Chapter 4

Feinting with his left, the Mauler clinched heavily with his right, but Ralph foiled the attack with a clever half-nelson. Again Mills swung his right, and again Ralph parried the blow, this time by sending his left to the funny-bone and thus paralysing the arm. He then dashed in and uppercut his opponent severely on the occiput. Mauler Mills staggered to the ropes, to which he clung frantically in order to preserve his balance.

A savage roar went up from the crowd, roused now to a pitch of frenzied excitement. "Now you've got him! Finish him! Put him out!" they shouted.

But Ralph, chivalrous as always, drew back, bowed formally to his opponent and quietly awaited his recovery.

Presently, after a courteous enquiry and an assurance from the Mauler that he was quite ready, the pair exchanged a warm handshake and renewed their combat.

Taking a deep breath, Ralph advanced with cat-like tread and flashing eyes upon his adversary. Knowing from painful experience what to expect, the latter circled cautiously away, covering his face with his hands. But Ralph, realising that time was short, determined not to be baffled. Combining the agility of the chamois with the ponderous strength of the hippopotamus, he crouched low and sprang like a tiger through the air upon the unhappy Mauler, striking him full on the solar plexus. White to the lips, the Mauler fell squirming to the floor, while Ralph nonchalantly adjusted a lock of hair which had floated loose.

"_One--two--three ..._" the voice of the referee was like the voice of inexorable Fate ... "_four--five--six ..._" Lady Margaret gripped her brother's arm till his hair stood on end ... "_seven--eight ..._" The Countess of Snecks fainted with a loud shriek ... "_nine--Out_"!

The great fight was won. The House of Tamerton was saved.

Clad in his claret-coloured dressing-gown, the new champion pressed his _fiancee_ against the yellow facings and stroked her fair hair fondly with his boxing-gloves.

"My little wife!" he whispered.

And the vast area of Corinthia rang with emotional cheers.

* * * * *

Illustration: _Sentry (suddenly appearing)._ "HALT! WHO GOES THERE?"

_Brown._ "ER--SEASON!"

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)

Far too rarely does the conscientious reviewer enjoy such a chance as has come to me now, a chance to let himself go in the matter of praise without stint or reservation. As a reward doubtless for some of my many unrecorded good deeds, there has come into my hands a slender volume called _Naval Occasions_ (BLACKWOOD), which seems to me to be the most entirely satisfactory and, indeed, fascinating thing of its kind that ever I read. The writer chooses for his own sufficient reasons to disguise himself as "BARTIMEUS," and under that name I have to ask him to accept my very sincere gratitude. The little book contains twenty-five sketches, mostly quite short, relating to (I quote its text, taken from the Articles of War) "the Navy, whereon, under the good Providence of God, the wealth, safety, and strength of the Kingdom chiefly depend." Never surely did a book appear so aptly. At a moment like this, when the dullest collection of naval facts can stir the pulse, such pages as these, full of the actual life and work of the men who are safeguarding us all, deserve a public as vast as the Empire itself. The appeal of them is amazing, for their art is of so concealed a quality that the writing seems simplicity itself. To say that they bring the atmosphere of salt winds and the tang of the sea, is nothing; a skilful novel about Margate sands would deserve this praise; it is in their humanity that the charm lies, the sense of courage and comradeship and high endeavour that is in every one of them. You will laugh often as you read; and sometimes, quite suddenly, you will find yourself with a prickly feeling at the back of the eyes, because of the tears that are in these things; but they are the proud kind, never the sloppily sentimental. And at the end I am mistaken in you if you do not close the book with the rare and moving sensation that you have found something of which you can say, as I myself did, "This is absolutely It!"

* * * * *

Amongst the thousands of helpful suggestions for the conduct of war which have recently filled the columns of the daily press, I do not remember having seen any scheme for supplying the officers of the Allied Armies with an Irish terrier apiece. And yet if MARIE VON VORST is to be trusted, this is a very serious omission, for, had it not been for _Pitchoune_, I fear that the gallant hero of _His Love Story_ (MILLS AND BOON) would have perished in the Sahara and never have won the lady of his heart. The _Comte de Sabron_ was forbidden by his military orders to take a dog with him to Algiers, but _Pitchoune_ ran all the way from Tarascon to Marseilles and jumped into the boat. Subsequently, when his master was lying wounded in the desert, he tracked down the nearest native village--twelve hours away--and barked till they sent out a relief expedition. A boy scout could not do more, and, though my own experience of Irish terriers has led me to think that they do not spend over much time in the study of ordnance maps, yet for sentiment's sake, and because _His Love Story_ is a charmingly written romance, I am ready to believe in all the feats of _Pitchoune_, and even to hope that he will not after all be _de trop_ now that _M. le Comte_ is happily wedded, but may have another brilliantly successful campaign in front of him.

* * * * *

Although Mrs. PENROSE'S new novel, _Something Impossible_ (MILLS AND BOON), gaily admits in its title its difficulties, I cannot pretend that I consider her to have made the most of her opportunity. There are at least two classic examples of her theme, Mr. ANSTEY'S _Vice Versa_ and Mr. DE LA MARE'S _Return_. Mrs. PENROSE cannot approach either the charming humour of the one or the delicate beauty of the other. On a lower plane her story has its amusing moments, and there is a vein of real tenderness in her picture of the relations of her hero and his faithful lady--a happy relief after the monotonous repetition of matrimonial infidelities dealt out to us by the average novel. It will be a consolation also to many readers to discover that plain people are far more popular than handsome ones and that to "have features of classical beauty" is the most unfortunate of handicaps in the race for comfort and success. Mrs. PENROSE, like many other women novelists, is very cruel to her own sex and never misses an opportunity of exposing its shallow sentiments and transient affections. But why are all novelists of to-day so merciless to the provincial town? There must be some pleasant people in Cathedral cities. I am weary of retired colonels with port-stained faces, and vinegary old maids, and unctuous canons. Mrs. PENROSE has shown in her earlier books so real a sense of beauty and so touching a spirit of kindliness that I am bound to confess that, with the exception of her treatment of her hero, this rather acid and ironical piece of nonsense is a disappointment.

* * * * *

Illustration: _The Small Man._ "IF I WAS AS WELL SET UP AS YOU I'D GO AND FIGHT FOR MY COUNTRY, _I_ WOULD!"

_The Large Man._ "NO GOOD, MATE, I'VE TRIED IT. TOLD ME AT THE WAR OFFICE I WOULD SPOIL THE UNIFORM APPEARANCE OF ANY REGIMENT, SO I'M WAITIN' TILL THEY RAISE A CORPS OF CINEMA GUARDS."

* * * * *

From the Emperor of AUSTRIA'S telegram to WILHELM II.:

"Words fail to express what moves me, and with me my army, in these days of the world's history."

The word "Servia" might express what moves his army.

* * * * *

_The Scotsman_ on the condition of things in Norway:--

"Food supplies and rents are controlled by the Government, and spirits and wines cannot be purchased. Most of the English people have now left Norway."

For other reasons, we hope.

* * * * *

"PLEASURE TOURS.--St. Petersburg from London _via_ Kiel Canal."

_Advt. in "Times."_

Take your camera with you, and snap the jolly little German battleships as you go past. The result of the recent fight off Heligoland should increase your popularity.