Part 8

To all this Mr. Tridge assented with perfect readiness. Mr. Dobb then added a few simple instructions, and, after a single rehearsal, pronounced Mr. Tridge perfect in his role. Summoning his wife from some remote apartment, Mr. Dobb affably slipped his arm through Mr. Tridge’s, and the pair set off for the “Rose and Crown.”

“That’s ’im—that’s Jevvings!” whispered Horace, as they entered the crowded saloon bar. “That quiet-looking young feller in the check suit, with the pink tie, sitting reading the noospaper with patent leather boots on.”

Mr. Tridge, with a nod of comprehension, began to cross the floor. He was in the act of passing the young man when he stumbled clumsily, and, to preserve his balance, first knocked off the young man’s hat and next ripped the newspaper from his grasp.

“Why can’t you keep your great feet out of the way?” bellowed Mr. Tridge, furiously. “You ought to sit with ’em sticking out of the window, the size they are! You don’t want patent leather on ’em—you wants red lamps on ’em and a watchman’s box by the side of ’em! Of all the awkward—”

Mr. Jevvings, while preserving his calm under this onslaught, rose from his seat with a singularly sinister expression. Then, catching the expressive face of Mr. Dobb, he sat down again, a little helplessly. An awed hush had fallen on the room; frequenters of the apartment carefully setting down their glasses stared incredulously at the truculent Mr. Tridge.

“I must ask you to apologize!” said the aggrieved Mr. Jevvings, in a somewhat fluty voice.

“You ask away!” returned Mr. Tridge, with jocund ferocity. “You keep on till you’re as black in the face as your blessed great boots! Apologize to a splay-footed whipper-snapper like you? Why, I’d sooner give you a smack in the eye! Far sooner! And so I would, too, for two pins!”

A sort of stifling surprise agitated the room and those gentlemen who were in the forefront of the quarrel cautiously stood back, while those on the outer rim of the altercation craned eagerly forward.

“If you don’t apologize,” said Mr. Jevvings, firmly, “I shall thrash you!”

“Ho, yus, _hin_-deed!” derided Mr. Tridge. “Come on, then!” he invited, and posed himself combatantly.

Audible was the rustle of amazement that coursed through the spectators. Mr. Jevvings, rising, began to turn back his coat-cuffs. There was a tense hush.

And then, as the folds of a curtain may come sweeping down to suspend the action of a play, so did Mr. Horace Dobb and the landlord of the “Rose and Crown” effectively intervene at this juncture.

With a deft certainty of grasp, Mr. Dobb and the landlord took command of affairs. Smoothly and swiftly did they regularize the situation. Building from the foundation that a mere rough-and-ready scrap was unthinkable in the chaste altitudes of the “Rose and Crown’s” saloon bar, a scaffolding of suggestions was run up with a celerity which suggested previous consultations, and presently, within this scaffolding, the outlines took shape of a pugilistic encounter of considerable ceremony, involving a ring, judge, seconds, and all the other paraphernalia of the craft.

Mr. Tridge, listening interestedly, heard the arrangements brought to a conclusion with the fixing of a date at that day week for the encounter. Mr. Jevvings having signified his entire willingness to accept the terms of the contest, Mr. Tridge gave his own acquiescence to the programme, adding rather gratuitously that, on the Sunday afternoon following the contest he would call round at the hospital with a bunch of grapes for Mr. Jevvings. Alternately he proposed to send a handsome wreath of white flowers.

“Right you are, then—that’s all settled!” said Mr. Dobb, exchanging a glance of relief with the landlord. “And now, Joe, I think we’d better leave ’ere. Hettiquette, you know, hettiquettte! ’E was ’ere first, and it’s ’is privilege to remain.”

He seemed in some anxiety to remove Mr. Tridge from the scene, and, taking him by the arm, drew him to the door. Here he led the way out into the street. Mr. Tridge, with a farewell remark to the effect that his opponent would be well advised to catch measles before the week was out, was about to follow Mr. Dobb, when a stout gentleman solemnly stepped forward to pat his shoulder with approval.

“I admire your pluck,” stated the stout gentleman.

“Huh!” exclaimed Mr. Tridge, glancing scornfully at Mr. Jevvings. “It don’t need much pluck!”

“But you know who he is, don’t you?” asked the other, wonderingly.

“Don’t know and don’t care!” was Mr. Tridge’s reckless reply. “I shall expect to learn ’oo ’e is at the inquest, any way.”

“You don’t know who he is?” gasped the stout gentleman, and then he patted Mr. Tridge’s shoulder again, but this time it was commiseratingly. “Why, that’s Ted Burch—_you_ know, _the_ Ted Burch! ‘Toff’ Burch, the Swindon Slogger!”

“What?” squealed Mr. Tridge. “A—a—a prize-fighter?”

“Middleweight champion of—”

“But—but I thought ’is name was Jevvings?”

“So it is, _pro tem._,” returned his informant. “He’s stopping here _nem. con._, doing a little quiet training for a match he’s got next month against Billy Traske, of Birmingham, and—”

Mr. Tridge did not await further instruction concerning Mr. Edward Burch. He had passed through the door with extreme celerity and was already cantering passionately in pursuit of Mr. Horace Dobb. Speedily catching up with his quarry, Mr. Tridge seized him and charged him with the blackest of treachery towards an unsuspecting friend. Mr. Dobb, but slightly stirred by the accusation, obliquely admitted its truth by regretting that Mr. Tridge should so soon have learnt the truth about Mr. Burch.

“But—but what did you want to play me a trick like that _for_?” roared Mr. Tridge.

“Why, because you’d never else ’ave dared to do what you did,” calmly replied Mr. Dobb. “You said yourself you’d ’ave nothing whatever to do with prize-fighters. That’s why I ’ad to take all the trouble to make up all that yarn I told you about Jevvings being a wild young chap of this town. Otherwise I’d never have brought you up to the scratch.”

“Well, you don’t suppose I’m going any further with it, do you?” demanded Mr. Tridge. “_No_ fear!”

“Oh, but you can’t back out now, Joe!” argued Mr. Dobb. “It ’ud look so silly and cowardly if you backed out now.”

“I don’t care ’ow it _looks_ if I back out! I know ’ow it will _feel_ if I _don’t_ back out, anyway! I can’t think what possessed you to play such a silly trick on me! Getting me to agree to stand up to a professional boxer under false pretences! Why, I’ve half a mind—”

Mr. Dobb, beseeching Mr. Tridge to maintain calm, now promised to impart the exact truth of the matter, prefacing his statement with a catalogue of grisly things which he said he hoped would happen to him if he diverged from complete veracity by as much as a hair-breadth.

He admitted that Mr. Burch, otherwise Mr. Jevvings, was a pugilist of some prominence with a deserved fame for neat and businesslike finishes to his bouts. It was, it transpired, the aim and ideal of Mr. Burch to put a similarly neat and businesslike finish to his forthcoming encounter with Mr. William Traske, of Birmingham. And, indeed, there was not the slightest doubt of Mr. Burch’s ability to do so. Unfortunately, there were others who held the same confidence as to the result, and this materially affected the betting on the issue of the match. In short, so overwhelmingly was Mr. Burch the favourite that it had become a matter of extreme difficulty to find anyone willing to bet against him, no matter how tempting the odds.

In these circumstances, it was thought expedient that something should transpire to lessen the popularity of Mr. Burch in betting circles. The landlord of the “Rose and Crown,” a party vested with considerable financial interests in Mr. Burch, had talked the matter over with other supporters, and together they had agreed on a plan. Further, the landlord of the “Rose and Crown,” being a close friend of Mr. Dobb’s and conversant with his abilities for organization, had called him in counsel and enlisted his services in the matter.

Briefly the scheme was this. Mr. Burch was to become involved in a quarrel with a local nobody, and to agree to settle the difference with boxing-gloves. Mr. Burch was to perform but indifferently at this match, failing to make the most of opportunities, and not getting in the knock-out blow till the twentieth round. There were spies in the Burch camp, and this strange remissness of his would indubitably be reported leading to a resurgence of confidence among the supporters of Mr. Traske, and so creating a profitable reaction on the betting market.

“But they’ll twig it’s a put-up job,” contended Mr. Tridge.

“No, they won’t, not them! You see, the affair’s supposed to be kept very quiet. Of course, it’s really a matter of hadvertisement, to hadvertise that Burch ’as gone dead off form; but seeing that it’s a personal matter ’e’s fighting about, they’ll never dream ’e ain’t in earnest.”

Here, then, concluded Mr. Dobb, was the real office that Mr. Tridge was required to fill, and the only difference in it to that which he had aforetime imagined it to be was that he was expected to stand up to a professional boxer of proved ability, instead of a mere amateur of indifferent skill.

“The fighting part’s just the same,” pointed out Mr. Dobb. “You’ve only got to let ’im play about with you for a bit, and the twenty quid is yours.”

“_Play about_?” echoed Mr. Tridge.

“That’s all, Joe,” said Mr. Dobb, reassuringly. “And you get twenty quid for it. It’s a big sum, but I know we can rely on you to keep your mouth shut. And ’ere’s the ‘Jolly Sailors’—let’s turn in and talk it over quietly.”

This they proceeded to do, though, as time progressed, they talked less and less quietly. Mr. Dobb, after drawing over and over again an agreeable mental picture wherein Mr. Tridge, for a few paltry taps on the nose, was rewarded with a hair-dressing business of his very own, at length won the admission from his friend that it seemed worth it, after all.

“’Course it is,” affirmed Mr. Dobb. “You can take a bit of punishment, can’t you?”

“I can _take_ it all right,” acquiesced Mr. Tridge. “The worst of it is that I always takes it faster than I gives it.”

“Besides, Joe, ’e won’t ’it you very ’ard,” wheedled Mr. Dobb. “You see ’e’s got to give the idea that ’e’s out of form. And it won’t be till the twentieth round that ’e knocks you out, so you’ll ’ave plenty of time to get used to the idea.”

“And I might go down of my own haccord in the nineteenth,” said Mr. Tridge, brightly. “Then ’e won’t ’ave a chance to put me properly to sleep.”

So that, when at length the law of the land compelled the “Jolly Sailors” to be churlish with its hospitality, Mr. Tridge had promised that no effort should be lacking on his part to crown the match with success, and he and his old shipmate parted on the best of terms.

Next morning, however, Mr. Tridge’s courage had suffered a relapse. Calling on Mr. Dobb at an early hour, he proclaimed his intention to abjure the match. In vain did Mr. Dobb fawn upon him with honeyed words; in vain did Mr. Dobb conjure up for him a splendid vision of a barber’s shop with “J. Tridge” in big letters over the door. Mr. Tridge was obdurate to mere verbal blandishments. It was only when Mr. Dobb, in desperation, offered to come with him and enter into pourparlers for early occupation of the little shop Mr. Tridge knew to be standing empty, that that unwilling gladiator again agreed to hold to the terms of his contract.

And even then he managed things with so adroit a reluctance that, before the day was over, Mr. Dobb, to clinch matters more effectually, was jockeyed into standing surety for the rent of the little shop, so that Mr. Tridge could enter into tenancy straightway.

For the next twenty-four hours Mr. Tridge was occupied with pails and brooms, getting his establishment into order, to the exclusion of all thoughts about the impending combat. That night, however, he was too tired to sleep, and next morning he again sought out Mr. Dobb to place his resignation in his hands. But Mr. Dobb treated the crisis diplomatically by advancing him the wherewithal to purchase sundry implements of the hair-dressing profession. And, after that, Mr. Tridge could not but vow that he would cause no further concern of mind, and this promise he loyally kept.

None the less a marked moodiness of manner overcame him as the day of the encounter drew near, and often his deportment was that of a man doomed to early disintegration. To cheer him, Mr. Dobb contrived for him a secret meeting with Mr. Burch, who revealed himself as quite an amiable young gentleman, and promised Mr. Tridge that he should receive no real hurt until the final blow of the contest.

“And that,” interpolated Mr. Dobb, encouragingly, “you won’t be in your senses to feel, Joe, for more than a millionth part of a second, so you needn’t worry about that.”

And so we come to the day of the meeting, with Mr. Tridge, now visibly a prey to the direst forebodings, and with but a pathetic interest in his hairdressing shop, ready for immediate opening. For hours Mr. Tridge had gazed round the tiny place, sighing profoundly, as one who has achieved an aim too late in life, or else he had fondled the shining new implements reverently, as if already they were relics.

Mr. Dobb did his best to dissipate these mournful fears, reporting to Mr. Tridge that his financial share in the affair was abundantly secure, and that as soon after the conclusion of the contest as Mr. Tridge was able to think clearly, the landlord of the “Rose and Crown” was empowered to pay out to Mr. Tridge twenty pounds, less the amount already advanced by Mr. Dobb. And also Horace had endeavoured to stimulate Mr. Tridge’s interest in life by causing to be affixed to the wall of the place of meeting a huge poster which announced the imminent opening of the Magnolia Toilet Saloon (proprietor, J. Tridge), Bridge Street, Shorehaven. At six o’clock that evening Mr. Tridge was disturbed in a singularly vain effort to secure a little refreshing slumber, and was called upon to receive Mr. Peter Lock. Mr. Lock, at the earnest request of his old shipmate, had consented to act as Mr. Tridge’s second, and by way of inculcating the proper bright spirit in his principal with a little facetiousness, he now entered the apartment with slow, measured tread, and with extraordinary gravity of mien.

“Joseph Tridge,” announced Mr. Lock, sepulchrally, “your hour is come!”

“Don’t go making a mock of sacred things!” irritably requested Mr. Tridge. “It ain’t funny—not at this minute.”

“Joseph Tridge,” droned on Mr. Lock, undeterred, in the same hollow tones, “have you made your will?”

“It so ’appens,” snapped Mr. Tridge, “I ’ave! This very hafternoon! Thanks be I ain’t left nothing to grinning i-i-enas!”

Mr. Lock, perceiving that Mr. Tridge’s nerves were not yet keyed to appreciation of personal badinage, now endeavoured to rally him by narrating to him a number of droll anecdotes, all of which Mr. Tridge received in stony silence. Mr. Lock was still indefatigably endeavouring to cheer his principal when the stout and venerable Mr. Samuel Clark made his appearance.

Mr. Clark essayed no levity of conversation. On the contrary, he crossed in silence to Mr. Tridge and gravely clasped his hand. This done, he patted Mr. Tridge on the shoulder with deep sympathy, shook his hand again, and then sat down with a long, deep sigh.

“Cheerful, _you_ are!” growled Mr. Tridge. “What do you think you’ve come to—a fooneral?”

“Oh, no; not yet—not yet, Joe!” Mr. Clark made haste to reply. “But I must say I ’ad a most hextryordinary dream about you to-day. Most hextryordinary! I dreamed you was killed in this ’ere fight. Funny thing I should dream that, wasn’t it?”

“_Funny_?” fulminated Mr. Tridge.

“Anyway,” interposed Mr. Lock, “dreams always goes by contraries. It’ll be the other chap what’ll—”

“In my dream,” said Mr. Clark, “the other chap was so overcome by ’orror that ’e ’anged ’isself. So there you are—take your choice!”

For some moments Mr. Tridge sat apparently considering the selection. Then suddenly he rose and looked sadly in the mirror, and next he went slowly round the room, gazing at every article as though in tender farewell. Finally, shaking his head, he passed out of the apartment, and, followed by Mr. Clark and Mr. Lock, made his way to the “Rose and Crown.”

Here he found Mr. Dobb, who professed keen relief at sight of him, and forthwith conducted him to a dressing-room attached to the arena. Mr. Lock now offered to his principal much sage advice with regard to the coming contest; but Mr. Tridge was too occupied in his own mournful meditations to give useful heed.

“What—not dressed yet?” asked Horace, in surprise, entering the cubicle presently. “Why, you’ll be late! The ’all’s packed to overflowing, and there’s three chaps fell through the skylight already!”

As one in a dream Mr. Tridge began to disrobe and, later, to habit himself in the athletic garb Horace had procured for him.

“Now, come along!” ordered Horace, impatiently. “And for goodness’ sake, Joe, stop your knees from rattling so loud, else the referee won’t be able to ’ear ’isself speak! And do try to look ’appier!”

“I can’t!” confessed Mr. Tridge.

And now events marched through a haze to meet Mr. Tridge. He was aware of being pushed on to a platform by Mr. Lock’s shoulder, of being introduced to a crowded audience, of being fitted with enormous gloves. He heard plaudits greet his name, and would automatically have smiled his acknowledgments had he had the least control over his features. He saw the graceful, well-knit, frame of his adversary vividly super-imposed, as it were, on a cloud made up of seconds and attendants.

“Time!” declared an authoritative voice. Mr. Clark breathed on Mr. Tridge a final cheery but unteetotal wish for his good luck; Mr. Lock gave him a shove; and he found himself facing his opponent. He caught a glimpse of the Magnolia Shaving Saloon advertisement, and he subconsciously wondered whether a ceremonial black shutter had been included among the stock and fixtures.

Mr. Jevvings bore down on him, glove outstretched, for the etiquette of handshaking. As hand met hand, Mr. Jevvings winked surreptitiously at Mr. Tridge in token of remembrance of the terms of the secret treaty. A sudden alertness illumined Mr. Tridge’s mind.

And as Mr. Jevvings carelessly stepped back from the handshake, Mr. Tridge’s left arm shot out, unexpectedly and violently and accurately. With a terrific impact it landed squarely on the jaw of the unprepared Mr. Jevvings.

Mr. Jevvings momentarily had the illusion of sailing skyward. Then he landed on the floor with a resounding thud.

Mr. Tridge, palpitating almost tearfully ’twixt fear and hope, hovered near him; but he lay there inert, and they counted him out. And so Shorehaven’s most sensational boxing-bout came to an abrupt end at its very start.

Again high emotion wrapped a mist around Mr. Tridge, but now it was tinged with a roseate hue, for, lo! the fight was over and he was still alive, and, more wonderful still, uninjured. This alone he could apprehend with the forefront of his mind, but remoter regions of his brain took heed that there was cheering and drinking and speeches; there was abject worship from the stout Mr. Clark, warm commendation from Mr. Peter Lock. And, most gratifying of all, there was public presentation of the residue of the twenty pounds, correct to a penny, and also there was a collection which a dazed but approving audience supported to the extent of eleven pounds four and six.

Within an hour Mr. Tridge was being lionized in the bar-parlour. Men strove for the honour of buying drinks for him, feeling well repaid if he recognized their existence in return. Quite plutocratic people vied with each other for the privilege of speaking deferentially to him, and importantly bade each other hush when he condescended to voice his opinions on any subject. For Mr. Tridge had won a battle in record time against the wildest expectation, and was now a hero and had raised himself into the ranks of the Temporary Immortals.

Mr. Dobb alone appeared out of sympathy with the popular mood for acclamation. For some while he sat silently watching Mr. Tridge among his courtiers. At last, unable to repress his emotions any longer, he rose and led Mr. Tridge into the obscurity of the passage outside.

“What the dooce did you do it for?” irascibly demanded Horace.

“It was a hinspiration,” said Mr. Tridge, modestly. “Just as the start was called, I looked up and I see that hadvertisement of my saloon. Somehow it come into my ’ead all in a flash what you said about the match being all a matter of hadvertisement, and a idea come to me that almost blinded me. I didn’t see why I shouldn’t get the hadvertisement for me and my saloon. I could see ’ow everybody ’ud troop up to be shaved by a chap what ’ad knocked out Toff Burch of Swindon. I could see ’ow useful my reppytation would be to keep customers in order when they complained if I cut ’em. And then I done it. Almost before I could think ’ow I was to do it, I done it. I knew I shouldn’t get a better chance, I knew ’e wouldn’t be troubling at all and that ’e wasn’t hexpecting me to do anything, and I done it. And it come off.”

“’E’ll ’alf kill you for it later on,” prophesied Mr. Dobb, with malevolent satisfaction.

“Oh, no, ’e won’t! I’ve ’ad a chat with ’im since ’e come round. ’E was pretty sore about it, ’e owned, but ’e don’t so much mind now. For why? Already they’re hoffering three to one against ’im for ’is match with Traske of Birmingham. So ’e’s quite satisfied, after all. And I’ve took care to see that I ain’t hexpected to meet ’im again, because I’ve been telling every one I’d made a vow long ago to give up boxing for hever from this night forth, and they all agrees with me that I couldn’t ’ave made a better end-up.”

“Well, every one else may be satisfied, but _I_ ain’t,” said Mr. Dobb, a little awkwardly. “I’ll tell you for why. Knowing ’ow things was planned I’d been making a good lot of bets at long odds on this match—fourteen pounds in all—against you, of course. And, seeing as you’ve upset everything, I reckon it ’ud only be friendly and fair, out of your collection and so forth, to make good a bit of my loss to me.”

“Come round to-morrow when I open,” invited Mr. Tridge, happily, “and you shall be the first customer and I’ll shave you free. There!”

“Don’t try to get out of it like that, Joe. Fair’s fair! If you’d done what you was hexpected to I’d ’ave made money. As it is, I’ve lost it. And you’ve got your collection, and the rest of your twenty quid, and—”

“And I’ve got a motter, too, ’Orace,” said Mr. Tridge, softly, turning to the door of the bar-parlour. “_It’s the same as yours_,” he ended, with a grin, as he returned to adulation.

_EPISODE VI_ “ALL’S FAIR—”

The single, succinct phrase, “Doings!” linked to an address and an hour, had been passed round among the former shipmates of that obsolete vessel the “Jane Gladys,” and this slogan, acting much after the manner of a Fiery Cross, had immediately rallied the old confederacy to a ready eagerness to stand shoulder to shoulder again to take toll of the world by the exercise of those devious methods at which they were so expert.