The Collected Fiction of William Hope Hodgson: The Dream Of X & Other Fantastic Visions (14 page)

“It’d be a godsend,” remarked the Honourable Billy, after a further little space of thinking. “The way things are now I’d jump at it. Only, I tell you I’m not half good enough. Dankley’s a thundering good man. He’s an awful slogger, I’ve always heard; but he’s got the science to back it. He’d be a first-rater if he’d only follow it up. I tell you, Tom, the Jackson crowd would just laugh at me if I put myself on offer.”

“Happen tha c’ud try,” said Holden, stopping and facing him. “Happen some o’ them ’d laff t’other side the face ’fore tha was done. Tha’s best man wi’ tha hands ’s a’ve seen; an’ I knows wod I’m sayin’, tho’ I bean’t no use to box mysen. Coom down wi’ me t’-morrow neet, an’ see Mister Jackson. He’s fair mad to find a good mon to taake place o’ Dan. Wilta?”

“Tom,” said the Honourable Billy grimly, “if Jackson’s fool enough to try me and risk his money on me, I’m game, you bet. And I’ll, do my best for him, and that’ll be for myself, too. I want the cash thunderin’ bad.”

“ ’I,” said Tom; “owd George Cardman wor sayin’ summat ’s made me think tha’ wor short. Well, Aw’ll call for thee t’-morrow neet at ha’-past seven. Tha’ll do a-reet; tha’lt see. Good-neet. Don’t say aught to Pollie.” And with that he turned, and made off in the direction of his home without another word.

Said Pollie, when the Honourable Billy returned:

“What did Tom Holden want to say, dear? Was it anything important?”

“Why,” said the Honourable Billy, “who said that Tom Holden wanted to say anything?”

Mary Darrell laughed, but asked nothing further; for she could trust her husband, and she would not force him into the position of having to fib, or else having to refuse blankly to tell her. Yet she half meant, in her way, to discover what it might be that Tom had been so palpably secret about.

The following day the Honourable Billy went off to see Williams, the man to whom he owed the big bill for pictures, and, after some talk, he managed to arrange things.

Then he went home to tell Mary that he had deferred the threatened fall of the sword for a month. But when he got home he found fresh trouble, for there, with his foot down to prevent the door from being closed, was a big, coarse-looking man, whose voice seemed to fill the Court.

“I’ll ha’ my money!” he was shouting to someone within the nearly closed door. “I’ll ha’ my money!” And he gave the door a shove with his great hand that forced it half open.

But it was immediately pushed to again, and a little, frightened voice from behind it was heard saying: “Go away! Go away! Go away! Go away! Oh, go away!” And then the sound of sobs.

“No; I’ll not go away wi’out my money!” roared the man, thumping the door vigorously with each word to emphasise himself. “Tell that skulkin’ toff that married thee to coom out an’ pay his debts, ’stead o’ loafin’ ahind thy skirts like a great babby!”

“Go away! Oh, do go away, Mr. Jenkins!” said Mary’s voice from behind the door, sobbing bitterly. “Oh, go away! Oh, go away!”

“Not I!” shouted the man. “I’ll ha’ my money! Send un out! I’ll teach un! Send tha loafin’ toff out!” And he thumped at the door till it quivered again; and poor little Mary Darrell, pushing desperately against it from behind, screamed piteously. “I’ll teach un!” roared the big grocer. “I’ll teach un!”

“Certainly!” said the Honourable Billy, at his elbow, in the quietest voice in the world. “Will you give the lesson here, Mr. Jenkins, or in the little field at the back? In any case, perhaps you will be good enough to stop bullying my wife.” Then, as the man turned, half ashamed and blustering, upon him, “Oh, you hideous lout!” he said, with a flash of white-hot rage. And therewith he struck the big grocer with his open hand on the side of the face so hard that he knocked him down.

The burly grocer was doubtless a bully; though, possibly, he had not considered himself bullying in an unrighteous cause; but he had plenty of animal courage, and, moreover, he fancied himself somewhat with his fists. He got up, with an inarticulate roar, and hurled himself at the “toff.”

“Urr! urr! urr!” he grunted, and with each grunt he drove a blow at the Honourable Billy’s head. But the head refused to wait for the big red fists, and slid under them, swiftly and gracefully, or slipped to the side. Then the Honourable Billy shot his left hand in quickly, and broke one of the big grocer’s short ribs; for he was uncommonly angry. And, because he was so uncommonly angry, he followed his left lead with his right fist with all his strength. There was a nasty, snicking, breaking sound, and the big man lay senseless on the floor of the Court with a broken jaw.

“My word! My word, sir!” said a quick voice behind the furious young man. “Knocked big Jenkins into heaven with a left and right, sir! My word, sir; but you’re the man I’m looking for. My name’s Jackson, sir—Jackson of Jackson’s Bowlin’ Green, at the back of the Black Anchor.”

The Honourable Billy looked round, and found a small, rather dapper-looking man, with a somewhat Jewish kind of face, holding out a much-ringed hand to him.

“I’m Jackson, sir,” repeated the little man, as if the name explained everything that might need explaining.

“Ye-es?” said the Honourable Billy, a little dazed still with the anger that had burned in him. He took the extended hand, and gave it a brief, unconscious shake, then dropped it, and turned to the man upon the ground.

“Allow me,” interposed the little man, and knelt beside the big grocer, making a swift examination. “Broken rib; jaw broken and dislocated,” he commented calmly. “You’ve got a good punch on you, sir—a rare good punch.”

He put his hand over the man’s heart, and afterwards pulled up one of his eyelids.

“Needs a doctor pretty bad,” he remarked. “I’ve my light wagonette here; perhaps you’ll give my man a lift, sir?”

He put his fingers into his mouth and whistled, and there drove in through the entrance of the Court a smart, light, sporty-looking wagonette, driven by a big, stout man in a light-grey top-hat, who chewed a straw and viewed the little group without any undue exhibition of emotion.

“Come and give us a lift, Marles!” said the little man briefly. “Be smart now!”

The man climbed down, and came leisurely across.

“Had his medicine good, Mr. Jackson, by the look of un!” he commented, stooping forward, hands on knees, and inspecting the man upon the ground.

“Take his shoulders,” was all the reply his master made; and they set-to and got the weighty grocer into the wagonette.

“No, sir!” said Mr. Jackson, as the Honourable Billy made to follow. “You keep out o’ this. Tom Holden mentioned you to me, and I was coming up to see you. After what I’ve seen I’m not going to have you gaoled, as you may be, for assault. Leave the whole thing in my hands, sir. I’ll fix it up, if anyone can. You go home and stay there quietly until I come up and have a talk with you, sir. You’ll know me—Jackson’s my name, sir. Jackson!”

And with that he and his man got into the wagonette and drove off.

“He’s right,” muttered the Honourable Billy. And suddenly he remembered Mary. He rushed to his door, and found it closed. From within there came an indistinct sound of sobbing. He turned the handle and pushed, but was immediately aware that someone was pushing back. There came a little gasp of terror and hopelessness behind the door, and then his diminutive wife’s voice frantically:

“Go away ! Go away ! Oh, go, go, go, go, go, go, go!”

And in the middle of this frightened and unstrung reiteration, the Honourable Billy pushed the door open and went in. He found Mary at the back of the door—a small, trembling, dishevelled figure, pushing and pushing, and sobbing desperately as she pushed—a thoroughly unnerved and terrified little woman.

“Oh,” he said, with infinite tenderness, “my little defender of the castle!” And he caught her into his arms and carried her into the inner room. “Poor kiddy!” he muttered. “The brute has upset you.”

“There—there—there’s been—been three; one—one—one af-ter another,” said Mary, unable yet to still her sobs. “They—they said such—such h-h-horrible things, and—and —and tried to come in-n-side. But I pushed against them; and—and—and then you—came in.”

“Poor little woman,” muttered the Honourable Billy. “No more answering the door when I’m out, remember; that is, not until I’ve paid all the brutes up. We’ll never buy another shillingsworth from any of them as long as we live. The rotten brutes to bully you like that! If I’d caught ’em! If I’d caught ’em!” he added to himself, with a dreadful little note of savagery in his voice. Then, suddenly remembering the condition of Jenkins the grocer, he fell silent, troubled and bothered that he had hit so hard. Yet, in the same moment, fiercely sure that he would do the same thing again in like case.

Presently he had his wife hushed and assured, telling her that all would be well, and that he had found a method of earning enough money within a few weeks to pay off all their debts, and have something in the bank, if only things went right. But what was to prove this sudden road to wealth he was careful to hide from her.

Later, when Mr. Jackson returned to pay his promised call, the Honourable Billy ushered him into his little study, explaining to him, as soon as he had closed the door, that his wife must not hear a word of the match with Dankley, or she would be dreadfully upset.

Then Mr. Jackson got to work and proposed terms; yet, in the end, explained to the Honourable Billy that nothing could be signed until the committee who were running the affair along with him had signified their agreeableness for him to take the place of Dan Natter. Therefore, the Honourable Billy must call at the Black Anchor that night, where the committee were to meet in a private room, and discuss the situation, and choose some boxer to meet Dankley.

“And pretty glum they are, sir,” said Jackson, gleefully rubbing his hands; “and so was I, for that matter, till I saw you paste big Jenkins. He’s quite a tidy man with his fists, too, and a bit of a rough customer. We’ll keep him quiet, though, till the match is over, even if we have to shanghai him, sir. You bet we will, as sure as my name’s Jackson.”

He stood up, and shook hands.

“You’ll be down, then, sir, soon after eight to-night at the Black Anchor,” he concluded. “Ask anyone, sir. Say you want Jackson’s place; they’ll show you. Ask for me. Good-night, sir,”

And with that he was off.

At seven-thirty, as arranged, big Tom Holden called for the Honourable Billy, who promptly told him that Jackson had been up himself to see him.

“ ’I,” said Holden, composedly. “Aa thowt he might; for I cracked tha up proper to him. Aa’m reet glad tha went for Jenkins; he’s a rough lot an’ dirty-mouthed, he is that.”

At a few minutes past eight the two of them reached the Black Anchor, where Tom—who seemed to know his way about—led the way down the corridor to a room at the end. He opened the door, and pushed the Honourable Billy in, saying:

“Aa’ve brought a mon ’s ’ll lick Dankley inter fits. Mr. Jackson, there, knows ’s he’s a good ’un.”

The Honourable Billy looked round him. He was in a big, brightly lit room, in which a dozen sporty-looking men, generally on the wrong side of forty, were sitting round a table, smoking and drinking. Mr. Jackson was at the head of the table, and held an auctioneer’s gavel, with which, from time to time, he pounded on the table. Otherwise he seemed to be taking no part in the conversation, that had been warm and general when the two entered the room. Moreover, he took no notice of the Honourable Billy, beyond the most casual nod, and certainly ignored Tom Holden’s reference to his knowledge of the young man’s capabilities. It was evident to the Honourable Billy that he knew what he was doing; and that there was rhyme reason behind this unexpected noncommittal attitude.

A quick and general silence had met Tom Holden’s remark, and there was a turning of heads and craning of necks as those at the table moved to view the new champion so forcibly announced.

Then, in the silence, there came a loud, rough voice, from a big man sitting near Mr. Jackson: “Fetch un in, Tom! Fetch un in! Don’t keep us all waitin’!”

There was a sneering note in the man’s tone that made the Honourable Billy look the more particularly at him. Thus he saw that the big man was not staring at him, as were the others; but looking ostentatiously at the door, as though he supposed the man to whom Tom Holden referred must be still without.

“Here he be,” replied Holden, pointing to the Honourable Billy, and looking a little puzzled.

“What!” roared the big man, whose battered face, thick ears, and broken knuckles told that he was a pugilist. “What! Ha, ha, ha, ha! Aa could eat un wi’out salt—a stuck-up bloomin’ young torf as fancies hisself a fi’tin’-man! Yon’s no sort o’ use to us, Tom, as tha should ha’ known. Us wants a man, an’ a dommed good un, too. Yon’s mebbe one o’ them fancy, soft-glove chaps. Us wants a lad as’ll put the fear o’ God inter Blacksmith Dankley. An’ us’ll never find one; an’ that’s my bettin’ any day!”

From other men at the table there came a murmur of protests, not against the rudeness of the big pugilist, but against Tom Holden for attempting to foist such an obvious impossibility upon them as the Honourable Billy—a “torf.”

As silence came again on the room, Mr. Jackson spoke, in a quiet, emotionless voice:

“I’m inclined to fancy the looks of the young gentleman,” he said.

“Ha!” snorted the big boxer. “Ha, ha! Tha’d lose tha money if tha put it on the likes of ’im!”