The Collected Fiction of William Hope Hodgson: The Dream Of X & Other Fantastic Visions (17 page)

“Seven.” And the money that would be lost by those who had backed him. “Eight.” And the creditors and his little wife—their debts, their—His chance to earn the money was almost gone. “Nine!”

His life and his wits came back into him suddenly with a kind of such fierce abruptness that in one instant of time he had passed from the inert, sagging, almost lifeless man upon the floor of the ring into a man almost mad with the fierce determination yet to win; and in that same instant he had bounded to his feet, and with one terrific upper-cut jolted back the big smith’s head, following it with a left and right on the body that drove the huge man backwards, almost staggering. All round the ring the young athlete pursued his man, driving in right and left, like a madman, more than a trained boxer, hulling his man time after time, and pasting him severely about the face with three flush hits in succession. For he was in those brief moments almost above himself physically and psychically, with the enormous revulsion from total despair to bright hope; and his blows and his movements were scarcely possible to follow, so utterly swift and vehement were they.

Of course, it is easily understood that, normally, the big blacksmith would never thus have been taken off his guard, but he had so entirely considered his man “done out” that he had relaxed his watchfulness in the last moments of the count, and so had been utterly taken aback when the “miracle” occurred. Yet, though he was thus temporarily at a disadvantage, he was far too clever and practised a boxer to allow his opponent long to have it all his own way, and before many seconds had passed, and whilst still the excited shouting and yelling of the audience at the rally filled the green with sound, the Honourable Billy received a couple of “propping-off” hits that took a lot of steam out of his mad rush, and reduced him to something like sanity and a realisation of where he was and what he was fighting for.

There followed a short passage of cautious work on both sides, for the big smith had received some very punishing blows, and one of the face hits had puffed up the flesh around his left eye, whilst the young man, on his part, was a little distressed and shaken, both by the effects of the primary blow and the combined results of his mad boring of his opponent, and the heavy jolts with which the smith had propped him off.

Time was called, and both men went to their corners, breathing heavily, the smith marked in several places upon his iron-like body, in addition to the puffed-up flesh about his left eye, whilst the Honourable Billy had a great, angry red blotch upon his ribs below his left arm, where he had received the smith’s right, in the blow that had so nearly knocked him out. But, apart from this, he had no other marks, though his head was singing a little from one or two half-escaped punches of Dankley’s.

“Ee, lad, aa thowt tha’ wor done that time, sure!” whispered big Tom Holden, as he helped the young man into his chair and whipped open his towel.

Bellett, however, was grimly silent, doctoring the “punch”; after which, as he plied the sponge, he gave way to terse and pointed comment and advice.

“Tha’s geet thyself plugged proper, lad,” said Bellett almost fiercely. “Maybe’s tha’lt feight now, an’ quit foolin’. Dost tha’think Dankley’s a fule or a babby? Thee larn thy man afore tha’ goes to close feightin’, or thee’s as good as licked now this moment. Now, mind thee what I says. Use thy feet an’ thy brains, if so be as they bain’t all addled. Not but you come out of it better than might be,” he concluded, with a faint note of encouragement as the call came for seconds out of the ring.

And directly afterwards, “Time!”

The Honourable Billy walked swiftly to the centre of the ring, and faced the big smith, who suddenly took the offensive with a speed of movement truly astonishing in so big a man, for he circled the younger man twice, almost as nimbly as a great cat, and twice managed to get his left home on to the young man’s face, owing to his greater reach. Thrice in almost as many seconds the Honourable Billy tempted his opponent by uncovering himself somewhat, and thrice the smith’s ponderous fist came almost home, but always a little to the left, so that a swift movement of the head or the feet, as the case might be, carried him into safety; and the third time he countered with his right, making Dankley grunt suddenly.

This was the only blow that he got home that round, and the audience kept a rather disappointed silence as each man walked to his corner, for they considered it to have been rather a tame spell, though the few more knowing ones had followed the game with the most severe appreciation, and clapped warmly a somewhat diminutive applause to the young man.

“Tha’s done reet weel, lad!” was Bellett’s approving comment. “Aa’m proud of thee, lad! Tha’s larnin’ tha’ man, an’ aa con see as tha’ve foun’ summat to help thee.”

“Yes,” muttered the Honourable Billy, as they tended him with sponge and towel, “he’s as quick on his feet as I am, though you said he wasn’t, Bellett. But he doesn’t hit quite straight. He hits just a trifle to the left always, and also I’m pretty sure his timing’s a bit off. I b’lieve I can hit quicker, an’ I’ll prop him off good if I’m right.”

Bellett nodded intelligently, but warned him:

“He’ve the reach o’ thee, lad. Mind what thee’s doin’! If tha’ mistimes tha’ poonch he’ll get thee first wi’ yon long reach, an’ out tha’ like a bullock!”

And with this solemn warning there came the cry for seconds out of the ring, and then the call of “Time!”

The big smith was first to the centre of the ring, and met his man with a quick and skilful rush, which showed that he meant to force the fighting. He made the full use of his tremendous reach of arm, and kept the Honourable Billy hard at work on the retreat, trying both to avoid punishment and the ropes. Eventually Dankley got home a powerful left-hand punch that seemed to stagger the younger man, and immediately followed it with a tremendous right-hand swing at the jaw. But the Honourable Darrell was less harmed than he had allowed to appear, and slipped swiftly under the prodigious swing, at the same time driving home his own right with a fierce half-arm jab into the great smith’s short ribs that made Dankley gasp suddenly.

On the instant the young man seized his chance, and let out hard with his left at the same place, getting home tremendously, and immediately tried for the point of the big man’s jaw as his head came forward. But the great blacksmith was too hard and too clever, and guarded the attack, getting in a couple of quick but clumsy jabs at the Honourable Billy’s face that drove the young man out from under his guard, and so evened things somewhat.

From the tremendous audience there came a sharp ripple of clapping hands, and a storm of bravos and party-calls, intermingled with howls of advice to each of the men to go in and finish the other. But this the referee checked, threatening to exercise his powers unless better order and manners prevailed.

Meanwhile, the two men had stood back mutually a moment for a breather, until the disturbance had ended; and now once more advanced, the big smith showing more of care than he had shown hitherto in his battle with the Honourable Darrell. Thrice he feinted at the head, and made as though to come in at the body with his right; and thrice the Honourable Billy “stood off,” studying his man. Directly afterwards, the great blacksmith attacked suddenly with stupendous vigour; rushing his man to the ropes with a succession of heavy right and left blows, delivered at short range, and taking the odd punches that the Honourable Billy managed to return as if they were no heavier than slaps.

Yet, the quickness of the younger man on his feet, and his exceptional headwork, saved him at first, and he seemed like breaking away into the open ring; when suddenly the smith dropped his guard, and the young man, unable to resist the temptation, drove a hard, straight left at him, which appeared to be utterly disregarded. For in the same instant, Dankley countered with his right at the body, bashing the Honourable Billy slam into the ropes; and then, stepping into him, he drove in a right and left that the half-sick and dazed man was quite unable to avoid; so that he hung against the ropes, guarding stupidly and almost ineffectually the attack which seemed likely to end the battle quickly.

There was not a sound in all the green, except the dull, heavy thud of the blows, and the gasps of the younger man intermingled with the grunts of the smith as he sent his blows home. And then suddenly across the rather terrible silence there came a shrill scream, and a woman’s voice shouting: “Stop! Stop! Stop!”

The voice seemed to pierce to the young man’s senses, and he made a desperate attempt to rally; forcing himself up from the ropes, and striking out with a kind of wild hopelessness at the great blacksmith, who gave way calmly a pace, and hit him wherever he wanted.

From the surrounding people there came a curious murmur, through which pierced again the scream and the cry of: “Stop! Stop! Stop!” in a woman’s voice. The murmur rose into a roar of remonstrance, through which ran a sharp peal of hand-clapping that grew louder and louder. The green was full of an excited shouting, and then came the woman’s voice again, dimly through the enormous uproar.

On the Honourable Billy it seemed to produce an extraordinary effect. He appeared literally to galvanise into life and control of his forces. He slipped a tremendous right-handed drive of the smith’s, and countered on the big man’s jaw with his left. The blacksmith replied with a sharp, fierce rally of blows, and came into half-arm fighting, hitting the Honourable Billy once almost off his feet. The young man circled swiftly to the right, keeping out of distance, and Dankley followed him with a heavy left-hand drive, which the Honourable Billy slipped his head under, and immediately got home a heavy half-arm blow on the blacksmith’s ribs, making him reel.

In the same instant the uproar outside of the ring was redoubled. There came a flash of skirts across the ring, and a little woman, exceeding white of face, darted between the two men, just as the cry of “Time!” came sharply. She sprang at the great smith, and set two diminutive hands against his massive chest, pushing him back fiercely. “Stop! Stop! Stop!” she kept reiterating, in a voice that was scarcely above a tense whisper of sound. “Stop! Stop! Stop! You shall not! You shall not! Oh, tha sha’n’t! Tha sha’n’t, tha gre’t brute!” she ended in broad Lancashire, and burst into fierce crying; but ceased not to push the brawny smith backwards.

“Mary!” shouted the Honourable Billy, and leapt forward. “Mary—”

Whatever he might have said more was lost in the enormous babel of sound without the ring. Hoarse roars of anger at the interruption, constant pounding of benches, cat-calls, and through all the shrill, insistent sound of the referee’s whistle, calling for order.

But for the moment order was an impossibility. Hundreds of people had left their seats, and were invading the ring, some to inquire what it all meant, some to protest angrily at the interruption, some to declare that the Honourable Billy’s little wife was right, and that the fight should go no further. And the diminutive cause of it all was sobbing her heart out in the Honourable Billy’s arms, whilst the giant blacksmith stood by, and patted one of her hands with one of his enormous palms.

Gradually the audience were got in hand again, and persuaded or hustled—as the case might be—back to their seats, whilst the referee informed them in pointed words that he would stop the fight unless perfect order were kept.

He then turned to the occupants of the ring, and held a short discussion—not only with the promoters, who had now entered the ring, but with the principals themselves—the end of which was that it was resolved that the fight must go forward either to the full twenty rounds agreed upon, or else to a knock-out.

The only dissentient was the Honourable Mrs. William Darrell, alias Mary, who declared with a white and determined little face, and a nose that was not unbecomingly red, that she would not leave the ring without her husband, and that, if she had but learned earlier of the fight, it should never have been allowed to commence.

At this unexpected obstacle—and a very determined and vital one it was likely to prove in the circumstances—the promoters looked somewhat blankly at one another, whilst the timekeeper and referee conferred with one another. All recognised the peculiar delicacy of the situation, in that the lady was the wife of one of the principals; so that no one dared voice the only obvious solution of the puzzle, which was to gently but firmly remove the diminutive obstruction. Meanwhile, the great smith set the case out to the Honourable Mrs. William Darrell.

“Nay, lass,” he said. “ ’Tis but a game, when all be said. Thee go home, like a wise lass, an’ ’twill soon be over belike; an’ thy lad maybe the winner, if thou leave him easy minded.”

But Mary was deaf to the big man’s earnest advice, and clung, white-faced and determined, to her husband, who, after a little time of careful thought, told her that it was his wish, and all for the best, that the fight should continue, and that he wished for her to put no difficulty in the way.

For some minutes he argued with her, pointing out that the match must be concluded; that, apart from the prize which he hoped to win, there was a great deal of money hanging on the event; and that it must simply go forward, whatever their own private feelings might be.

And this way, and just as the big audience was beginning to stamp with impatience, and clap encouragement, she consented, and allowed Mr. Jackson to lead her from the ring. She kept a brave face, and turned once to wave encouragement to her young husband, at which the audience cheered her, but as soon as she was well away, she burst into hopeless crying, that sorely disturbed the businesslike Mr. Jackson, who gave much pointless and disturbed comfort, assuring her constantly that her husband would win, as surely as his own name was Mr. Jackson. And it was with this final assurance echoing in her ears that he left her in one of the private rooms of the Black Anchor, where she sobbed hopelessly a while, until, suddenly, she discovered that on the couch opposite there reposed nothing less than the Honourable Billy’s everyday clothes, this being the very room which he had used as a dressing-room.