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

manner.

“What the devil is that to you?” cried Belcher, furiously.

“It’s a good deal to all of us, for there are some funny stories about.”

“You keep them to yourself, then, or you may wish you had never heard them.”

“All right, Jem!  Your breakfast don’t seem to have agreed with you this morning.”

“Have the others arrived?” asked my uncle, carelessly.

“Not yet, Sir Charles.  But Tom Oliver is there with the ropes and stakes.  Jackson drove by just now, and most of the ring-keepers are up.”

“We have still an hour,” remarked my uncle, as he drove on.  “It is possible that the others may be late, since they have to come from Reigate.”

“You take it like a man, Tregellis,” said Craven.  “We must keep a bold face and brazen it out until the last moment.”

“Of course, sir,” cried Belcher.  “I’ll never believe the betting would rise like that if somebody didn’t know something.  We’ll hold on by our teeth and nails, Sir Charles, and see what comes of it.”

We could hear a sound like the waves upon the beach, long before we came in sight of that mighty multitude, and then at last, on a sudden dip of the road, we saw it lying before us, a whirlpool of humanity with an open vortex in the centre.  All round, the thousands of carriages and horses were dotted over the moor, and the slopes were gay with tents and booths.  A spot had been chosen for the ring, where a great basin had been hollowed out in the ground, so that all round that natural amphitheatre a crowd of thirty thousand people could see very well what was going on in the centre.  As we drove up a buzz of greeting came from the people upon the fringe which was nearest to us, spreading and spreading, until the whole multitude had joined in the acclamation.  Then an instant later a second shout broke forth, beginning from the other side of the arena, and the faces which had been turned towards us whisked round, so that in a twinkling the whole foreground changed from white to dark.

“It’s they.  They are in time,” said my uncle and Craven together.

Standing up on our curricle, we could see the cavalcade approaching over the Downs.  In front came a huge yellow barouche, in which sat Sir Lothian Hume, Crab Wilson, and Captain Barclay, his trainer.  The postillions were flying canary-yellow ribands from their caps, those being the colours under which Wilson was to fight.  Behind the carriage there rode a hundred or more noblemen and gentlemen of the west country, and then a line of gigs, tilburies, and carriages wound away down the Grinstead road as far as our eyes could follow it.  The big barouche came lumbering over the sward in our direction until Sir Lothian Hume caught sight of us, when he shouted to his postillions to pull up.

“Good morning, Sir Charles,” said he, springing out of the carriage.  “I thought I knew your scarlet curricle.  We have an excellent morning for the battle.”

My uncle bowed coldly, and made no answer.

“I suppose that since we are all here we may begin at once,” said Sir Lothian, taking no notice of the other’s manner.

“We begin at ten o’clock.  Not an instant before.”

“Very good, if you prefer it.  By the way, Sir Charles, where is your man?”

“I would ask you that question, Sir Lothian,” answered my uncle.  “Where is my man?”

A look of astonishment passed over Sir Lothian’s features, which, if it were not real, was most admirably affected.

“What do you mean by asking me such a question?”

“Because I wish to know.”

“But how can I tell, and what business is it of mine?”

“I have reason to believe that you have made it your business.”

“If you would kindly put the matter a little more clearly there would be some possibility of my understanding you.”

They were both very white and cold, formal and unimpassioned in their bearing, but exchanging glances which crossed like rapier blades.  I thought of Sir Lothian’s murderous repute as a duellist, and I trembled for my uncle.

“Now, sir, if you imagine that you have a grievance against me, you will oblige me vastly by putting it into words.”

“I will,” said my uncle.  “There has been a conspiracy to maim or kidnap my man, and I have every reason to believe that you are privy to it.”

An ugly sneer came over Sir Lothian’s saturnine face.

“I see,” said he.  “Your man has not come on quite as well as you had expected in his training, and you are hard put to it to invent an excuse.  Still, I should have thought that you might have found a more probable one, and one which would entail less serious consequences.”

“Sir,” answered my uncle, “you are a liar, but how great a liar you are nobody knows save yourself.”

Sir Lothian’s hollow cheeks grew white with passion, and I saw for an instant in his deep-set eyes such a glare as comes from the frenzied hound rearing and ramping at the end of its chain.  Then, with an effort, he became the same cold, hard, self-contained man as ever.

“It does not become our position to quarrel like two yokels at a fair,” said he; “we shall go further into the matter afterwards.”

“I promise you that we shall,” answered my uncle, grimly.

“Meanwhile, I hold you to the terms of your wager.  Unless you produce your nominee within five-and-twenty minutes, I claim the match.”

“Eight-and-twenty minutes,” said my uncle, looking at his watch.  “You may claim it then, but not an instant before.”

He was admirable at that moment, for his manner was that of a man with all sorts of hidden resources, so that I could hardly make myself realize as I looked at him that our position was really as desperate as I knew it to be.  In the meantime Berkeley Craven, who had been exchanging a few words with Sir Lothian Hume, came back to our side.

“I have been asked to be sole referee in this matter,” said he.  “Does that meet with your wishes, Sir Charles?”

“I should be vastly obliged to you, Craven, if you will undertake the duties.”

“And Jackson has been suggested as timekeeper.”

“I could not wish a better one.”

“Very good.  That is settled.”

In the meantime the last of the carriages had come up, and the horses had all been picketed upon the moor.  The stragglers who had dotted the grass had closed in until the huge crowd was one unit with a single mighty voice, which was already beginning to bellow its impatience.  Looking round, there was hardly a moving object upon the whole vast expanse of green and purple down.  A belated gig was coming at full gallop down the road which led from the south, and a few pedestrians were still trailing up from Crawley, but nowhere was there a sign of the missing man.

“The betting keeps up for all that,” said Belcher.  “I’ve just been to the ring-side, and it is still even.”

“There’s a place for you at the outer ropes, Sir Charles,” said Craven.

“There is no sign of my man yet.  I won’t come in until he arrives.”

“It is my duty to tell you that only ten minutes are left.”

“I make it five,” cried Sir Lothian Hume.

“That is a question which lies with the referee,” said Craven, firmly.  “My watch makes it ten minutes, and ten it must be.”

“Here’s Crab Wilson!” cried Belcher, and at the same moment a shout like a thunderclap burst from the crowd.  The west countryman had emerged from his dressing-tent, followed by Dutch Sam and Tom Owen, who were acting as his seconds.  He was nude to the waist, with a pair of white calico drawers, white silk stockings, and running shoes.  Round his middle was a canary-yellow sash, and dainty little ribbons of the same colour fluttered from the sides of his knees.  He carried a high white hat in his hand, and running down the lane which had been kept open through the crowd to allow persons to reach the ring, he threw the hat high into the air, so that it fell within the staked inclosure.  Then with a double spring he cleared the outer and inner line of rope, and stood with his arms folded in the centre.

I do not wonder that the people cheered.  Even Belcher could not help joining in the general shout of applause.  He was certainly a splendidly built young athlete, and one could not have wished to look upon a finer sight as his white skin, sleek and luminous as a panther’s, gleamed in the light of the morning sun, with a beautiful liquid rippling of muscles at every movement.  His arms were long and slingy, his shoulders loose and yet powerful, with the downward slant which is a surer index of power than squareness can be.  He clasped his hands behind his head, threw them aloft, and swung them backwards, and at every movement some fresh expanse of his smooth, white skin became knobbed and gnarled with muscles, whilst a yell of admiration and delight from the crowd greeted each fresh exhibition.  Then, folding his arms once more, he stood like a beautiful statue waiting for his antagonist.

Sir Lothian Hume had been looking impatiently at his watch, and now he shut it with a triumphant snap.

“Time’s up!” he cried.  “The match is forfeit.”

“Time is not up,” said Craven.

“I have still five minutes.”  My uncle looked round with despairing eyes.

“Only three, Tregellis!”

A deep angry murmur was rising from the crowd.

“It’s a cross!  It’s a cross!  It’s a fake!” was the cry.

“Two minutes, Tregellis!”

“Where’s your man, Sir Charles?  Where’s the man that we have backed?”  Flushed faces began to crane over each other, and angry eyes glared up at us.

“One more minute, Tregellis!  I am very sorry, but it will be my duty to declare it forfeit against you.”

There was a sudden swirl in the crowd, a rush, a shout, and high up in the air there spun an old black hat, floating over the heads of the ring-siders and flickering down within the ropes.

“Saved, by the Lord!” screamed Belcher.

“I rather fancy,” said my uncle, calmly, “that this must be my man.”

“Too late!” cried Sir Lothian.

“No,” answered the referee.  “It was still twenty seconds to the hour.  The fight will now proceed.”

p. 277CHAPTER XVII.
THE RING-SIDE.

Out of the whole of that vast multitude I was one of the very few who had observed whence it was that this black hat, skimming so opportunely over the ropes, had come.  I have already remarked that when we looked around us there had been a single gig travelling very rapidly upon the southern road.  My uncle’s eyes had rested upon it, but his attention had been drawn away by the discussion between Sir Lothian Hume and the referee upon the question of time.  For my own part, I had been so struck by the furious manner in which these belated travellers were approaching, that I had continued to watch them with all sorts of vague hopes within me, which I did not dare to put into words for fear of adding to my uncle’s disappointments.  I had just made out that the gig contained a man and a woman, when suddenly I saw it swerve off the road, and come with a galloping horse and bounding wheels right across the moor, crashing through the gorse bushes, and sinking down to the hubs in the heather and bracken.  As the driver pulled up his foam-spattered horse, he threw the reins to his companion, sprang from his seat, butted furiously into the crowd, and then an instant afterwards up went the hat which told of his challenge and defiance.

“There is no hurry now, I presume, Craven,” said my uncle, as coolly as if this sudden effect had been carefully devised by him.

“Now that your man has his hat in the ring you can take as much time as you like, Sir Charles.”

“Your friend has certainly cut it rather fine, nephew.”

“It is not Jim, sir,” I whispered.  “It is some one else.”

My uncle’s eyebrows betrayed his astonishment.

“Some one else!” he ejaculated.

“And a good man too!” roared Belcher, slapping his thigh with a crack like a pistol-shot.  “Why, blow my dickey if it ain’t old Jack Harrison himself!”

Looking down at the crowd, we had seen the head and shoulders of a powerful and strenuous man moving slowly forward, and leaving behind him a long V-shaped ripple upon its surface like the wake of a swimming dog.  Now, as he pushed his way through the looser fringe the head was raised, and there was the grinning, hardy face of the smith looking up at us.  He had left his hat in the ring, and was enveloped in an overcoat with a blue bird’s-eye handkerchief tied round his neck.  As he emerged from the throng he let his great-coat fly loose, and showed that he was dressed in his full fighting kit—black drawers, chocolate stockings, and white shoes.

“I’m right sorry to be so late, Sir Charles,” he cried.  “I’d have been sooner, but it took me a little time