Mr. Robert Montgomery was seated at his desk, his head upon his hands, in a state of the blackest despondency. Before him was the open ledger2 with the long columns of Dr. Oldacre’s prescriptions3. At his elbow lay the wooden tray with the labels in various partitions, the cork4 box, the lumps of twisted sealing-wax, while in front a rank of bottles waited to be filled. But his spirits were too low for work. He sat in silence with his fine shoulders bowed and his head upon his hands.
Outside, through the grimy surgery window over a foreground of blackened brick and slate5, a line of enormous chimneys like Cyclopean pillars upheld the lowering, dun-coloured cloud-bank. For six days in the week they spouted6 smoke, but today the furnace fires were banked, for it was Sunday. Sordid7 and polluting gloom hung over a district blighted8 and blasted by the greed of man. There was nothing in the surroundings to cheer a desponding soul, but it was more than his dismal9 environment which weighed upon the medical assistant. His trouble was deeper and more personal. The winter session was approaching. He should be back again at the University completing the last year which would give him his medical degree; but, alas10! he had not the money with which to pay his class fees, nor could he imagine how he could procure11 it. Sixty pounds were wanted to make his career, and it might have been as many thousand for any chance there seemed to be of his obtaining it. He was roused from his black meditation12 by the entrance of Dr. Oldacre himself, a large, clean-shaven, respectable man, with a prim13 manner and an austere14 face. He had prospered15 exceedingly by the support of the local Church interest, and the rule of his life was never by word or action to run a risk of offending the sentiment which had made him. His standard of respectability and of dignity was exceedingly high, and he expected the same from his assistants. His appearance and words were always vaguely16 benevolent17. A sudden impulse came over the despondent18 student. He would test the reality of this philanthropy.
“I beg your pardon, Dr. Oldacre,” said he, rising from his chair; “I have a great favour to ask of you.”
The doctor’s appearance was not encouraging. His mouth suddenly tightened19, and his eyes fell.
“Yes, Mr. Montgomery?”
“You are aware, sir, that I need only one more session to complete my course.”
“So you have told me.”
“It is very important to me, sir.”
“Naturally.”
“The fees, Dr. Oldacre, would amount to about sixty pounds.”
“I am afraid that my duties call me elsewhere, Mr. Montgomery.”
“One moment, sir! I had hoped, sir, that perhaps, if I signed a paper promising20 you interest upon your money, you would advance this sum to me. I will pay you back, sir, I really will. Or, if you like, I will work it off after I am qualified21.”
The doctor’s lips had thinned into a narrow line. His eyes were raised again, and sparkled indignantly.
“Your request is unreasonable22, Mr. Montgomery. I am surprised that you should have made it. Consider, sir, how many thousands of medical students there are in this country. No doubt there are many of them who have a difficulty in finding their fees. Am I to provide for them all? Or why should I make an exception in your favour? I am grieved and disappointed, Mr. Montgomery, that you should have put me into the painful position of having to refuse you.” He turned upon his heel, and walked with offended dignity out of the surgery.
The student smiled bitterly, and turned to his work of making up the morning prescriptions. It was poor and unworthy work — work which any weakling might have done as well, and this was a man of exceptional nerve and sinew. But, such as it was, it brought him his board and One pound a week — enough to help him during the summer months and let him save a few pounds towards his winter keep. But those class fees! Where were they to come from? He could not save them out of his scanty23 wage. Dr. Oldacre would not advance them. He saw no way of earning them. His brains were fairly good, but brains of that quality were a drug in the market. He only excelled in his strength, and where was he to find a customer for that? But the ways of Fate are strange, and his customer was at hand.
“Look y’ere!” said a voice at the door. Montgomery looked up, for the voice was a loud and rasping one. A young man stood at the entrance — a stocky, bull-necked young miner, in tweed Sunday clothes and an aggressive neck-tie. He was a sinister24-looking figure, with dark, insolent25 eyes, and the jaw26 and throat of a bulldog.
“Look y’ere!” said he again. “Why hast thou not sent t’ medicine oop as thy master ordered?”
Montgomery had become accustomed to the brutal27 frankness of the northern worker. At first it had enraged28 him, but after a time he had grown callous29 to it, and accepted it as it was meant. But this was something different. It was insolence30 — brutal, overbearing insolence, with physical menace behind it.
“What name?” he asked coldly.
“Barton. Happen I may give thee cause to mind that name, yoong man. Mak’ oop t’ wife’s medicine this very moment, look ye, or it will be the worse for thee.”
Montgomery smiled. A pleasant sense of relief thrilled softly through him. What blessed safety-valve was this through which his jangled nerves might find some outlet31. The provocation32 was so gross, the insult so unprovoked, that he could have none of those qualms33 which take the edge off a man’s mettle34. He finished sealing the bottle upon which he was occupied, and he addressed it and placed it carefully in the rack. “Look here!” said he, turning round to the miner, “your medicine will be made up in its turn and sent down to you. I don’t allow folk in the surgery. Wait outside in the waiting-room if you wish to wait at all.”
“Yoong man,” said the miner, “thou’s got to mak’ t’ wife’s medicine here, and now, and quick, while I wait and watch thee, or else happen thou might need some medicine thysel’ before all is over.”
“I shouldn’t advise you to fasten a quarrel upon me.” Montgomery was speaking in the hard, staccato voice of a man who is holding himself in with difficulty. “You’ll save trouble if you’ll go quietly. If you don’t you’ll be hurt. Ah, you would? Take it, then!”
The blows were almost simultaneous — a savage35 swing which whistled past Montgomery’s ear, and a straight drive which took the workman on the chin. Luck was with the assistant. That single whizzing uppercut, and the way in which it was delivered, warned him that he had a formidable man to deal with. But if he had underrated his antagonist36, his antagonist had also underrated him, and had laid himself open to a fatal blow.
The miner’s head had come with a crash against the corner of the surgery shelves, and he had dropped heavily on to the ground. There he lay with his bandy legs drawn37 up and his hands thrown abroad, the blood trickling38 over the surgery tiles.
“Had enough?” asked the assistant, breathing fiercely through his nose.
But no answer came. The man was insensible. And then the danger of his position came upon Montgomery, and he turned as white as his antagonist. A Sunday, the immaculate Dr. Oldacre with his pious39 connection, a savage brawl40 with a patient; he would irretrievably lose his situation if the facts came out. It was not much of a situation, but he could not get another without a reference, and Oldacre might refuse him one. Without money for his classes, and without a situation — what was to become of him? It was absolute ruin.
But perhaps he could escape exposure after all. He seized his insensible adversary41, dragged him out into the centre of he room, loosened his collar, and squeezed the surgery sponge over his face. He sat up at last with a gasp42 and a scowl43. “Domn thee, thou’s spoilt my neck-tie,” said he, mopping up the water from his breast.
“I’m sorry I hit you so hard,” said Montgomery, apologetically.
“Thou hit me hard! I could stan’ such fly-flappin’ all day. ’Twas this here press that cracked my pate44 for me, and thou art a looky man to be able to boast as thou hast outed me. And now I’d be obliged to thee if thou wilt45 give me t’ wife’s medicine.”
Montgomery gladly made it up and handed it to the miner.
“You are weak still,” said he. “Won’t you stay awhile and rest?”
“T’ wife wants her medicine,” said the man, and lurched out at the door.
The assistant, looking after him, saw him rolling, with an uncertain step, down the street, until a friend met him, and they walked on arm in arm. The man seemed in his rough Northern fashion to bear no grudge46, and so Montgomery’s fears left him. There was no reason why the doctor should know anything about it. He wiped the blood from the floor, put the surgery in order, and went on with his interrupted task, hoping that he had come scathless out of a very dangerous business.
Yet all day he was aware of a sense of vague uneasiness, which sharpened into dismay when, late in the afternoon, he was informed that three gentlemen had called and were waiting for him in the surgery. A coroner’s inquest, a descent of detectives, an invasion of angry relatives — all sorts of possibilities rose to scare him. With tense nerves and a rigid47 face he went to meet his visitors.
They were a very singular trio. Each was known to him by sight; but what on earth the three could be doing together, and, above all, what they could expect from him, was a most inexplicable48 problem. The first was Sorley Wilson, the son of the owner of the Nonpareil Coalpit. He was a young blood of twenty, heir to a fortune, a keen sportsman, and down for the Easter Vacation from Magdalene College. He sat now upon the edge of the surgery table, looking in thoughtful silence at Montgomery and twisting the ends of his small, black, waxed moustache. The second was Purvis, the publican, owner of the chief beer-shop, and well known as the local bookmaker. He was a coarse, clean-shaven man, whose fiery49 face made a singular contrast with his ivory-white bald head. He had shrewd, light-blue eyes with foxy lashes50, and he also leaned forward in silence from his chair, a fat, red hand upon either knee, and stared critically at the young assistant. So did the third visitor, Fawcett, the horse-breaker, who leaned back, his long, thin legs, with their boxcloth riding-gaiters, thrust out in front of him, tapping his protruding51 teeth with his riding-whip, with anxious thought in every line of his rugged52, bony face. Publican, exquisite53, and horse-breaker were all three equally silent, equally earnest, and equally critical. Montgomery seated in the midst of them, looked from one to the other.
“Well, gentlemen?” he observed, but no answer came.
The position was embarrassing.
“No,” said the horse-breaker, at last. “No. It’s off. It’s nowt.”
“Stand oop, lad; let’s see thee standin’.” It was the publican who spoke54. Montgomery obeyed. He would learn all about it, no doubt, if he were patient. He stood up and turned slowly round, as if in front of his tailor.
“It’s off! It’s off!” cried the horse-breaker. “Why, mon, the Master would break him over his knee.”
“Oh, that be hanged for a yarn55!” said the young Cantab. “You can drop out if you like, Fawcett, but I’ll see this thing through, if I have to do it alone. I don’t hedge a penny. I like the cut of him a great deal better than I liked Ted1 Barton.”
“Look at Barton’s shoulders, Mr. Wilson.”
“Lumpiness isn’t always strength. Give me nerve and fire and breed. That’s what wins.”
“Ay, sir, you have it theer — you have it theer!” said the fat, red-faced publican, in a thick suety voice. “It’s the same wi’ poops. Get ’em clean-bred an’ fine, an’ they’ll yark the thick ‘uns — yark ’em out o’ their skins.”
“He’s ten good pund on the light side,” growled56 the horse-breaker.
“He’s a welter weight, anyhow.”
“A hundred and thirty.”
“A hundred and fifty, if he’s an ounce.”
“Well, the Master doesn’t scale much more than that.”
“A hundred and seventy-five.”
“That was when he was hog-fat and living high. Work the grease out of him and I lay there’s no great difference between them. Have you been weighed lately, Mr. Montgomery?”
It was the first direct question which had been asked him. He had stood in the midst of them like a horse at a fair, and he was just beginning to wonder whether he was more angry or amused.
“I am just eleven stone,” said he.
“I said that he was a welter weight.”
“But suppose you was trained?” said the publican. “Wot then?”
“I am always in training.”
“In a manner of speakin’, no doubt, he is always in trainin’,” remarked the horse-breaker. “But trainin’ for everyday work ain’t the same as trainin’ with a trainer; and I dare bet, with all respec’ to your opinion, Mr. Wilson, that there’s half a stone of tallow on him at this minute.”
The young Cantab put his fingers on the assistant’s upper arm, then with his other hand on his wrist, he bent57 the forearm sharply, and felt the biceps, as round and hard as a cricket-ball, spring up under his fingers.
“Feel that!” said he.
The publican and horse-breaker felt it with an air of reverence58. “Good lad! He’ll do yet!” cried Purvis.
“Gentlemen,” said Montgomery, “I think that you will acknowledge that I have boon59 very patient with you. I have listened to all that you have to say about my personal appearance, and now I must really beg that you will have the goodness to tell me what is the matter.”
They all sat down in their serious, business-like way.
“That’s easy done, Mr. Montgomery,” said the fat-voiced publican. “But before sayin’ anything we had to wait and see whether, in a way of speakin’, there was any need for us to say anything at all. Mr. Wilson thinks there is. Mr. Fawcett, who has the same right to his opinion, bein’ also a backer and one o’ the committee, thinks the other way.”
“I thought him too light built, and I think so now,” said the horse-breaker, still tapping his prominent teeth with the metal head of his riding-whip. “But happen he may pull through, and he’s a fine-made, buirdly young chap, so if you mean to back him, Mr. Wilson —
“Which I do.”
“And you, Purvis?”
“I ain’t one to go back, Fawcett.”
“Well, I’ll stan’ to my share of the purse.”
“And well I knew you would,” said Purvis, “for it would be somethin’ new to find Isaac Fawcett as a spoil-sport. Well, then, we will make up the hundred for the stake among us, and the fight stands — always supposin’ the young man is willin’.”
“Excuse all this rot, Mr. Montgomery,” said the University man, in a genial60 voice. “We’ve begun at the wrong end, I know, but we’ll soon straighten it out, and I hope that you will see your way to falling in with our views. In the first place, you remember the man whom you knocked out this morning? He is Barton — the famous Ted Barton.”
“I’m sure, sir, you may well be proud to have outed him in one round,” said the publican. “Why, it took Morris, the ten-stone-six champion, a deal more trouble than that before he put Barton to sleep. You’ve done a fine performance, sir, and happen you’ll do a finer, if you give yourself the chance.”
“I never heard of Ted Barton, beyond seeing the name on a medicine label,” said the assistant.
“Well, you may take it from me that he’s a slaughterer,” said the horse-breaker. “You’ve taught him a lesson that he needed, for it was always a word and a blow with him, and the word alone was worth five shillin’ in a public court. He won’t be so ready now to shake his nief in the face of everyone he meets. However, that’s neither here nor there.”
Montgomery looked at them in bewilderment.
“For goodness’ sake, gentlemen, tell me what it is you want me to do!” he cried.
“We want you to fight Silas Craggs, better known as the Master of Croxley.”
“But why?”
“Because Ted Barton was to have fought him next Saturday. He was the champion of the Wilson coal-pits, and the other was the Master of the iron-folk down at the Croxley smelters. We’d matched our man for a purse of a hundred against the Master. But you’ve queered our man, and he can’t face such a battle with a two-inch cut at the back of his head. There’s only one thing to be done, sir, and that is for you to take his place. If you can lick Ted Barton you may lick the Master of Croxley, but if you don’t we’re done, for there’s no one else who is in the same street with him in this district. It’s twenty rounds, two-ounce gloves, Queensberry rules, and a decision on points if you fight to the finish.”
For a moment the absurdity61 of the thing drove every other thought out of Montgomery’s head. But then there came a sudden revulsion. A hundred pounds!— all he wanted to complete his education was lying there ready to his hand, if only that hand were strong enough to pick it up. He had thought bitterly that morning that there was no market for his strength, but here was one where his muscle might earn more in an hour than his brains in a year. But a chill of doubt came over him. “How can I fight for the coal-pits?” said he. “I am not connected with them.”
“Eh, lad, but thou art!” cried old Purvis. “We’ve got it down in writin’, and it’s clear enough ‘Anyone connected with the coal-pits.’ Doctor Oldacre is the coal-pit club doctor; thou art his assistant. What more can they want?”
“Yes, that’s right enough,” said the Cantab. “It would be a very sporting thing of you, Mr. Montgomery, if you would come to our help when we are in such a hole. Of course, you might not like to take the hundred pounds; but I have no doubt that, in the case of your winning, we could arrange that it should take the form of a watch or piece of plate, or any other shape which might suggest itself to you. You see, you are responsible for our having lost our champion, so we really feel that we have a claim upon you.”
“Give me a moment, gentlemen. It is very unexpected. I am afraid the doctor would never consent to my going — in fact, I am sure that he would not.”
“But he need never know — not before the fight, at any rate. We are not bound to give the name of our man. So long as he is within the weight limits on the day of the fight, that is all that concerns anyone.”
The adventure and the profit would either of them have attracted Montgomery. The two combined were irresistible62. “Gentlemen,” said he, “I’ll do it!”
The three sprang from their seats. The publican had seized his right hand, the horse-dealer his left, and the Cantab slapped him on the back.
“Good lad! good lad!” croaked63 the publican. “Eh, mon, but if thou yark him, thou’ll rise in one day from being just a common doctor to the best-known mon ‘twixt here and Bradford. Thou art a witherin’ tyke, thou art, and no mistake; and if thou beat the Master of Croxley, thou’ll find all the beer thou want for the rest of thy life waiting for thee at the ‘Four Sacks.’”
“It is the most sporting thing I ever heard of in my life,” said young Wilson. “By George, sir, if you pull it off, you’ve got the constituency in your pocket, if you care to stand. You know the out-house in my garden?”
“Next the road?”
“Exactly. I turned it into a gymnasium for Ted Barton. You’ll find all you want there: clubs, punching ball, bars, dumb-bells, everything. Then you’ll want a sparring partner. Ogilvy has been acting64 for Barton, but we don’t think that he is class enough. Barton bears you no grudge. He’s a good-hearted fellow, though cross-grained with strangers. He looked upon you as a stranger this morning, but he says he knows you now. He is quite ready to spar with you for practice, and he will come any hour you will name.”
“Thank you; I will let you know the hour,” said Montgomery; and so the committee departed jubilant upon their way.
The medical assistant sat for a time in the surgery turning it over a little in his mind. He had been trained originally at the University by the man who had been middle-weight champion in his day. It was true that his teacher was long past his prime, slow upon his feet, and stiff in his joints65, but even so he was still a tough antagonist; but Montgomery had found at last that he could more than hold his own with him. He had won the University medal, and his teacher, who had trained so many students, was emphatic66 in his opinion that he had never had one who was in the same class with him. He had been exhorted67 to go in for the Amateur Championships, but he had no particular ambition in that direction. Once he had put on the gloves with Hammer Tunstall in a booth at a fair and had fought three rattling68 rounds, in which he had the worst of it, but had made the prize fighter stretch himself to the uttermost. There was his whole record, and was it enough to encourage him to stand up to the Master of Croxley? He had never heard of the Master before, but then he had lost touch of the ring during the last few years of hard work. After all, what did it matter? If he won, there was the money, which meant so much to him. If he lost, it would only mean a thrashing. He could take punishment without flinching69, of that he was certain. If there were only one chance in a hundred of pulling it off, then it was worth his while to attempt it.
Dr. Oldacre, new come from church, with an ostentatious Prayer-book in his kid-gloved hand, broke in upon his meditation.
“You don’t go to service, I observe, Mr. Montgomery” said he, coldly.
“No, sir; I have had some business to detain me.”
“It is very near to my heart that my household should set a good example. There are so few educated people in this district that a great responsibility devolves upon us. If we do not live up to the highest, how can we expect these poor workers to do so? It is a dreadful thing to reflect that the parish takes a great deal more interest in an approaching glove fight than in their religious duties.”
“A glove fight, sir?” said Montgomery, guiltily.
“I believe that to be the correct term. One of my patients tells me that it is the talk of the district. A local ruffian, a patient of ours, by the way, matched against a pugilist over at Croxley. I cannot understand why the law does not step in and stop so degrading an exhibition. It is really a prize fight.”
“A glove fight, you said.”
“I am informed that a 2oz. glove is an evasion70 by which they dodge71 the law, and make it difficult for the police to interfere72. They contend for a sum of money. It seems dreadful and almost incredible — does it not?— to think that such scenes can be enacted73 within a few miles of our peaceful home. But you will realise, Mr. Montgomery, that while there are such influences for us to counteract74, it is very necessary that we should live up to our highest.”
The doctor’s sermon would have had more effect if the assistant had not once or twice had occasion to test his highest, and come upon it at unexpectedly humble75 elevations76. It is always so particularly easy to “compound for sins we’re most inclined to by damning those we have no mind to.” In any case, Montgomery felt that of all the men concerned in such a fight — promoters, backers, spectators — it is the actual fighter who holds the strongest and most honourable77 position. His conscience gave him no concern upon the subject. Endurance and courage are virtues78, not vices79, and brutality80 is, at least, better than effeminacy.
There was a little tobacco-shop at the corner of the street, where Montgomery got his bird’s-eye and also his local information, for the shopman was a garrulous81 soul, who knew everything about the affairs of the district. The assistant strolled down there after tea and asked, in a casual way, whether the tobacconist had ever heard of the Master of Croxley.
“Heard of him! Heard of him!” the little man could hardly articulate in his astonishment82. “Why, sir, he’s the first mon o’ the district, an’ his name’s as well known in the West Riding as the winner o’ t’ Derby. But Lor,’ sir,”— here he stopped and rummaged83 among a heap of papers. “They are makin’ a fuss about him on account o’ his fight wi’ Ted Barton, and so the Croxley Herald84 has his life an’ record, an’ here it is, an’ thou canst read it for thysel’”
The sheet of the paper which he held up was a lake of print around an islet of illustration. The latter was a coarse wood-cut of a pugilist’s head and neck set in a cross-barred jersey85. It was a sinister but powerful face, the face of a debauched hero, clean-shaven, strongly eye-browed, keen-eyed, with huge, aggressive jaw, and an animal dewlap beneath it. The long, obstinate86 cheeks ran flush up to the narrow, sinister eyes. The mighty87 neck came down square from the ears and curved outwards88 into shoulders, which had lost nothing at the hands of the local artist. Above was written “Silas Craggs,” and beneath, “The Master of Croxley.”
“Thou’ll find all about him there, sir,” said the tobacconist. “He’s a witherin’ tyke, he is, and we’re proud to have him in the county. If he hadn’t broke his leg he’d have been champion of England.”
“Broke his leg, has he?”
“Yes, and it set badly. They ca’ him owd K, behind his back, for that is how his two legs look. But his arms — well, if they was both stropped to a bench, as the sayin’ is, I wonder where the champion of England would be then.”
“I’ll take this with me,” said Montgomery; and putting the paper into his pocket he returned home.
It was not a cheering record which he read there. The whole history of the Croxley Master was given in full, his many victories, his few defeats.
Born in 1857 (said the provincial89 biographer), Silas Craggs, better known in sporting circles as the Master of Croxley, is now in his fortieth year.
“Hang it, I’m only twenty-three!” said Montgomery to himself, and read on more cheerfully.
Having in his youth shown a surprising aptitude90 for the game, he fought his way up among his comrades, until he became the recognised champion of the district and won the proud title which he still holds. Ambitious of a more than local fame, he secured a patron, and fought his first fight against Jack91 Barton, of Birmingham, in May 1880, at the old Loiterers’ Club. Craggs, who fought at ten stone-two at the time, had the better of fifteen rattling rounds, and gained an award on points against the Midlander. Having disposed of James Dunn, of Rotherhithe, Cameron, of Glasgow, and a youth named Fernie, he was thought so highly of by the fancy that he was matched against Ernest Willox, at that time middle-weight champion of the North of England, and defeated him in a hard-fought battle, knocking him out in the tenth round after a punishing contest. At this period it looked as if the very highest honours of the ring were within the reach of the young Yorkshireman, but he was laid upon the shelf by a most unfortunate accident. The kick of a horse broke his thigh92, and for a year he was compelled to rest himself. When he returned to his work the fracture had set badly, and his activity was much impaired93. It was owing to this that he was defeated in seven rounds by Willox, the man whom he had previously94 beaten, and afterwards by James Shaw, of London, though the latter acknowledged that he had found the toughest customer of his career. Undismayed by his reverses, the Master adapted the style of his fighting to his physical disabilities and resumed his career of victory — defeating Norton (the black), Hobby Wilson, and Levi Cohen, the latter a heavy-weight. Conceding two stone, he fought a draw with the famous Billy McQuire, and afterwards, for a purse of fifty pounds, he defeated Sam Hare at the Pelican95 Club, London. In 1891 a decision was given against him upon a foul96 when fighting a winning fight against Jim Taylor, the Australian middle weight, and so mortified97 was he by the decision, that he withdrew from the ring. Since then he has hardly fought at all save to accommodate any local aspirant98 who may wish to learn the difference between a bar-room scramble99 and a scientific contest. The latest of these ambitious souls comes from the Wilson coal-pits, which have undertaken to put up a stake of 100 pounds and back their local champion. There are various rumours100 afloat as to who their representative is to be, the name of Ted Barton being freely mentioned; but the betting, which is seven to one on the Master against any untried man, is a fair reflection of the feeling of the community.
Montgomery read it over twice, and it left him with a very serious face. No light matter this which he had undertaken; no battle with a rough-and-tumble fighter who presumed upon a local reputation. The man’s record showed that he was first-class — or nearly so. There were a few points in his favour, and he must make the most of them. There was age — twenty-three against forty. There was an old ring proverb that “Youth will be served,” but the annals of the ring offer a great number of exceptions. A hard veteran full of cool valour and ring-craft, could give ten or fifteen years and a beating to most striplings. He could not rely too much upon his advantage in age. But then there was the lameness101; that must surely count for a great deal. And, lastly, there was the chance that the Master might underrate his opponent, that he might be remiss102 in his training, and refuse to abandon his usual way of life, if he thought that he had an easy task before him. In a man of his age and habits this seemed very possible. Montgomery prayed that it might be so. Meanwhile, if his opponent were the best man who ever jumped the ropes into a ring, his own duty was clear. He must prepare himself carefully, throw away no chance, and do the very best that he could. But he knew enough to appreciate the difference which exists in boxing, as in every sport, between the amateur and the professional. The coolness, the power of hitting, above all the capability103 of taking punishment, count for so much. Those specially104 developed, gutta-percha-like abdominal105 muscles of the hardened pugilist will take without flinching a blow which would leave another man writhing106 on the ground. Such things are not to be acquired in a week, but all that could be done in a week should be done.
The medical assistant had a good basis to start from. He was 5ft. 11 ins.— tall enough for anything on two legs, as the old ring men used to say — lithe107 and spare, with the activity of a panther, and a strength which had hardly yet ever found its limitations. His muscular development was finely hard, but his power came rather from that higher nerve-energy which counts for nothing upon a measuring tape. He had the well-curved nose and the widely opened eye which never yet were seen upon the face of a craven, and behind everything he had the driving force, which came from the knowledge that his whole career was at stake upon the contest. The three backers rubbed their hands when they saw him at work punching the ball in the gymnasium next morning; and Fawcett, the horse-breaker, who had written to Leeds to hedge his bets, sent a wire to cancel the letter, and to lay another fifty at the market price of seven to one.
Montgomery’s chief difficulty was to find time for his training without any interference from the doctor. His work took him a large part of the day, but as the visiting was done on foot, and considerable distances had to be traversed, it was a training in itself. For the rest, he punched the swinging ball and worked with the dumb-bells for an hour every morning and evening, and boxed twice a day with Ted Barton in the gymnasium, gaining as much profit as could be got from a rushing, two-handed slogger. Barton was full of admiration108 for his cleverness and quickness, but doubtful about his strength. Hard hitting was the feature of his own style, and he exacted it from others.
“Lord, sir, that’s a turble poor poonch for an eleven-stone man!” he would cry. “Thou wilt have to hit harder than that afore t’ Master will know that thou art theer. All, thot’s better, mon, thot’s fine!” he would add, as his opponent lifted him across the room on the end of a right counter. “Thot’s how I likes to feel ’em. Happen thou’lt pull through yet.” He chuckled109 with joy when Montgomery knocked him into a corner. “Eh, mon, thou art coming along grand. Thou hast fair yarked me off my legs. Do it again, lad, do it again!”
The only part of Montgomery’s training which came within the doctor’s observation was his diet, and that puzzled him considerably110.
“You will excuse my remarking, Mr. Montgomery, that you are becoming rather particular in your tastes. Such fads111 are not to be encouraged in one’s youth. Why do you eat toast with every meal?”
“I find that it suits me better than bread, sir.”
“It entails112 unnecessary work upon the cook. I observe, also, that you have turned against potatoes.”
“Yes, sir; I think that I am better without them.”
“And you no longer drink your beer?”
“No, sir.”
“These causeless whims113 and fancies are very much to be deprecated, Mr. Montgomery. Consider how many there are to whom these very potatoes and this very beer would be most acceptable.”
“No doubt, sir, but at present I prefer to do without them.”
They were sitting alone at lunch, and the assistant thought that it would be a good opportunity of asking leave for the day of the fight.
“I should be glad if you could let me have leave for Saturday, Dr. Oldacre.”
“It is very inconvenient114 upon so busy a day.”
“I should do a double day’s work on Friday so as to leave everything in order. I should hope to be back in the evening.”
“I am afraid I cannot spare you, Mr. Montgomery.”
This was a facer. If he could not get leave he would go without it.
“You will remember, Dr. Oldacre, that when I came to you it was understood that I should have a clear day every month. I have never claimed one. But now there are reasons why I wish to have a holiday upon Saturday.”
Dr. Oldacre gave in with a very bad grace. “Of course, if you insist upon your formal rights, there is no more to be said, Mr. Montgomery, though I feel that it shows a certain indifference115 to my comfort and the welfare of the practice. Do you still insist?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very good. Have your way.”
The doctor was boiling over with anger, but Montgomery was a valuable assistant — steady, capable, and hardworking — and he could not afford to lose him. Even if he had been prompted to advance those class fees, for which his assistant had appealed, it would have been against his interests to do so, for he did not wish him to qualify, and he desired him to remain in his subordinate position, in which he worked so hard for so small a wage. There was something in the cool insistence116 of the young man, a quiet resolution in his voice as he claimed his Saturday, which aroused his curiosity.
“I have no desire to interfere unduly117 with your affairs, Mr. Montgomery, but were you thinking of having a day in Leeds upon Saturday?”
“No, sir.
“In the country?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are very wise. You will find a quiet day among the wild flowers a very valuable restorative. Have you thought of any particular direction?”
“I am going over Croxley way.”
“Well, there is no prettier country when once you are past the iron-works. What could be more delightful118 than to lie upon the Fells, basking119 in the sunshine, with perhaps some instructive and elevating book as your companion? I should recommend a visit to the ruins of St. Bridget’s Church, a very interesting relic120 of the early Norman era. By the way, there is one objection which I see to your going to Croxley on Saturday. It is upon that date, as I am informed, that that ruffianly glove fight takes place. You may find yourself molested121 by the blackguards whom it will attract.”
“I will take my chance of that, sir,” said the assistant.
On the Friday night, which was the last night before the fight, Montgomery’s three backers assembled in the gymnasium and inspected their man as he went through some light exercises to keep his muscles supple122. He was certainly in splendid condition, his skin shining with health, and his eyes with energy and confidence. The three walked round him and exulted123.
“He’s simply ripping!” said the undergraduate.
“By gad124, you’ve come out of it splendidly. You’re as hard as a pebble125, and fit to fight for your life.”
“Happen he’s a trifle on the fine side,” said the publican. “Runs a bit light at the loins, to my way of thinking’.”
“What weight today?”
“Ten stone eleven,” the assistant answered.
“That’s only three pund off in a week’s trainin’,” said the horse-breaker. “He said right when he said that he was in condition. Well, it’s fine stuff all there is of it, but I’m none so sure as there is enough.” He kept poking126 his finger into Montgomery as if he were one of his horses. “I hear that the Master will scale a hundred and sixty odd at the ring-side.”
“But there’s some of that which he’d like well to pull off and leave behind wi’ his shirt,” said Purvis. “I hear they’ve had a rare job to get him to drop his beer, and if it had not been for that great red-headed wench of his they’d never ha’ done it. She fair scratted the face off a potman that had brought him a gallon from t’ ‘Chequers.’ They say the hussy is his sparrin’ partner, as well as his sweetheart, and that his poor wife is just breakin’ her heart over it. Hullo, young ’un, what do you want?”
The door of the gymnasium had opened and a lad, about sixteen, grimy and black with soot127 and iron, stepped into the yellow glare of the oil lamp. Ted Barton seized him by the collar.
“See here, thou yoong whelp, this is private, and we want noan o’ thy spyin’!”
“But I maun speak to Mr. Wilson.”
The young Cantab stepped forward.
“Well, my lad, what is it?”
“It’s aboot t’ fight, Mr. Wilson, sir. I wanted to tell your mon somethin’ aboot t’ Maister.”
“We’ve no time to listen to gossip, my boy. We know all about the Master.”
“But thou doan’t, sir. Nobody knows but me and mother, and we thought as we’d like thy mon to know, sir, for we want him to fair bray128 him.”
“Oh, you want the Master fair brayed129, do you? So do we. Well, what have you to say?”
“Is this your mon, sir?”
“Well, suppose it is?”
“Then it’s him I want to tell aboot it. T’ Maister is blind o’ the left eye.”
“Nonsense!”
“It’s true, sir. Not stone blind, but rarely fogged. He keeps it secret, but mother knows, and so do I. If thou slip him on the left side he can’t cop thee. Thou’ll find it right as I tell thee. And mark him when he sinks his right. ’Tis his best blow, his right upper-cut. T’ Maister’s finisher, they ca’ it at t’ works. It’s a turble blow when it do come home.”
“Thank you, my boy. This is information worth having about his sight,” said Wilson. “How came you to know so much? Who are you?”
“I’m his son, sir.”
Wilson whistled.
“And who sent you to us?”
“My mother. I maun get back to her again.”
“Take this half-crown.”
“No, sir, I don’t seek money in comin’ here. I do it —”
“For love?” suggested the publican.
“For hate!” said the boy, and darted130 off into the darkness.
“Seems to me t’ red-headed wench may do him more harm than good, after all,” remarked the publican. “And now, Mr. Montgomery, sir, you’ve done enough for this evenin’, an’ a nine-hours’ sleep is the best trainin’ before a battle. Happen this time tomorrow night you’ll be safe back again with your 100 pound in your pocket.”
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ted
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| vt.翻晒，撒，撒开 | |
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ledger
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| n.总帐，分类帐；帐簿 | |
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prescriptions
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| 药( prescription的名词复数 )； 处方； 开处方； 计划 | |
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cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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spouted
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| adj.装有嘴的v.（指液体）喷出( spout的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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34
mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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38
trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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brawl
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| n.大声争吵，喧嚷；v.吵架，对骂 | |
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adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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43
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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44
pate
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| n.头顶；光顶 | |
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wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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50
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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51
protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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53
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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54
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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55
yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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56
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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57
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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58
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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croaked
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的过去式和过去分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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exhorted
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| v.劝告，劝说( exhort的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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69
flinching
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的现在分词 ) | |
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70
evasion
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| n.逃避，偷漏(税) | |
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71
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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72
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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counteract
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| vt.对…起反作用，对抗，抵消 | |
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75
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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76
elevations
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| （水平或数量）提高( elevation的名词复数 )； 高地； 海拔； 提升 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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78
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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79
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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80
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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81
garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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82
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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83
rummaged
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的过去式和过去分词 )； 已经海关检查 | |
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84
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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85
jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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86
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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88
outwards
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| adj.外面的，公开的，向外的；adv.向外；n.外形 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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91
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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92
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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93
impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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pelican
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| n.鹈鹕，伽蓝鸟 | |
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96
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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97
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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98
aspirant
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| n.热望者；adj.渴望的 | |
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99
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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100
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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101
lameness
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| n. 跛, 瘸, 残废 | |
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102
remiss
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| adj.不小心的，马虎 | |
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103
capability
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| n.能力；才能；(pl)可发展的能力或特性等 | |
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104
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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105
abdominal
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| adj.腹（部）的，下腹的；n.腹肌 | |
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106
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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107
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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108
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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109
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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111
fads
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| n.一时的流行，一时的风尚( fad的名词复数 ) | |
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112
entails
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| 使…成为必要( entail的第三人称单数 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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113
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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114
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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115
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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116
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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117
unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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118
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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119
basking
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的现在分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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120
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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121
molested
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| v.骚扰( molest的过去式和过去分词 )；干扰；调戏；猥亵 | |
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122
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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123
exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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125
pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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126
poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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127
soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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128
bray
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| n.驴叫声, 喇叭声；v.驴叫 | |
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129
brayed
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| v.发出驴叫似的声音( bray的过去式和过去分词 )；发嘟嘟声；粗声粗气地讲话（或大笑）；猛击 | |
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130
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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