The Happy Warrior

by A. S. M. Hutchinson

That quick-boy come at him an' he slip a bit of craft on him quick as a snake. Side-step, he did, that foxy one; an' duck an' say, "Where's your manners?" an' rake his head across an' butt that quick-boy's stomach so he grunts; an' up an' hook him one, an' follow him an' lash him one, an' "Mind your manners, you bastard!" he says an' half across the ring an' waitin' for him. Three times he butt him so, an' each time hook him one, an' all the time lip-lippin' of him, an' us boys hollerin' an' Stingo's boys hollerin' an' the animals in the cages hollerin' back on us. Holler!—I mind me I was in a fair muck sweat with it.

Back he goes again, next round, that foxy one, an' "Why, dear, dear, you've got some beauty-spots on your face, my pretty gentleman!" he chips him. "Come an' let's paint 'em up a bit for you, my little lady!" he chips him. Ay, that was a round, that one! That Japhra,—a rare one that Gipsy Japhra—had been talkin' to that quick-boy whiles he had him on his knee; an' when he comes in, an' that foxy one goes to rake him with buttin' him again, he step back, that quick-boy, for to cut him as he come out. I see the move—but that foxy one! All craft that foxy one was—one of the snaky ones, one of the tough boys, one of the coves! 'Stead o' swingin' through with his head, he swing up and hook his left 'un with it, an' chin that quick-boy one, an' "Paint!" he says, "There's paint for you, you dog!" an' lash him one where he had a little mouse-lump over his eye; an' true enough, the paint splits across an' comes streaky down that quick-boy's face.

You'd ha' thought—I lay me I know what that foxy one thought. Blood fierce went that foxy one when he see that blood, an' in he goes, fierce after blood, for to finish it; leaved off his craft and went in for to hammer him. He muddy soon goed back to craft again, Foxy! That quick-boy shook his head an' run back; an' draws a breath an' meets him; an' throats him one an' staggers him; an' draws a breath an' follows him; an' pastes him one an' grunts him; an' tic-tac! tic-tac! tic-tac! an' follows him, an' follows him, an' follows him. Like a wops he was—like a bull-tamer he was, an' that foxy one gets all muddled with him, an' runs back puzzled with him, an' then catches hold of hisself, an' stops hisself—I reckon he wondered where 'n hell he'd be soon if he didn't—and puts in that duck an' butt craft again; an' that quick-boy steadies for him like old Japhra bin teachin' of him; an' when that foxy one swings across, that quick-boy smashes up under him—crack! like a stone-breaker with his hammer; an' that foxy one come back to us with his mouth split, an' his chin red; an' while he sit blowin' take a toof out; an' while he sit blowin' get it drip-drop on his chest from where the blood run to his chin.

II

But Percival had suffered under the punishment of these savage encounters, and under the immense exertions of that unceasing in-fighting to which Japhra had urged him. Back on Japhra's knee, "I've dosed him, Japhra," he said. "He's taking all I can give him." There was a sob in his quick breathing as he spoke, and he smiled weakly and leant back against Japhra's shoulder.

Japhra's eyes were sunk in his twisted face to twin points of glistening light. His voice trembled, and his hand as he plied the sponge. "He will not drink much more," he said. "Thou art hot after that coward streak in him. I mark the signs of it. Keep up the dose, master! Never such a fight—and never thy like! never thy like! Follow him, son of mine—follow him! follow him! A last call on thyself! Watch him where he sucks his tender knuckles."

Pinsent knew better than Japhra the tenderness of those bruised knuckles of his: he knew too that he was housing an uneasy feeling beneath his belt, born of the bewildering persistence of his opponent and of the punishing fists which that persistence pressed upon him, giving him no peace. He was sore; he had reached the point when blows were beginning to hurt him—and that was a point beyond which he knew it was dangerous for him to delay proceedings.

Again! He came forward with a trick in his mind that he had seen and that he had once playfully practised on Buck Osborn. Thought of it helped him to his foxy smile that was a grotesque burlesque of itself as he made it with his swollen mouth; but again!—again that steel-springed fury was on him, following him, following him, following him. Pinsent must needs use his fists to try to check its rushes; when he effected a savage blow the jar at his knuckles made him wince. Twice he went backwards round the ring—a third time and feinted a stumble as he moved his feet. It made his chance. Percival, coming too quick, ran full into him. He ducked, then drove up his head with all his force beneath the other's jaw.

The trick succeeded better than when he had seen it and marked it for future use. Jarred to the point of unconsciousness, Percival staggered back, his arms wide. At the exposed throat Pinsent drove his left fist with all the driving power his body and legs could give it; with the dull wup! of a wet sheet beaten on stone Percival went his full length and full length lay.

"Time!" throated Stingo; and at the word the facing crowds, that as one man had caught their breaths, went into two tumults of jostling figures, tossing arms, and of brazen throats before whose thunders, beating the air like thunder's self, Japhra, Ginger Cronk, Snowball White, and One Eye bent their heads as they came rushing forward.