Rodney Stone by Arthur Conan Doyle (i love reading books txt) 📖

cost me a cool five hundred,” grumbled Sir John Lade.  “Who’d have thought he was such a punishing hitter?”

“For all that,” said another, “I am confident that if Joe Berks had been sober he would have eaten him.  Besides, the lad was in training, and the other would burst like an overdone potato if he were hit.  I never saw a man so soft, or with his wind in such condition.  Put the men in training, and it’s a horse to a hen on the bruiser.”

Some agreed with the last speaker and some were against him, so that a brisk argument was being carried on around me.  In the midst of it the Prince took his departure, which was the signal for the greater part of the company to make for the door.  In this way I was able at last to reach the corner where Jim had just finished his dressing, while Champion Harrison, with tears of joy still shining upon his cheeks, was helping him on with his overcoat.

“In four rounds!” he kept repeating in a sort of an ecstasy.  “Joe Berks in four rounds!  And it took Jem Belcher fourteen!”

“Well, Roddy,” cried Jim, holding out his hand, “I told you that I would come to London and make my name known.”

“It was splendid, Jim!”

“Dear old Roddy!  I saw your white face staring at me from the corner.  You are not changed, for all your grand clothes and your London friends.”

“It is you who are changed, Jim,” said I; “I hardly knew you when you came into the room.”

“Nor I,” cried the smith.  “Where got you all these fine feathers, Jim?  Sure I am that it was not your aunt who helped you to the first step towards the prize-ring.”

“Miss Hinton has been my friend—the best friend I ever had.”

“Humph!  I thought as much,” grumbled the smith.  “Well, it is no doing of mine, Jim, and you must bear witness to that when we go home again.  I don’t know what—but, there, it is done, and it can’t be helped.  After all, she’s—Now, the deuce take my clumsy tongue!”

I could not tell whether it was the wine which he had taken at supper or the excitement of Boy Jim’s victory which was affecting Harrison, but his usually placid face wore a most disturbed expression, and his manner seemed to betray an alternation of exultation and embarrassment.  Jim looked curiously at him, wondering evidently what it was that lay behind these abrupt sentences and sudden silences.  The coach-house had in the mean time been cleared; Berks with many curses had staggered at last to his feet, and had gone off in company with two other bruisers, while Jem Belcher alone remained chatting very earnestly with my uncle.

“Very good, Belcher,” I heard my uncle say.

“It would be a real pleasure to me to do it, sir,” and the famous prize-fighter, as the two walked towards us.

“I wished to ask you, Jim Harrison, whether you would undertake to be my champion in the fight against Crab Wilson of Gloucester?” said my uncle.

“That is what I want, Sir Charles—to have a chance of fighting my way upwards.”

“There are heavy stakes upon the event—very heavy stakes,” said my uncle.  “You will receive two hundred pounds, if you win.  Does that satisfy you?”

“I shall fight for the honour, and because I wish to be thought worthy of being matched against Jem Belcher.”

Belcher laughed good-humouredly.

“You are going the right way about it, lad,” said he.  “But you had a soft thing on to-night with a drunken man who was out of condition.”

“I did not wish to fight him,” said Jim, flushing.

“Oh, I know you have spirit enough to fight anything on two legs.  I knew that the instant I clapped eyes on you; but I want you to remember that when you fight Crab Wilson, you will fight the most promising man from the west, and that the best man of the west is likely to be the best man in England.  He’s as quick and as long in the reach as you are, and he’ll train himself to the last half-ounce of tallow.  I tell you this now, d’ye see, because if I’m to have the charge of you—”

“Charge of me!”

“Yes,” said my uncle.  “Belcher has consented to train you for the coming battle if you are willing to enter.”

“I am sure I am very much obliged to you,” cried Jim, heartily.  “Unless my uncle should wish to train me, there is no one I would rather have.”

“Nay, Jim; I’ll stay with you a few days, but Belcher knows a deal more about training than I do.  Where will the quarters be?”

“I thought it would be handy for you if we fixed it at the George, at Crawley.  Then, if we have choice of place, we might choose Crawley Down, for, except Molesey Hurst, and, maybe, Smitham Bottom, there isn’t a spot in the country that would compare with it for a mill.  Do you agree with that?”

“With all my heart,” said Jim.

“Then you’re my man from this hour on, d’ye see?” said Belcher.  “Your food is mine, and your drink is mine, and your sleep is mine, and all you’ve to do is just what you are told.  We haven’t an hour to lose, for Wilson has been in half-training this month back.  You saw his empty glass to-night.”

“Jim’s fit to fight for his life at the present moment,” said Harrison.  “But we’ll both come down to Crawley to-morrow.  So good night, Sir Charles.”

“Good night, Roddy,” said Jim.  “You’ll come down to Crawley and see me at my training quarters, will you not?”

And I heartily promised that I would.

“You must be more careful, nephew,” said my uncle, as we rattled home in his model vis-à-vis.  “En première jeunesse one is a little inclined to be ruled by one’s heart rather than by one’s reason.  Jim Harrison seems to be a most respectable young fellow, but after all he is a blacksmith’s apprentice, and a candidate for the prize-ring.  There is a vast gap between his position and that of my own blood relation, and you must let him feel that you are his superior.”

“He is the oldest and dearest friend that I have in the world, sir,” I answered.  “We were boys together, and have never had a secret from each other.  As to showing him that I am his superior, I don’t know how I can do that, for I know very well that he is mine.”

“Hum!” said my uncle, drily, and it was the last word that he addressed to me that night.

p. 201CHAPTER XII.
THE COFFEE-ROOM OF FLADONG’S.

So Boy Jim went down to the George, at Crawley, under the charge of Jim Belcher and Champion Harrison, to train for his great fight with Crab Wilson, of Gloucester, whilst every club and bar parlour of London rang with the account of how he had appeared at a supper of Corinthians, and beaten the formidable Joe Berks in four rounds.  I remembered that afternoon at Friar’s Oak when Jim had told me that he would make his name known, and his words had come true sooner than he could have expected it, for, go where one might, one heard of nothing but the match between Sir Lothian Hume and Sir Charles Tregellis, and the points of the two probable combatants.  The betting was still steadily in favour of Wilson, for he had a number of bye-battles to set against this single victory of Jim’s, and it was thought by connoisseurs who had seen him spar that the singular defensive tactics which had given him his nickname would prove very puzzling to a raw antagonist.  In height, strength, and reputation for gameness there was very little to choose between them, but Wilson had been the more severely tested.

It was but a few days before the battle that my father made his promised visit to London.  The seaman had no love of cities, and was happier wandering over the Downs, and turning his glass upon every topsail which showed above the horizon, than when finding his way among crowded streets, where, as he complained, it was impossible to keep a course by the sun, and hard enough by dead reckoning.  Rumours of war were in the air, however, and it was necessary that he should use his influence with Lord Nelson if a vacancy were to be found either for himself or for me.

My uncle had just set forth, as was his custom of an evening, clad in his green riding-frock, his plate buttons, his Cordovan boots, and his round hat, to show himself upon his crop-tailed tit in the Mall.  I had remained behind, for, indeed, I had already made up my mind that I had no calling for this fashionable life.  These men, with their small waists, their gestures, and their unnatural ways, had become wearisome to me, and even my uncle, with his cold and patronizing manner, filled me with very mixed feelings.  My thoughts were back in Sussex, and I was dreaming of the kindly, simple ways of the country, when there came a rat-tat at the knocker, the ring of a hearty voice, and there, in the doorway, was the smiling, weather-beaten face, with the puckered eyelids and the light blue eyes.

“Why, Roddy, you are grand indeed!” he cried.  “But I had rather see you with the King’s blue coat upon your back than with all these frills and ruffles.”

“And I had rather wear it, father.”

“It warms my heart to hear you say so.  Lord Nelson has promised me that he would find a berth for you, and to-morrow we shall seek him out and remind him of it.  But where is your uncle?”

“He is riding in the Mall.”

A look of relief passed over my father’s honest face, for he was never very easy in his brother-in-law’s company.  “I have been to the Admiralty,” said he, “and I trust that I shall have a ship when war breaks out; by all accounts it will not be long first.  Lord St. Vincent told me so with his own lips.  But I am at Fladong’s, Rodney, where, if you will come and sup with me, you will see some of my messmates from the Mediterranean.”

When you think that in the last year of the war we had 140,000 seamen and mariners afloat, commanded by 4000 officers, and that half of these had been turned adrift when the Peace of Amiens laid their ships up in the Hamoaze or Portsdown creek, you will understand that London, as well as the dockyard towns, was full of seafarers.  You could not walk the streets without catching sight of the gipsy-faced, keen-eyed men whose plain clothes told of their thin purses as plainly as their listless air showed their weariness of a life of forced and unaccustomed inaction.  Amid the dark streets and brick houses there was something out of place in their appearance, as when the sea-gulls, driven by stress of weather, are seen in the Midland shires.  Yet while prize-courts procrastinated, or there was a chance of an appointment by showing their sunburned faces at the Admiralty, so long they would continue to pace with their quarter-deck strut down Whitehall, or to gather of an evening to discuss the events of the last war or the chances of the next at Fladong’s, in Oxford Street, which was reserved as entirely for the Navy as Slaughter’s was for the Army, or Ibbetson’s for the Church of England.

It did not surprise me, therefore, that we should find the large room in which we supped crowded with naval men, but I remember that what did cause me some astonishment was to observe that all these sailors, who had served under the most varying conditions in all quarters of the globe, from the Baltic to the East Indies, should have been moulded into so uniform a type that they were more like each other than brother is commonly to brother.  The rules of the service insured that every face should be clean-shaven, every head powdered, and every neck covered by the little queue of natural hair tied with a black silk ribbon.  Biting winds and tropical suns had combined to darken them, whilst the habit of command and the menace of ever-recurring dangers had stamped them all with the same expression of authority and of alertness.  There were some jovial faces amongst them, but the older officers, with their deep-lined cheeks and their masterful noses, were, for the most part, as austere as so many weather-beaten ascetics from the desert.  Lonely watches, and a discipline which cut them off from all companionship, had left their mark upon those Red Indian faces.  For my part, I could hardly eat my supper for watching them.  Young as I was, I knew that if there were any freedom left in Europe it was to these men that we owed it; and I seemed to read upon their grim, harsh features the record of that long ten years of struggle which had swept the tricolour from the seas.

When we had finished