What weight today?”

“Ten stone eleven,” the assistant answered.

“That’s only three pund off in a week’s trainin’,” said the horse-breaker. “He said right when he said that he was in condition. Well, it’s fine stuff all there is of it, but I’m none so sure as there is enough.” He kept poking his finger into Montgomery as if he were one of his horses. “I hear that the Master will scale a hundred and sixty odd at the ring-side.”

“But there’s some of that which he’d like well to pull off and leave behind wi’ his shirt,” said Purvis. “I hear they’ve had a rare job to get him to drop his beer, and if it had not been for that great red-headed wench of his they’d never ha’ done it. She fair scratted the face off a potman that had brought him a gallon from t’ ‘Chequers.’ They say the hussy is his sparrin’ partner, as well as his sweetheart, and that his poor wife is just breakin’ her heart over it. Hullo, young ’un, what do you want?”

The door of the gymnasium had opened and a lad, about sixteen, grimy and black with soot and iron, stepped into the yellow glare of the oil lamp. Ted Barton seized him by the collar.

“See here, thou yoong whelp, this is private, and we want noan o’ thy spyin’!”

“But I maun speak to Mr. Wilson.”

The young Cantab stepped forward.

“Well, my lad, what is it?”

“It’s aboot t’ fight, Mr. Wilson, sir. I wanted to tell your mon somethin’ aboot t’ Maister.”

“We’ve no time to listen to gossip, my boy. We know all about the Master.”

“But thou doan’t, sir. Nobody knows but me and mother, and we thought as we’d like thy mon to know, sir, for we want him to fair bray him.”

“Oh, you want the Master fair brayed, do you? So do we. Well, what have you to say?”

“Is this your mon, sir?”

“Well, suppose it is?”

“Then it’s him I want to tell aboot it. T’ Maister is blind o’ the left eye.”

“Nonsense!”

“It’s true, sir. Not stone blind, but rarely fogged. He keeps it secret, but mother knows, and so do I. If thou slip him on the left side he can’t cop thee. Thou’ll find it right as I tell thee. And mark him when he sinks his right. ’Tis his best blow, his right upper-cut. T’ Maister’s finisher, they ca’ it at t’ works. It’s a turble blow when it do come home.”

“Thank you, my boy. This is information worth having about his sight,” said Wilson. “How came you to know so much? Who are you?”

“I’m his son, sir.”

Wilson whistled.

“And who sent you to us?”

“My mother. I maun get back to her again.”

“Take this half-crown.”

“No, sir, I don’t seek money in comin’ here. I do it —”

“For love?” suggested the publican.

“For hate!” said the boy, and darted off into the darkness.

“Seems to me t’ red-headed wench may do him more harm than good, after all,” remarked the publican. “And now, Mr. Montgomery, sir, you’ve done enough for this evenin’, an’ a nine-hours’ sleep is the best trainin’ before a battle. Happen this time tomorrow night you’ll be safe back again with your 100 pound in your pocket.”

2

Work was struck at one o’clock at the coal-pits and the iron-works, and the fight was arranged for three. From the Croxley Furnaces, from Wilson’s Coal-pits, from the Heartsease Mine, from the Dodd Mills, from the Leverworth Smelters the workmen came trooping, each with his fox-terrier or his lurcher at his heels. Warped with labour and twisted by toil, bent double by week-long work in the cramped coal galleries or half-blinded with years spent in front of white-hot fluid metal, these men still gilded their harsh and hopeless lives by their devotion to sport. It was their one relief, the only thing which could distract their minds from sordid surroundings, and give them an interest beyond the blackened circle which enclosed them. Literature, art, science, all these things were beyond their horizon; but the race, the football match, the cricket, the fight, these were things which they could understand, which they could speculate upon in advance and comment upon afterwards. Sometimes brutal, sometimes grotesque, the love of sport is still one of the great agencies which make for the happiness of our people. It lies very deeply in the springs of our nature, and when it has been educated out, a higher, more refined nature may be left, but it will not be of that robust British type which has left its mark so deeply on the world. Every one of these raddled workers, slouching with his dog at his heels to see something of the fight, was a true unit of his race.

It was a squally May day, with bright sunbursts and driving showers. Montgomery worked all morning in the surgery getting his medicine made up.

“The weather seems so very unsettled, Mr. Montgomery,” remarked the doctor, “that I am inclined to think that you had better postpone your little country excursion until a later date.”

“I am afraid that I must go today, sir.”

“I have just had an intimation that Mrs. Potter, at the other side of Angleton, wishes to see me. It is probable that I shall be there all day. It will be extremely inconvenient to leave the house empty so long.”

“I am very sorry, sir, but I must go,” said the assistant, doggedly.

The doctor saw that it would be useless to argue, and departed in the worst of bad tempers upon mission. Montgomery felt easier now that he was gone. He went up to his room, and packed his running-shoes, his fighting-drawers, and his cricket sash into a hand-bag. When he came down, Mr. Wilson was waiting for him in the surgery. “I hear the doctor has gone.”

“Yes; he is likely to be away all day.”

“I don’t see that it matters much. It’s bound to come to his ears by to-night.”

“Yes; it’s serious with me, Mr. Wilson. If I win, it’s all right. I don’t mind telling you that the hundred pounds will make all the difference to me. But if I lose, I shall lose my situation, for, as you say, I can’t keep it secret.”

“Never mind. We’ll see you through among us. I only wonder the doctor has not heard, for it’s all over the country that you are to fight the Croxley Champion. We’ve had Armitage up about it already. He’s the Master’s backer, you know. He wasn’t sure that you were eligible. The Master said he wanted you whether you were eligible or not. Armitage has money on, and would have made trouble if he could. But I showed him that you came within the conditions of the challenge, and he agreed that it was all right. They think they have a soft thing on.”

“Well, I can only do my best,” said Montgomery.

They lunched together; a silent and rather nervous repast, for Montgomery’s mind was full of what was before him, and Wilson had himself more money at stake than he cared to lose.

Wilson’s carriage and pair were at the door, the horses with blue and white rosettes at their ears, which were the colours of the Wilson Coal-pits, well known, on many a football field. At the avenue gate a crowd of some hundred pit-men and their wives gave a cheer as the carriage passed. To the assistant it all seemed dream-like and extraordinary — the strangest experience of his life, but with a thrill of human action and interest in it which made it passionately absorbing. He lay back in the open carriage and saw the fluttering handkerchiefs from the doors and windows of the miners’ cottages. Wilson had pinned a blue and white rosette upon his coat, and everybody knew him as their champion. “Good luck, sir! good luck to thee!” they shouted from the roadside. He felt that it was like some unromantic knight riding down to sordid lists, but there was something of chivalry in it all the same. He fought for others as well as for himself. He might fail from want of skill or strength, but deep in his sombre soul he vowed that it should never be for want of heart.

Mr. Fawcett was just mounting into his high-wheeled, spidery dogcart, with his little bit of blood between the shafts. He waved his whip and fell in behind the carriage. They overtook Purvis, the tomato-faced publican, upon the road, with his wife in her Sunday bonnet. They also dropped into the procession, and then, as they traversed the seven miles of the high road to Croxley, their two-horsed, rosetted carriage became gradually the nucleus of a comet with a loosely radiating tail. From every side-road came the miners’ carts, the humble, ramshackle traps, black and bulging, with their loads of noisy, foul-tongued, open-hearted partisans. They trailed for a long quarter of a mile behind them — cracking, whipping, shouting, galloping, swearing. Horsemen and runners were mixed with the vehicles. And then suddenly a squad of the Sheffield Yeomanry, who were having their annual training in those parts, clattered and jingled out of a field, and rode as an escort to the carriage. Through the dust-clouds round him Montgomery saw the gleaming brass helmets, the bright coats, and the tossing heads of the chargers, the delighted brown faces of the troopers. It was more dream-like than ever.

And then, as they approached the monstrous, uncouth line of bottle-shaped buildings which marked the smelting-works of Croxley, their long, writhing snake of dust was headed off by another but longer one which wound across their path. The main road into which their own opened was filled by the rushing current of traps. The Wilson contingent halted until the others should get past. The iron-men cheered and groaned, according to their humour, as they whirled past their antagonist. Rough chaff flew back and forwards like iron nuts and splinters of coal. “Brought him up, then!” “Got t’ hearse for to fetch him back?” “Where’s t’ owd K-legs?” “Mon, mon, have thy photograph took —’twill mind thee of what thou used to look!” “He fight?— he’s nowt but a half-baked doctor!” “Happen he’ll doctor thy Croxley Champion afore he’s through wi’t.”

So they flashed at each other as the one side waited and the other passed. Then there came a rolling murmur swelling into a shout, and a great brake with four horses came clattering along, all streaming with salmon-pink ribbons. The driver wore a white hat with pink rosette, and beside him, on the high seat, were a man and a woman-she with her arm round his waist. Montgomery had one glimpse of them as they flashed past; he with a furry cap drawn low over his brow, a great frieze coat and a pink comforter round his throat; she brazen, red-headed, bright-coloured, laughing excitedly. The Master, for it was he, turned as he passed, gazed hard at Montgomery, and gave him a menacing, gap-toothed grin. It was a hard, wicked face, blue-jowled and craggy, with long, obstinate cheeks and inexorable eyes. The brake behind was full of patrons of the sport-flushed iron-foremen, heads of departments, managers. One was drinking from a metal flask, and raised it to Montgomery as he passed; and then the crowd thinned, and the Wilson cortege with their dragoons swept in at the rear of the others.

The road led away from Croxley, between curving green hills, gashed and polluted by the searchers for coal and iron. The whole country had been gutted, and vast piles of refuse and mountains of slag suggested the mighty chambers which the labour of man had burrowed beneath. On the left the road curved up to where a huge building, roofless and dismantled, stood crumbling and forlorn, with the light shining through the windowless squares.

“That’s the old Arrowsmith’s factory. That’s where the fight is to be,” said Wilson. “How are you feeling now?”

“Thank you, I was never better in my life,” Montgomery answered.

“By Gad, I like your nerve!” said Wilson, who was himself flushed and uneasy. “You’ll give us a fight for our money, come what may. That place on the right is the office, and that has been set aside as the dressing and weighing room.”

The carriage drove up to it amidst the shouts of the folk upon the hillside. Lines of empty carriages and traps curved down upon the winding road, and a black crowd surged round the door of the ruined factory. The seats, as a huge placard announced, were five shillings, three shillings, and a shilling, with half-price for dogs. The takings, deducting expenses, were to go to the winner, and it was already evident that a larger stake than a hundred pounds was in question. A babel of voices rose from the door, The workers wished to bring their dogs in free. The men scuffled. The dogs barked. The crowd was a whirling, eddying pool surging with a roar up to the narrow cleft which was its only outlet.

The brake, with its salmon-coloured streamers and four reeking horses, stood empty before the door of the office; Wilson, Purvis, Fawcett and Montgomery passed in.

There was a large, bare room inside with square, clean patches upon the grimy walls, where pictures and almanacs had once hung. Worn linoleum covered the floor, but there was no furniture save some benches and a deal table with an ewer and a basin upon it. Two of the corners were curtained off. In the middle of the room was a weighing-chair. A hugely fat man, with a salmon tie and a blue waistcoat with birds’-eye spots, came bustling up to them. It was Armitage, the butcher and grazier, well known for miles round as a warm man, and the most liberal patron of sport in the Riding. “Well, well,” he grunted, in a thick, fussy, wheezy voice, “you have come, then. Got your man? Got your man?

“Here he is, fit and well. Mr. Montgomery, let me present you to Mr. Armitage.”

“Glad to meet you, sir. Happy to make your acquaintance. I make bold to say, sir, that we of Croxley admire your courage, Mr. Montgomery, and that our only hope is a fair fight and no favour, and the best man win. That’s our sentiments at Croxley.”

“And it is my sentiment, also,” said the assistant.

“Well, you can’t say fairer than that, Mr. Montgomery. You’ve taken a large contrac’ in hand, but a large contrac’ may be carried through, sir, as anyone that knows my dealings could testify. The Master is ready to weigh in!”

“So am I.”

“You must weigh in the buff.” Montgomery looked askance at the tall, red-headed woman who was standing gazing out of the window.

“That’s all right,” said Wilson. “Get behind the curtain and put on your fighting kit.”

He did so, and came out the picture of an athlete, in white, loose drawers, canvas shoes, and the sash of a well-known cricket club round his waist. He was trained to a hair, his skin gleaming like silk, and every muscle rippling down his broad shoulders and along his beautiful arms as he moved them. They bunched into ivory knobs, or slid into long, sinuous curves, as he raised or lowered his hands.

“What thinkest thou o’ that?” asked Ted Barton, his second, of the woman in the window.

She glanced contemptuously at the young athlete. “It’s but a poor kindness thou dost him to put a thread-paper yoong gentleman like yon against a mon as is a mon. Why, my Jock would throttle him wi’ one bond lashed behind him.”

“Happen he may — happen not,” said Barton. “I have but twa pund in the world, but it’s on him, every penny, and no hedgin’. But here’s t’ Maister, and rarely fine he do look.”

The prize-fighter had come out from his curtain, a squat, formidable figure, monstrous in chest and arms, limping slightly on his distorted leg. His skin bad none of the freshness and clearness of Montgomery’s, but was dusky and mottled, with one huge mole amid the mat of tangled black hair which thatched his mighty breast. His weight bore no relation to his strength, for those huge shoulders and great arms, with brown, sledge-hammer fists, would have fitted the heaviest man that ever threw his cap into a ring. But his loins and legs were slight in proportion. Montgomery, on the other hand, was as symmetrical as a Greek statue. It would be an encounter between a man who was specially fitted for one sport, and one who was equally capable of any. The two looked curiously at each other: a bull-dog, and a high-bred clean-limbed terrier, each full of spirit.

“How do you do?”

“How do?” The Master grinned again, and his three jagged front teeth gleamed for an instant. The rest had been beaten out of him in twenty years of battle. He spat upon the floor. “We have a rare fine day for’t.”

“Capital,” said Montgomery.

“That’s the good feelin’ I like,” wheezed the fat butcher. “Good lads, both of them!— prime lads!— hard meat an’ good bone. There’s no ill-feelin’.”

“If he downs me, Gawd bless him!” said the Master,

“An’ if we down him, Gawd help him!” interrupted the woman.

“Haud thy tongue, wench!” said the Master, impatiently. “Who art thou to put in thy word? Happen I might draw my hand across thy face.”

The woman did not take the threat amiss. “Wilt have enough for thy hand to do, Jock,” said she. “Get quit o’ this gradely man afore thou turn on me.”

The lovers’ quarrel was interrupted by the entrance of a newcomer, a gentleman with a fur-collared overcoat and a very shiny top-hat — a top-hat of a degree of glossiness which is seldom seen five miles from Hyde Park. This hat he wore at the extreme back of his head, so that the lower surface of the brim made a kind of frame for his high, bald forehead, his, keen eyes, his rugged and yet kindly face. He bustled in with the quiet air of possession with which the ring master enters the circus.

“It’s Mr. Stapleton, the referee from London,” said Wilson.

“How do you do, Mr. Stapleton? I was introduced to you at the big fight at the Corinthian Club in Piccadilly.”

“Ah! I dare say,” said the other, shaking hands. “Fact is, I’m introduced to so many that I can’t undertake to carry their names. Wilson, is it? Well, Mr. Wilson, glad to see you. Couldn’t get a fly at the station, and that’s why I’m late.”

“I’m sure, sir,” said Armitage, “we should be proud that anyone so well known in the boxing world should come down to our little exhibition.”

“Not at all. Not at all. Anything in the interests of boxin’. All ready? Men weighed?”

“Weighing now, sir.”

“Ah! Just as well that I should see it done. Seen you before, Craggs. Saw you fight your second battle against Willox. You had beaten him once, but he came back on you. What does the indicator say — 163lbs.— two off for the kit — 161lbs. Now, my lad, you jump. My goodness, what colours are you wearing?”

“The Anonymi Cricket Club.”

“What right have you to wear them? I belong to the club myself.”

“So do I.”

“You an amateur?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you are fighting for a money prize?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose you know what you are doing? You realise that you’re a professional pug from this onwards, and that if ever you fight again —”

“I’ll never fight again.”

“Happen you won’t,” said the woman, and the Master turned a terrible eye upon her.

“Well, I suppose you know your own business best. Up you jump. One hundred and fifty-one, minus two, 149 — 12lbs. difference, but youth and condition on the other scale. Well, the sooner we get to work the better, for I wish to catch the seven o’clock express at Hellifield. Twenty three-minute rounds, with one-minute intervals, and Queensberry rules. Those are the conditions, are they not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good, then — we may go across.”

The two combatants had overcoats thrown over their shoulders, and the whole party, backers, fighters, seconds, and the referee filed out of the room. A police inspector was waiting for them in the road. He had a note-book in his hand — that terrible weapon which awes even the London cabman.

“I must take your names, gentlemen, in case it should be necessary to proceed for breach of peace.”

“You don’t mean to stop the fight?” cried Armitage, in a passion of indignation. “I’m Mr. Armitage, of Croxley, and this is Mr. Wilson, and we’ll be responsible that all is fair and as it should be.”

“I’ll take the names in case it should be necessary to proceed,” said the inspector, impassively.

“But you know me well.”

“If you was a dook or even a judge it would be all’ the same,” said the inspector. “It’s the law, and there’s an end. I’ll not take upon myself to stop the fight, seeing that gloves are to be used, but I’ll take the names of all concerned. Silas Craggs, Robert Montgomery, Edward Barton, James Stapleton, of London. Who seconds Silas Craggs?”

“I do,” said the woman. “Yes, you can stare, but it’s my job, and no one else’s. Anastasia’s the name — four a’s.”

“Craggs?”

“Johnson — Anastasia Johnson. If you jug him you can jug me.”

“Who talked of juggin’, ye fool?” growled the Master. “Coom on, Mr. Armitage, for I’m fair sick o’ this loiterin’.”

The inspector fell in with the procession, and proceeded, as they walked up the hill, to bargain in his official capacity for a front seat, where he could safeguard the interests of the law, and in his private capacity to lay out thirty shillings at seven to one with Mr. Armitage. Through the door they passed, down a narrow lane walled with a dense bank of humanity, up a wooden ladder to a platform, over a rope which was slung waist-high from four corner-stakes, and then Montgomery realised that he was in that ring in which his immediate destiny was to be worked out. On the stake at one corner there hung a blue-and-white streamer. Barton led him across, the overcoat dangling loosely from his shoulders, and he sat down on a wooden stool. Barton and another man, both wearing white sweaters, stood beside him. The so-called ring was a square, twenty feet each way. At the opposite angle was the sinister figure of the Master, with his red-headed woman and a rough-faced friend to look after him. At each corner were metal basins, pitchers of water, and sponges.

During the hubbub and uproar of the entrance Montgomery was too bewildered to take things in. But now there was a few minutes’ delay, for the referee had lingered behind, and so he looked quietly about him. It was a sight to haunt him for a lifetime. Wooden seats had been built in, sloping upwards to the tops of the walls. Above, instead of a ceiling, a great flight of crows passed slowly across a square of grey cloud. Right up to the topmost benches the folk were banked — broadcloth in front, corduroys and fustian behind; faces turned everywhere upon him. The grey reek of the pipes filled the building, and the air was pungent with the acrid smell of cheap, strong tobacco. Everywhere among the human faces were to be seen the heads of the dogs. They growled and yapped from the back benches. In that dense mass of humanity, one could hardly pick out individuals, but Montgomery’s eyes caught the brazen gleam of the helmets held upon the knees of the ten yeomen of his escort. At the very edge of the platform sat the reporters, five of them — three locals and two all the way from London. But where was the all-important referee? There was no sign of him, unless he were in the centre of that angry swirl of men near the door.

Mr. Stapleton had stopped to examine the gloves which wore to be used, and entered the building after the combatants. He had started to come down that narrow lane with the human walls which led to the ring. But already it had gone abroad that the Wilson champion was a gentleman, and that another gentleman had been appointed as referee. A wave of suspicion passed through the Croxley folk. They would have one of their own people for a referee. They would not have a stranger. His path was stopped as he made for the ring. Excited men flung themselves in front of him; they waved their fists in his face and cursed him. A woman howled vile names in his ear. Somebody struck at him with an umbrella. “Go thou back to Lunnon. We want noan o’ thee. Go thou back!” they yelled.

Stapleton, with his shiny hat cocked backwards, and his large, bulging forehead swelling from under it, looked round him from beneath his bushy brows. He was in the centre of a savage and dangerous mob. Then he drew his watch from his pocket and held it dial upwards in his palm.

“In three minutes,” said he, “I will declare the fight off.”

They raged round him. His cool face and that aggressive top-hat irritated them. Grimy hands were raised. But it was difficult, somehow, to strike a man who was so absolutely indifferent.

“In two minutes I declare the fight off.”

They exploded into blasphemy. The breath of angry men smoked into his placid face. A gnarled, grimy fist vibrated at the end of his nose. “We tell thee we want noan o’ thee. Get thou back where thou com’st from.”

“In one minute I declare the fight off.”

Then the calm persistence of the man conquered the swaying, mutable, passionate crowd.

“Let him through, mon. Happen there’ll be no fight after a’.”

“Let him through.”

“Bill, thou loomp, let him pass. Dost want the fight declared off?”

“Make room for the referee!— room for the Lunnon referee!”

And half pushed, half carried, he was swept up to the ring. There were two chairs by the side of it, one for him and one for the timekeeper. He sat down, his hands on his knees, his hat at a more wonderful angle than ever, impassive but solemn, with the aspect of one who appreciates his responsibilities.

Mr. Armitage, the portly butcher, made his way into the ring and held up two fat hands, sparkling with rings, as a signal for silence.

“Gentlemen!” he yelled. And then in a crescendo shriek, “Gentlemen!”

“And ladies!” cried somebody, for, indeed, there was a fair sprinkling of women among the crowd. “Speak up, owd man!” shouted another. “What price pork chops?” cried somebody at the back. Everybody laughed, and the dogs began to bark. Armitage waved his hands amidst the uproar as if he were conducting an orchestra. At last the babel thinned into silence.

“Gentlemen,” he yelled, “the match is between Silas Craggs, whom we call the Master of Croxley, and Robert Montgomery, of the Wilson Coal-pits. The match was to be under eleven-eight. When they were weighed just now, Craggs weighed eleven-seven, and Montgomery ten-nine. The conditions of the contest are — the best of twenty three-minute rounds with two-ounce gloves. Should the fight run to its full length, it will, of course, be decided upon points. Mr. Stapleton, the well-known London referee, has kindly consented to see fair play. I wish to say that Mr. Wilson and I, the chief backers of the two men, have every confidence in Mr. Stapleton, and that we beg that you will accept his rulings without dispute.”

He then turned from one combatant to the other, with a wave of his hand.

3

“Montgomery — Craggs!” said he.

A great hush fell over the huge assembly. Even the dogs stopped yapping; one might have thought that the monstrous room was empty. The two men had stood up, the small white gloves over their hands They advanced from their corners and shook hands, Montgomery gravely, Craggs with a smile. Then they fell into position. The crowd gave a long sigh — the intake of a thousand excited breaths. The referee tilted his chair on to its back legs, and looked moodily critical from the one to the other.

It was strength against activity — that was evident from the first. The Master stood stolidly upon his K leg. It gave him a tremendous pedestal; one could hardly imagine his being knocked down. And he could pivot round upon it with extraordinary quickness; but his advance or retreat was ungainly. His frame, however, was so much larger and broader than that of the student, and his brown, massive face looked so resolute and menacing that the hearts of the Wilson party sank within them. There was one heart, however, which had not done so. It was that of Robert Montgomery.

Any nervousness which he may have had completely passed away now that he had his work before him. Here was something definite — this hard-faced, deformed Hercules to beat, with a career as the price of beating him. He glowed with the joy of action; it thrilled through his nerves. He faced his man with little inand-out steps, breaking to the left, breaking to the right, feeling his way, while Craggs, with a dull, malignant eye, pivoted slowly upon his weak leg, his left arm half extended, his right sunk low across the mark. Montgomery led with his left, and then led again, getting lightly home each time. He tried again, but the Master had his counter ready, and Montgomery reeled back from a harder blow than he had given. Anastasia, the woman, gave a shrill cry of encouragement, and her man let fly his right. Montgomery ducked under it, and in an instant the two were in each other’s arms.

“Break away! Break away!” said the referee.

The Master struck upwards on the break, and shook Montgomery with the blow. Then it was “time.” It had been a spirited opening round. The people buzzed into comment and applause. Montgomery was quite fresh, but the hairy chest of the Master was rising and falling. The man passed a sponge over his head while Anastasia flapped the towel before him. “Good lass! good lass!” cried the crowd, and cheered her.

The men were up again, the Master grimly watchful, Montgomery as alert as a kitten. The Master tried a sudden rush, squattering along with his awkward gait, but coming faster than one would think. The student slipped aside and avoided him. The Master stopped, grinned, and shook his head. Then he motioned with his hand as an invitation to Montgomery to come to him. The student did so and led with his left, but got a swinging right counter in the ribs in exchange. The heavy blow staggered him, and the Master came scrambling in to complete his advantage; but Montgomery, with his greater activity, kept out of danger until the call of “time.” A tame round, and the advantage with the Master.

“T’ Maister’s too strong for him,” said a smelter to his neighbour.

“Ay; but t’other’s a likely lad. Happen we’ll see some sport yet. He can joomp rarely.”

“But t’ Maister can stop and hit rarely. Happen he’ll mak’ him joomp when he gets his nief upon him.”

They were up again, the water glistening upon their faces. Montgomery led instantly, and got his right home with a sounding smack upon the master’s forehead. There was a shout from the colliers, and “Silence! Order!” from the referee. Montgomery avoided the counter, and scored with his left. Fresh applause, and the referee upon his feet in indignation..

“No comments, gentlemen, if you please, during the rounds.”

“Just bide a bit!” growled the Master.

“Don’t talk — fight!” said the referee, angrily.

Montgomery rubbed in the point by a flush hit upon the mouth, and the Master shambled back to his corner like an angry bear, having had all the worst of the round.

“Where’s thot seven to one?” shouted Purvis, the publican. “I’ll take six to one!”

There were no answers.

“Five to one!”

There were givers at that. Purvis booked them in a tattered notebook.

Montgomery began to feel happy. He lay back with his legs outstretched, his back against the corner-post, and one gloved hand upon each rope. What a delicious minute it was between each round. If he could only keep out of harm’s way, he must surely wear this man out before the end of twenty rounds. He was so slow that all his strength went for nothing.

“You’re fightin’ a winnin’ fight — a winnin’ fight,” Ted Barton whispered in his ear. “Go canny; tak’ no chances; you have him proper.”

But the Master was crafty. He had fought so many battles with his maimed limb that he knew how to make the best of it. Warily and slowly he manoeuvred round Montgomery, stepping forward and yet again forward until he had imperceptibly backed him into his corner. The student suddenly saw a flash of triumph upon the grim face, and a gleam in the dull, malignant eyes. The Master was upon him. He sprang aside and was on the ropes. The Master smashed in one of his terrible upper-cuts, and Montgomery half broke it with his guard. The student sprang the other way and was against the other converging rope. He was trapped in the angle. The Master sent in another with a hoggish grunt which spoke of the energy behind it. Montgomery ducked, but got a jab from the left upon the mark. He closed with his man.

“Break away! Break away!” cried the referee. Montgomery disengaged, and got a swinging blow on the ear as he did so. It had been a damaging round for him, and the Croxley people were shouting their delight. “Gentlemen, I will not have this noise!” Stapleton roared. “I have been accustomed to preside at a well-conducted club, and not at a bear-garden.” This little man, with the tilted hat and the bulging forehead, dominated the whole assembly. He was like a head-master among his boys. He glared round him, and nobody cared to meet his eye. Anastasia had kissed the Master when he resumed his seat.

“Good lass. Do’t again!” cried the laughing crowd, and the angry Master shook his glove at her, as she flapped her towel in front of him. Montgomery was weary and a little sore, but not depressed. He had learned something. He would not again be tempted into danger.

For three rounds the honours were fairly equal. The student’s hitting was the quicker, the Master’s the harder. Profiting by his lesson, Montgomery kept himself in the open, and refused to be herded into a corner. Sometimes the Master succeeded in rushing him to the side-ropes, but the younger man slipped away, or closed and then disengaged. The monotonous “Break away! Break away!” of the referee broke in upon the quick, low patter of rubber-soled shoes, the dull thud of the blows, and the sharp, hissing breath of two tired men.

The ninth round found both of them in fairly good condition. Montgomery’s head was still singing from the blow that he had in the corner, and one of his thumbs pained him acutely and seemed to be dislocated. The Master showed no sign of a touch, but his breathing was the more laboured, and a long line of ticks upon the referee’s paper showed that the student had a good show of points. But one of this iron-man’s blows was worth three of his, and he knew that without the gloves he could not have stood for three rounds against him. All the amateur work that he had done was the merest tapping and flapping when compared to those frightful blows, from arms toughened by the shovel and the crowbar.

It was the tenth round, and the fight was half over. The betting now was only three to one, for the Wilson champion had held his own much better than had been expected. But those who knew the ring-craft as well as the staying power of the old prize-fighter knew that the odds were still a long way in his favour.

“Have a care of him!” whispered Barton, as he sent his man up to the scratch. “Have a care! He’ll play thee a trick, if he can.”

But Montgomery saw, or imagined he saw, that his antagonist was tiring. He looked jaded and listless, and his hands drooped a little from their position. His own youth and condition were beginning to tell. He sprang in and brought off a fine left-handed lead. The Master’s return lacked his usual fire. Again Montgomery led, and again he got home. Then he tried his right upon the mark, and the Master guarded it downwards.

“Too low! Too low! A foul! A foul!” yelled a thousand voices.

The referee rolled his sardonic eyes slowly round. “Seems to me this buildin’ is chock-full of referees,” said he. The people laughed and applauded, but their favour was as immaterial to him as their anger. “No applause, please! This is not a theatre!” he yelled.

Montgomery was very pleased with himself. His adversary was evidently in a bad way. He was piling on his points and establishing a lead. He might as well make hay while the sun shone. The Master was looking all abroad. Montgomery popped one upon his blue jowl and got away without a return. And then the Master suddenly dropped both his hands and began rubbing his thigh. Ah! that was it, was it? He had muscular cramp.

“Go in! Go in!” cried Teddy Barton.

Montgomery sprang wildly forward, and the next instant was lying half senseless, with his neck nearly broken, in the middle of the ring.

The whole round had been a long conspiracy to tempt him within reach of one of those terrible right-hand upper-cuts for which the Master was famous. For this the listless, weary bearing, for this the cramp in the thigh. When Montgomery had sprung in so hotly he had exposed himself to such a blow as neither flesh nor blood could stand. Whizzing up from below with a rigid arm, which put the Master’s eleven stone into its force, it struck him under the jaw; he whirled half round, and fell a helpless and half-paralysed mass. A vague groan and murmur, inarticulate, too excited for words, rose from the great audience. With open mouths and staring eyes they gazed at the twitching and quivering figure.

“Stand back! Stand right back!” shrieked the referee, for the Master was standing over his man ready to give him the coup-degrace as he rose.

“Stand back, Craggs, this instant!” Stapleton repeated.

The Master sank his hands sulkily and walked backwards to the rope with his ferocious eyes fixed upon his fallen antagonist. The timekeeper called the seconds. If ten of them passed before Montgomery rose to his feet, the fight was ended. Ted Barton wrung his hands and danced about in an agony in his corner.

As if in a dream — a terrible nightmare — the student could hear the voice of the timekeeper — three — four — five — he got up on his hand — six — seven — he was on his knee, sick, swimming, faint, but resolute to rise. Eight — he was up, and the Master was on him like a tiger, lashing savagely at him with both hands. Folk held their breath as they watched those terrible blows, and anticipated the pitiful end — so much more pitiful where a game but helpless man refuses to accept defeat.

Strangely automatic is the human brain. Without volition, without effort, there shot into the memory of this bewildered, staggering, half-stupefied man the one thing which could have saved him — that blind eye of which the Master’s son had spoken. It was the same as the other to look at, but Montgomery remembered that he had said that it was the left. He reeled to the left side, half felled by a drive which lit upon his shoulder. The Master pivoted round upon his leg and was at him in an instant.

“Yark him, lad! Yark him!” screamed the woman.

“Hold your tongue!” said the referee.

Montgomery slipped to the left again and yet again, but the Master was too quick and clever for him. He struck round and got him full on the face as he tried once more to break away. Montgomery’s knees weakened under him, and he fell with a groan on the floor. This time he knew that he was done. With bitter agony he realised, as he groped blindly with his hands, that he could not possibly raise himself. Far away and muffled he heard, amid the murmurs of the multitude, the fateful voice of the timekeeper counting off the seconds.

“One — two — three — four — five — six —”

“Time!” said the referee.

Then the pent-up passion of the great assembly broke loose. Croxley gave a deep groan of disappointment. The Wilsons were on their feet, yelling with delight. There was still a chance for them. In four more seconds their man would have been solemnly counted out. But now he had a minute in which to recover. The referee looked round with relaxed features and laughing eyes. He loved this rough game, this school for humble heroes, and it was pleasant to him to intervene as a Deus ex machina at so dramatic a moment. His chair and his hat were both tilted at an extreme angle; he and the timekeeper smiled at each other. Ted Barton and the other second had rushed out and thrust an arm each under Montgomery’s knee, the other behind his loins, and so carried him back to his stool. His head lolled upon his shoulder, but a douche of cold water sent a shiver through him, and he started and looked round him.

“He’s a’ right!” cried the people round. “He’s a rare brave lad. Good lad! Good lad!” Barton poured some brandy into his mouth. The mists cleared a little, and he realised where he was and what he had to do. But he was still very weak, and he hardly dared to hope that he could survive another round.

“Seconds out of the ring!” cried the referee. “Time!”

The Croxley Master sprang eagerly off his stool.

“Keep clear of him! Go easy for a bit,” said Barton, and Montgomery walked out to meet his man once more.

He had had two lessons — the one when the Master got him into his corner, the other when he had been lured into mixing it up with so powerful an antagonist. Now he would be wary. Another blow would finish him; he could afford to run no risks. The Master was determined to follow up his advantage, and rushed at him, slogging furiously right and left. But Montgomery was too young and active to be caught. He was strong upon his legs once more, and his wits had all come back to him. It was a gallant sight — the line-of-battleship trying to pour its overwhelming broadside into the frigate, and the frigate manoeuvring always so as to avoid it. The Master tried all his ring-craft. He coaxed the student up by pretended inactivity; he rushed at him with furious rushes towards the ropes. For three rounds he exhausted every wile in trying to get at him. Montgomery during all this time was conscious that his strength was minute by minute coming back to him. The spinal jar from an upper-cut is overwhelming, but evanescent. He was losing all sense of it beyond a great stiffness of the neck. For the first round after his downfall he had been content to be entirely on the defensive, only too happy if he could stall off the furious attacks of the Master. In the second he occasionally ventured upon a light counter. In the third he was smacking back merrily where he saw an opening. His people yelled their approval of him at the end of every round. Even the iron-workers cheered him with that fine unselfishness which true sport engenders. To most of them, unspiritual and unimaginative, the sight of this clean-limbed young Apollo, rising above disaster and holding on while consciousness was in him to his appointed task, was the greatest thing their experience had ever known.

But the Master’s naturally morose temper became more and more murderous at this postponement of his hopes. Three rounds ago the battle had been in his hands; now it was all to do over again. Round by round his man was recovering his strength. By the fifteenth he was strong again in wind and limb. But the vigilant Anastasia saw something which encouraged her.

“That bash in t’ ribs is telling on him, Jock,” she whispered. “Why else should he be gulping t’ brandy? Go in, lad, and thou hast him yet.”

Montgomery had suddenly taken the flask from Barton’s hand, and had a deep pull at the contents. Then, with his face a little flushed, and with a curious look of purpose, which made the referee stare hard at him, in his eyes, he rose for the sixteenth round.

“Game as a pairtridge!” cried the publican, as he looked at the hard-set face.

“Mix it oop, lad! Mix it oop!” cried the iron-men to their Master. And then a hum of exultation ran through their ranks as they realised that their tougher, harder, stronger man held the vantage, after all. Neither of the men showed much sign of punishment. Small gloves crush and numb, but they do not cut. One of the Master’s eyes was even more flush with his cheek than Nature had made it. Montgomery had two or three livid marks upon his body, and his face was haggard, save for that pink spot which the brandy had brought into either cheek. He rocked a little as he stood opposite his man, and his hands drooped as if he felt the gloves to be an unutterable weight. It was evident that he was spent and desperately weary. If he received one other blow it must surely be fatal to him. If he brought one home, what power could there be behind it, and what chance was there of its harming the colossus in front of him? It was the crisis of the fight. This round must decide it. “Mix it oop, lad! Mix it oop!” the iron-men whooped. Even the savage eyes of the referee were unable to restrain the excited crowd.

Now, at last, the chance had come for Montgomery. He had learned a lesson from his more experienced rival. Why should he not play his own game upon him? He was spent, but not nearly so spent as he pretended. That brandy was to call up his reserves, to let him have strength to take full advantage of the opening when it came. It was thrilling and tingling through his veins at the very moment when he was lurching and rocking like a beaten man. He acted his part admirably. The Master felt that there was an easy task before him, and rushed in with ungainly activity to finish it once for all. He slap-banged away left and right, boring Montgomery up against the ropes, swinging in his ferocious blows with those animal grunts which told of the vicious energy behind them.

But Montgomery was too cool to fall a victim to any of those murderous upper-cuts. He kept out of harm’s way with a rigid guard, an active foot, and a head which was swift to duck. And yet he contrived to present the same appearance of a man who is hopelessly done. The Master, weary from his own shower of blows, and fearing nothing from so weak a man, dropped his hand for an instant, and at that instant Montgomery’s right came home.

It was a magnificent blow, straight, clean, crisp, with the force of the loins and the back behind it. And it landed where he had meant it to — upon the exact point of that blue-grained chin. Flesh and blood could not stand such a blow in such a place. Neither valour nor hardihood can save the man to whom it comes. The Master fell backwards, flat, prostrate, striking the ground with so simultaneous a clap that it was like a shutter falling from a wall. A yell, which no referee could control, broke from the crowded benches as the giant went down. He lay upon his back, his knees a little drawn up, his huge chest panting. He twitched and shook, but could not move. His feet pawed convulsively once or twice. It was no use. He was done. “Eight — nine — ten!” said the time-keeper, and the roar of a thousand voices, with a deafening clap like the broad-side of a ship, told that the Master of Croxley was the Master no more.

Montgomery stood half dazed, looking down at the huge, prostrate figure. He could hardly realise that it was indeed all over. He saw the referee motion towards him with his hand. He heard his name bellowed in triumph from every side. And then he was aware of someone rushing towards him; he caught a glimpse of a flushed face and an aureole of flying red hair, a gloveless fist struck him between the eyes, and he was on his back in the ring beside his antagonist, while a dozen of his supporters were endeavouring to secure the frantic Anastasia. He heard the angry shouting of the referee, the screaming of the furious woman, and the cries of the mob. Then something seemed to break like an over-stretched banjo string, and he sank into the deep, deep, mist-girt abyss of unconsciousness.

The dressing was like a thing in a dream, and so was a vision of the Master with the grin of a bulldog upon his face, and his three teeth amiably protruded. He shook Montgomery heartily by the hand.

“I would have been rare pleased to shake thee by the throttle, lad, a short while syne,” said he. “But I bear no ill-feeling again’ thee. It was a rare poonch that brought me down — I have not had a better since my second fight wi’ Billy Edwards in ‘89. Happen thou might think o’ goin’ further wi’ this business. If thou dost, and want a trainer, there’s not much inside t’ ropes as I don’t know. Or happen thou might like to try it wi’ me old style and bare knuckles. Thou hast but to write to t’ ironworks to find me.”

But Montgomery disclaimed any such ambition. A canvas bag with his share — 190 sovereigns — was handed to him, of which he gave ten to the Master, who also received some share of the gate-money. Then, with young Wilson escorting him on one side, Purvis on the other, and Fawcett carrying his bag behind, he went in triumph to his carriage, and drove amid a long roar, which lined the highway like a hedge for the seven miles, back to his starting-point.

“It’s the greatest thing I ever saw in my life. By George, it’s ripping!” cried Wilson, who had been left in a kind of ecstasy by the events of the day. “There’s a chap over Barnsley way who fancies himself a bit. Let us spring you on him, and let him see what he can make of you. We’ll put up a purse — won’t we, Purvis? You shall never want a backer.”

“At his weight,” said the publican, “I’m behind him, I am, for twenty rounds, and no age, country, or colour barred.”

“So am I,” cried Fawcett; “middle-weight champion of the world, that’s what he is — here, in the same carriage with us.”

But Montgomery was not to be beguiled.

“No; I have my own work to do now.”

“And what may that be?”

“I’ll use this money to get my medical degree.”

“Well, we’ve plenty of doctors, but you’re the only man in the Riding that could smack the Croxley Master off his legs. However, I suppose you know your own business best. When you’re a doctor, you’d best come down into these parts, and you’ll always find a job waiting for you at the Wilson Coal-pits.”

Montgomery had returned by devious ways to the surgery. The horses were smoking at the door, and the doctor was just back from his long journey. Several patients had called in his absence, and he was in the worst of tempers.

“I suppose I should be glad that you have come back at all, Mr. Montgomery!” he snarled. “When next you elect to take a holiday, I trust it will not be at so busy a time.”

“I am sorry, sir, that you should have been inconvenienced.”

“Yes, sir, I have been exceedingly inconvenienced.” Here, for the first time, he looked hard at the assistant. “Good Heavens, Mr. Montgomery, what have you been doing with your left eye?”

It was where Anastasia had lodged her protest. Montgomery laughed.

“It is nothing, sir,” said he.

“And you have a livid mark under your jaw. It is, indeed, terrible that my representative should be going about in so disreputable a condition. How did you receive these injuries?”

“Well, sir, as you know, there was a little glove-fight today over at Croxley.”

“And you got mixed up with that brutal crowd?”

“I was rather mixed up with them.”

“And who assaulted you?”

“One of the fighters.”

“Which of them?”

“The Master of Croxley.”

“Good Heavens! Perhaps you interfered with him?”

“Well, to tell the truth, I did a little.”

“Mr. Montgomery, in such a practice as mine, intimately associated as it is with the highest and most progressive elements of our small community, it is impossible —”

But just then the tentative bray of a cornet-player searching for his key-note jarred upon their ears, and an instant later the Wilson Colliery brass band was in full cry with, “See the Conquering Hero Comes,” outside the surgery window. There was a banner waving, and a shouting crowd of miners.

“What is it? What does it mean?” cried the angry doctor.

“It means, sir, that I have, in the only way which was open to me, earned the money which is necessary for my education. It is my duty, Dr. Oldacre, to warn you that I am about to return to the University, and that you should lose no time in appointing my successor.”

http://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/d/doyle/arthur_conan/green/chapter3.html

Last updated Friday, March 14, 2014 at 21:33