Another heard him and pressed forward. It was Egbert Hunt, tears running down his face.
"You ain't going on?" he cried. "You ain't going on! Stop it, Mr. Japhra! Stop this murder!"
Japhra's left arm was about Percival's body, his right hand used the sponge. Those near him for the first and only time heard him use a coarse expression. As he were some tigress above a threatened cub, he drew Percival closer to him and turned savagely up at Egbert's pallid face. "Shut thy bloody, coward mouth!" he cried at him. "Men's work here! Quit thee, thou whelp!"
The ring was clear. Pinsent came out, sucking a fist. Percival got to his feet, stood a moment, the blood that had dripped to his chest the red badge of courage flying there—then walked forward.
Somewhere in the crowd a woman's voice shot up hysterically: "God love yer, Gentleman!" it shrilled—"Y're pluck! Pluck!"
III
That foxy one (the old men say) he come out sucking his fistses that were gone more like messy orindges than any fistses ever I see. He see that quick-boy rockin' a bit on his feet where he stood, an' he spit his fist out his mouth an' he run slap down at him for to knock him off his legs by runnin' into him. He run at him hard as he could pelt, that foxy one; an' that quick-boy stan' 's if he was dreamin' an' never see nothin' of him. Ah, but that quick-boy could have fought if he was asleep, I reckon me! He slip aside, squeeze aside, twist aside jus' as that foxy one reach him; so quick he twist, us what was watchin' the ground for to see him go there never see him move. I reckon that foxy one never did neither. He muddy soon knowed, though, Foxy! He go sprawlin' by, an' as he go that quick-boy clip him one an' help him go an' stumble him. Round he come, that foxy one, savage with it; an' that quick-boy dreamin' there again; an' rush him for to rush him down again; an' this time that quick-boy, too tired for to shift by the look of it, let him have it as he come fair under the eye, an' Foxy jus' swing him one on the cheek, an' that shift him like he shift hisself before; an' he clip that foxy one the other fist a clip you could ha' heard far as yonder tree; an' clip that same eye again; an' us see the blood run up into Foxy's peeper; an' that foxy one shake his head, an' shake his head, like he was blinded with it. He shake a muddy lot more, Foxy, afore he was through! He set in for to do the rushing then, like that quick-boy had done first along; an' that quick-boy's turn, dreamin' there, for to do the proppin' off. But he not rush like that quick-boy rush. He shake his head an' have a go at him; an' that quick-boy prop him off an' wait for him; an' he shake his head an' walk round a bit, an' ur! he go, an' rush at him; an' that quick-boy wake hisself an' prop him off; an' he suck his fist an' wipe his eye, an' ur! he come again: and that quick-boy twist hisself an' give him one—crack! my life, his fistses was like stones, that quick-boy's!
Ah, my word! my word! then they got at it. That old Japhra—a rare one, that Gipsy Japhra!—sing out "Cut in! Cut in! little master!" and that quick-boy gives a heave of hisself an' they meet, those two, slapper-dash! slapper-dash! this way! that way! punchin', punchin'! an' they fall away, those two, an' breathe theirselves, an' pant theirselves; an' that foxy one has his mouth all anyhow an' fair roarin' of his breath through it; an' his head all twisty-ways with only one eye for watchin' with; an' they rush those two—my life! they were rare ones! Hit as they come, those two—an' that put the stopper on it. Like stones—crack! like stones—my word on it, their fists met, an' Foxy drop his left arm like it was broke at the elbow. Then he takes it! Like a bull-tarrier!—like a bull-tarrier, my word on it, that quick-boy lep' at him. One! he smash him an' heart him, an' I see that foxy one glaze in his eye an' stagger with it. Two! that quick-boy drive him an' rib him, an' I hear that foxy one grunt an' see him waggle up his hanging arm an' drop it. Three! that quick-boy smash him an' throat him, an' back he goes, that foxy one; an' crash he goes! an' flat he lies—an', my life! to hear the breathing of him!
Life of me! there was never a knock-out like it; never one could do it like that quick-boy done it! Never no one as quick as that quick-boy when first along he come tic-tac! tic-tac! tic-tac! left-right! left-right! left-right! Never one could come again after he was bashed like that quick-boy come. Never his like! One of the rare ones, one of the clean-breds, one of the true-blues, one of the all-rights, one of the get-there, stop-there, win-there—one o' the picked!
IV