Part 7

"I’m glad you take such a high, womanly view," said the shoemaker; "because you’m another on our side, and will be a tower of strength. They are to fight in about three weeks’ time--afore Christmas. That is, if we, on the side of law and order--namely, his reverence, and me, and you, and Ernest Maunder, can’t prevent it. I’m sorry to say everybody else wants to see them fight--even Sir Guy--more shame to him!"

"I’ll have the place by the ears rather than it should happen," said Mrs. Crocker. "I’ll have Bartley took up rather than he should have his face touched by that--that rabbit-catching good-for-nought up to Ditsworthy. Why, I’ll even go up there myself and talk to Elias Bowden. This thing shan’t be--not if a determined woman can prevent it."

Mr. Moses retired comforted in some sort, for he felt that Mrs. Crocker was probably stronger than the policeman and the vicar put together. But meantime, on the other side, matters developed steadily. Shillabeer and ’Frosty-faced Fogo’ had taken charge of Bartley Crocker, and he prepared for battle with the benefit of all their immense experience. From the first, rumours of interference and interruption were rife; but Fogo treated them with disdain.

"Leave all that to me," he said. "I’ve been evading the ’blues’ and the ’beaks’ ever since I came to man’s estate, and if I can’t hoodwink you simple bumpkins--parsons and all--well, I’ll pay the stakes myself."

For stakes there were, and Mr. Fogo, who insisted on seeing all things done decently and in order, arranged that five pounds a side should be posted to bind the match and five pounds more paid in the day before the battle. Mr. Bowden found the money for David, and no less a worthy than Sir Guy Flamank himself, having first commanded terrific oaths of secrecy from Mr. Fogo and Mr. Shillabeer, produced ten pounds for Bartley Crocker. He was young and had never seen a fight.

A great many local sportsmen evinced the keenest interest in the proceedings, but with British hypocrisy strove hard to conceal that interest, out of respect to the people who were not sportsmen. As for the combatants, to their surprise they found themselves rapidly developing into men of renown. Even the hosts of the lesser Bowdens were received with respect among their friends, in that they happened to be actual brothers of a hero. It might have been remarked that while most people at first expected Bowden to win, the larger number coupled the prophecy with a hope that they would be mistaken. From the beginning Bartley was the more popular combatant; and when certain opinions respecting him left the narrow lips of Mr. Fogo at ’The Corner House,’ a little betting opened and ruled at two to one on the younger man.

Mr. Shillabeer set to work to teach Bartley the rudiments, but he found himself too slow and scant of breath to be of any service. A young boxer from Plymouth was therefore engaged--he who in Mr. Fogo’s skilful hands had won a recent battle--and he swiftly initiated Crocker.

And then it was that the Londoner pronounced this raw material in many respects above the average, and declared that Bartley, among his other qualifications, had some unsuspected talent for milling. He was quick and very active on his legs. He hit straight naturally, not round. His left promised to be very useful and he had a vague idea of hitting on the retreat and countering--arts usually quite unappreciated by the novice. In fact, Mr. Fogo, from an attitude of indifference, presently developed mild interest in the coming battle and was often at hand when Bartley donned the mittens. He also superintended his training, and bore him company, for a part of the distance, on some of those lengthy tramps prescribed by Mr. Shillabeer.

Upon one of these occasions, however, Bartley was alone and chance willed that he should meet Margaret returning from Ditsworthy. She was depressed and he asked her why.

"For fifty reasons; and you know most of ’em," she answered. "I’ve just been eating dinner to the Warren House. Somehow it always makes me wisht. There’s that young fellow, by the name of Billy Screech, running after Dorcas, and none of ’em like him or will hear of such a thing. And then the silence! They won’t talk afore me. You can hear every pair of teeth working and every bite and sup going down. But that’s not what’s on my mind. ’Tis this awful fight. Oh, Bartley, can’t you make it up?"

"We have, long ago. We’re quite friendly. ’Tis no more now than a sporting fixture for ten pounds a side. There’ll be twenty pounds more for furniture for your new home, Madge--if I’m licked."

"Don’t talk like that. ’Twould always be covered wi’ bloodstains in my eyes. Can’t you use the gloves? Why do you want to knock your poor noses crooked for? ’Tis like savage tigers more than Christian men."

"Don’t you worry. The colours be coming Monday. Of course I can’t ask you to wear mine; but they’re prettier far than David’s. ’Twas Mr. Fogo’s idea. I shall have the same as the mighty champion, Ben Caunt, once had."

"I don’t want to hear nothing about it, and I pray to God every night on my knees that it may be stopped."

"Well, you’ll be proud of one of us," he said. "I can’t expect you to want me to win; but you mustn’t be very much surprised if I do. This old Fogo finds I’ve got a bit of the right stuff in me; and for that matter, I’ve found it out myself. I take to it like a duck takes to water. I’ve always been fond of dancing--nobody knows that better than you--and dancing is very helpful to a fighter. To hit and get off without being hit back--that’s the whole art of prize-fighting, and I’m afraid I shall hit David twice to his once."

Instantly the lover came to Madge’s heart, despite herself.

"He doesn’t brag," she said. "He’s very quiet and humble about it. But maybe you’ll find he can hit too, Bartley, though I grant you he can’t dance."

He laughed and left her then; and next day as the pugilist from Plymouth had to return home about his business, an experienced local called Pierce, from Kingsett Farm, near Crazywell, on Dartmoor, was prevailed upon to assist. He and Crocker set to steadily. But Pierce was nearly forty, and too small for Bartley; therefore the lord of the manor himself filled the breach. Not, indeed, that Sir Guy Flamank put on the gloves; but he found a large-limbed youth down for Christmas from Oxford, who was the heavy-weight champion at that seat of learning, and this skilful youngster gave Bartley some invaluable information.

Little was known respecting David’s progress; but Elias Bowden made the acquaintance of ’Frosty-face,’ and provided this celebrity with one or two days’ sport on the warren. Mr. Fogo proved no mean shot, and among other game of a good mixed bag, two wood-pigeons and three golden plover fell to his borrowed weapon. He discussed the Prize Ring for the gratification of Mr. Bowden on this occasion, but though David’s father tried hard to learn how Bartley was coming on in his training, Mr. Fogo’s silence upon that theme exceeded even the customary taciturnity of the Warren House. He was only concerned with the growing rumours of organised interference, yet he assured Mr. Bowden that the fight would certainly come off, at a time and place to be arranged by him and Reuben Shillabeer.

It is to be noted that Crocker had now left his home altogether, and was living at ’The Corner House.’ The high-handed attitude of his mother and her immense energy and indignation rendered this step necessary. The reminder that his grandfather had been a bailiff lacked force to shake Bartley from his evil determination; therefore she threatened to disinherit him, and hinted at incarceration and other vague counter-strokes. But when day followed day and nothing moderated his intention; when she saw that he had given up malt liquor and spirits; that he insisted on certain foods; that he rose at reasonable hours and took an immense deal of active exercise--when, in fact, she grasped the truth that her only son meant to fight a prize-fight, and was taking every possible precaution to win it, then she broke down and threatened no more, but became hysterical, melodramatic and mournful. It was enough that he entered the house for Nanny to fling herself into an attitude of despair. Her appetite suffered, her sleep suffered, even her spirits suffered. From being a dictatorial and assertive woman, who used her personality like a pistol, she grew meek, mild and plaintive. She wearied her hearers; she filled Susan’s ears with pathetic details concerning her wasting flesh, and begged her to report them again to Bartley. Thus her son learned that his mother’s stockings had become too large for her attenuated calves, and that her dresses were being taken in many inches as the result of a general atrophy of tissue produced by his behaviour. Nanny’s eyes haunted him. She had, moreover, an art to drop tears exactly at those moments when he cast a sly side glance at her face. She would drop them on to her work, or her plate, or into her tea.

These distressing circumstances finally ejected Bartley from the maternal threshold. He saw his mother daily, but felt that until the battle was lost or won, he could endure her constant remonstrances no more. He strove to make her take a sterner view, and she assured him that had she not been a woman of gentle birth, it might have been possible; but from one with the delicate Saunders blood in her veins, only a genteel outlook on life could be expected; and there was no room for tolerance of prize-fighting in that survey.

*CHAPTER XI*

*MR. FOGO IS SHOCKED*

’Frosty-face’ very naturally looked to it that this little encounter of rustics should have some useful bearing on his own affairs. He was a poor man and could not afford to ignore opportunities. With Mr. Shillabeer he set about reviving all the glories of the twenty-four-foot square, and he was determined that nothing should be omitted which could make the approaching fight a dignified and successful entertainment, worthy, in its small way, of the best traditions.

Before a full bar Mr. Fogo spoke at length. He had sold thirteen of his poems that evening, and he was now about to unfasten a parcel that day received from London; but, before doing so, he outlined the situation.

"I’m very pleased to find you know a bit down here," he began. "There’s more of the right sort in these parts than we might have expected, and there’ll be a good sprinkling of Corinthians at the ring-side too. The doctor from Tavistock, who is going to referee, is as spicy a dare-devil as I wish to meet at any mill; and he knows his job; and afterwards, if either of you chaps want to be blooded, he can do it for you."

"We shall judge of the patronage by the number of fogies the swells take up," said Mr. Shillabeer. "You see, the old rule is that a fighter gives his colours to all who’ll take ’em; and it’s understood that if he’s beat, the colours cost nought; but if he wins, everybody as took a handkerchief be expected to pay a guinea for it."

"Well, here they are," answered ’Frosty-face.’ "I got ’em myself so cheap as they could be got through a friend. Fifty there are--twenty-five for each of the men--and if they go off, I can get more at the same low figure."

He opened his parcel and revealed the colours. Bartley and several of his friends were present; but David, who was to call that night with his father, had not yet arrived. Mr. Crocker’s handkerchief was much admired. It showed a rich orange centre bordered with three inches of purple.

Both Fogo and Shillabeer took one, though not on the usual understanding, and Bartley calculated that he knew about twenty sportsmen, including Sir Guy, who would be glad to possess this memento of the battle.

Then came the Bowdens, and the future combatants shook hands in a friendly spirit and compared their colours. David’s were simpler and quieter--a blue ’bird’s-eye’ with a white spot. Both parties could number a good handful of patrons, and the encounter, albeit date and place were still kept a dark secret, promised to be well attended.

"I’m painting the true blue stakes myself," said ’Frosty-face,’ "and we’ll have a nobby ring if we don’t have a nobby fight in it."

"And where is it to be, Mr. Fogo?" asked Simon Snell.

"I wouldn’t tell everybody, but you shall know," answered the old man, assuming a grim expression, which always preceded his finest jokes. "We’ll have our turn up in the bull-ring, Mr. Snell. It have seen many a bit of fun, they tell me, so why not a bit more?"

Everybody laughed, because Sheepstor bull-ring was the most public spot for many miles round. It lay under the churchyard wall at the centre of the hamlet.

"Couldn’t choose a better place, all the same," said Reuben Shillabeer, "that is, if they’d let us alone. The burying-ground runs eight feet above the ring; and there’s good grass there, and a nice tilt to the ground, and proper trees all round for the sporting public to climb into. However, that’s rather too warm a corner for modest men. We don’t want the eyes of the nation on us."

"Leave it to me," said the Londoner. "There are certain people we shan’t have no use for on the morning of the fight. And if they stop at Sheepstor, ’tis clear we must go somewhere else. However, look to me; I’ll give you the office in plenty of time."

"You’ll never get round parson and Mr. Moses and p’liceman and Mrs. Crocker," foretold Tim Mattacott.

"I fear but one of ’em," answered Mr. Fogo. "They are all harmless men, and I can handle ’em as easy as a mother handles her tenth babby. ’Tis that spry lady will take some stopping. I’ve not got the length of her foot yet--to say it with all respect. But all in good time."

"There’s to be a sermon preached by Mr. Merle next Sunday against this here fight," said Mr. Bowden. "I’m sorry to the bone that he’s taken this view, because I never like to quarrel with my betters; but to the House of the Lord me and mine go as usual next Sunday, and whatever he may preach won’t change my opinions."

"And I’ll go too," declared Fogo. "Yes, I’ll go and hear his argeyments. ’Tis a good few years since I was in a place of prayer--in fact, never since I stood best man when Alec Reid, ’the Chelsea Snob,’ was married. But on Sunday I shall be there, and you’ll see I can shut my eyes and sniff my hat with the best among ye."

"You shall come along of me," said the ’Dumpling.’ "I go most times and get a deal of good from it. My wife was a steady church member, for though she’d fling off to chapel for change now and again, as women will, yet she comed back again and again to the Establishment; and she died in it, and Parson Merle will tell you ’twas so."

Then exploded suddenly a piece of news that quite staggered and shocked the renowned visitor. It also cast down Mr. Shillabeer, for he felt that Fogo, as a man, and the P.R., as an institution, were alike insulted by such an astounding assertion from the rival camp.

The question of seconds had been raised and Mr. Fogo explained that he and Shillabeer proposed to look after Crocker.

"I shall carry the bottle and offer advice as it’s called for, and Reuben will pick him up and give him a knee," he declared.

"If he wants it," added the ’Dumpling’; "but unless David here be cleverer than we think he is, Bartley won’t ask for much picking up."

"And who are going to look after you?" asked Fogo of David.

"My father and--"

"He can’t pick you up. Who else?"

"And my sister, Rhoda Bowden--a strong maiden. She and father will do all that’s got to be done."

"Blow my dickey!" said Mr. Fogo, "that’s the first knock-down for you anyway. A woman--a woman in the P.R.! You really thought that? That’s the best joke I’ve heard since ’45."

"It’s settled," said David, calmly.

"A woman in the P.R.!" repeated Fogo. "Well, I’ve seen most things during the last seventy years, but not that. Why don’t you ax your sister to fight for you?"

"Look here," said the elder Bowden, "I won’t have nothing said in this matter by you or anybody, Mr. Fogo, till you see for yourselves. Anyway it’s going to happen."

"I quite agree!" declared Mr. Snell, suddenly. "Miss Rhoda’s a born wonder and a most renowned creature for courage. None ever was like her. A female no more feared to look on blood than we be to count our wages. And as to picking him up, she could pick him up--and you too, Mr. Fogo, as easily as I can turn a stop-cock."

"Can such things be?" asked Mr. Fogo. "This bangs Bannagher! A woman--a young, female woman inside the P.R.! ’Tis enough to provoke the anger of Heaven. May I die like a trundle-tailed cur, with a brick round my neck, if I could ever stand it!"

"’Tis my girl that you saw up to the Warren House," said Mr. Bowden, "her you said was a very fine woman, and you wished you’d got such a pair of arms."

"Her with the chin?"

"She have a chin, I grant you."

"And who haven’t?" asked Mr. Snell.

"You must know ’tisn’t a common case," explained David. "My sister and me be very close friends, and she’s terrible interested in this fight, and, in short, she’ll have to be there--there’s no law against it."

"I’m shocked," said the old man. "’Tis a very indecent, outrageous thing, and I protest with all my might. A petticoat in the P.R.! Can’t everybody in this bar see it’s all wrong and disgraceful and disorderly?"

"In a general way it would be," admitted Shillabeer; "but she ain’t no common young woman, ’Frosty,’ and I’m not surprised to hear she means it. She was axing me what a bottle-holder be expected to do a bit back-along; and I half twigged that she’d got this idea in her noddle."

"Then it’s the end of the world," declared Mr. Fogo. "I ask for nothing more. Perhaps our man wants his mother in his corner--also his aunt? I’m sure they very much wish to be there by all accounts."

"Since the fight be in part about my sister, she’s a right on the spot," said David; "and this I’ll tell you, Mr. Fogo: though you laugh, you’ll see what she’s like in the Ring; and if she does one thing--one single thing--she shouldn’t, and fails of aught where a man could do better, then I’ll give you the stakes if I win ’em."

"It’s contrary to all history and law and decency and nature. It isn’t possible, I tell you. Here am I trying to revive the P.R. in a first chop, gentlemanly fashion, and then you yokels plan a sin and a shame like this," said Mr. Fogo. He was very much annoyed and returned again and again to the threatened female incursion. Most of the company agreed with him; indeed, only the Bowdens and Simon Snell supported Rhoda as a second. Mr. Shillabeer was doubtful.

"Be there any law against it? That’s the question," he said. "Well, I can’t say there is, ’Frosty.’ Of course there’s nought in the rules about it."

"Because the rules was drawn for respectable, law-abiding people," answered Mr. Fogo.

They wrangled on, while David and Bartley spoke aside.

"Did you say that Miss Rhoda was really interested?" asked Crocker. "I shouldn’t like to think that, David. I know I kissed her, like a silly fool, in the Pixies’ House that day of the storm; but she don’t bear malice, I hope, any more than you do?"

"Oh, no--no malice. It angered her cruel all the same, as it did me; and she won’t be sorry to see you lose--though there’s no malice--certainly not."

"You’re in luck with such a sister and such a wife to be."

David changed the subject.

"Have they settled where ’tis to come off?"

"No--only the day."

"Monday week?"

"Yes."

"I’m going down to Plymouth Monday to practise with the boxers there," said David, and Bartley nodded.

"They’ll larn you a lot," he said.

Mr. Fogo’s voice again rose in wrath.

"The Fancy won’t stand it. Mark me; they’ll hiss her out of the Ring. Such a thing won’t be suffered in a Christian land."

The hour grew late and Mr. Maunder looked in somewhat coldly. Since his vital difference of opinion on the subject of the prize-fight, he had withdrawn his patronage from ’The Corner House.’ It was felt that he could hardly be present in the camp of a combatant until the matter of the pending battle was at an end.

"Closing time, Mr. Shillabeer," he said, and the ’Dumpling’ nodded.

"Right you are, Ernest. Come in and take a thimbleful along with me, won’t ’e?"

"No, thank you. Not till this business is over. I’m against you, and I won’t have bit or sup along with the enemy. I speak as the law, Shillabeer, and not as a man. Of course _afterwards_ I shall come back again; but not till I’ve bested you, or you’ve bested me."

"Nobody could speak fairer," declared Mr. Shillabeer.

Then the company departed; Bartley Crocker went to bed; and Reuben asked his friend what steps he proposed to take with respect to evading the police on Monday week. But Fogo was in no amiable or communicative mood. His feelings had that night been much lacerated and the prospect of seeing a woman in a prize-ring affected him acutely. He would not talk about the matter, and when Mr. Shillabeer, according to custom, brought conversation round to his vanished partner over the last glass, Mr. Fogo failed of that tact for which he was renowned and refused even to speak well of the deceased.

"I’ve heard enough about women to make me sick of the name of female this night," he said. "I won’t utter a word more about ’em, living or dead. Thank my stars I kept single anyway. They may be all right in their proper place, but they don’t know the meaning of fair play, and are worse than useless in every branch of sport that man ever invented. You mark me: this man’s sister will come across the ring and try to gouge our eyes out if her brother’s getting worsted!"

"Not she," promised the ’Dumpling.’ "I grant ’tis a sign the P.R.’s coming to nought that a chap should have his sister to second him in a fight; but since it had to be, never was a woman built more likely to give a good account of herself in that place than Rhoda Bowden."

"Well, I hope to God the Fancy will rise like one man," answered Mr. Fogo. "And now I’ll go to my bed; and if I don’t have a nightmare and dream that I’m in a Ring along with the Queen of England and a few duchesses and other high female characters, may I be blowed from here to the top of Paul’s cathedral and back again."

He then retired.

Bowden and Crocker had both paid for their colours and Mr. Shillabeer called his friend back to hand him the money, which, in his misery, Mr. Fogo had forgotten.

*CHAPTER XII*

*FOR THE GOOD CAUSE*

Probably the Prince of Darkness himself had won little more profound attention than Mr. Fogo when, in his cape and black knee-breeches, the old sportsman attended divine service on the following Sunday. Those interested entirely attributed the forthcoming fight to him, and many of the mothers and grandmothers of the hamlet would have been well pleased to mob ’Frosty-face’ and drive him by force of arms from the village.

One painful interview with Bartley Crocker’s mother he had not been able to escape. She offered him ten pounds in gold to prevent the fight, and when he explained that not for a hundred or a thousand pounds would he be party to a ’cross,’ she had ’given him a bit of her mind and threatened him with her ten commandments,’ as he afterwards expressed it.