But he has just come out strong. Company conference being over, there was held the boxing match which one of the sergeants has been promoting, and the whole company (officers discreetly absent) formed the ring and applauded the heroism. Much of it would not interest you, yet you could have stood a glimpse of it—the circle of men, good-naturedly applauding, the heavy shadows under the overhead light, the gray-green uniformity of men and sand, the two dancing figures, and the pat-pat of the gloves. There were some neat bouts, and then the promoter made an announcement, which to my surprise I saw Randall, stripped to the waist, furtively trying to stop.
He had on his left, said the sergeant, one remaining contestant, whose opponent had just sent word that he had hurt his wrist. Would any gentleman be willing to provide Mr. Randall with an antagonist?
No one came forward. Randall looked very formidable, with his handsome features and also a most superb set of muscles. I was saying to myself that perhaps I’d better give him a go, when I caught sight of Lucy’s face, peering between the men in front of him, and so plainly full of desire that I waited. Then Corder, on the other side of him, jogged David in the ribs, and said in a low voice, “He called you Lucy!” In an instant David, without a look behind or a moment’s hesitation, was pushing through the ring. “Let me try.” And he stepped out into the light.
Someone caught me by the arm, and there was Knudsen, very angry. “Why didn’t you stop him?” he demanded. “He never can stand up to that fellow.” But I, feeling quite as satisfied as ever I felt in my life, smiled him down, “Somehow I think he can,” said I, and pushed after David, to act as his second.
Oh, I coached him all I could, and in the rests I helped the gasping boy in every way I knew how. The rounds were short, but too long for him in his still soft condition. And he knew so little of the game! Had Randall, who really had boxed before, used his head, poor David would have stood no chance whatever. Yet the boy’s insight was correct. No sooner did Randall see before him the lad’s unmistakably eager face, and know from David’s first rush that here was a fight, than he was flustered. So as boxing the bout was nothing: neither could hit clean, parries were clumsy, much was accident. David’s very ardor betrayed him, and he came back to me at the end of each round quite winded. But for the rest, nothing could be finer. Randall was twenty pounds the heavier, and slight David staggered when the blows came home, yet always he came back. His panting persistence, his determination to strike, were too much for the other. He held back, and David came on; he drew aside, and David followed him; he struck, and David without parrying came right through, and landed blow after blow somewhere.
The men were yelling presently, here was so evidently grit against mere muscle, spirit against flesh. Randall grew angry and hit hard, but he was wild; he grew afraid and tried to clinch, but his rush was feeble. David jabbed him repeatedly in the ribs, drew off, and for the first time in the three rounds (the referee was just calling time) hit Randall neatly—on the nose.
And Randall, in pain but not hurt (for the boy couldn’t hit hard) nevertheless believed himself finished. I think he wanted to stagger and fall at full length, but he only succeeded in sitting down. Shout upon shout upon shout! Then we of the squad took David, groggy with his own efforts, rubbed him and fanned him and swabbed him, and finally walked him off between us.
Knudsen said in my ear, “You were right. That was worth a thousand dollars.”
A fellow from another squad tried to be complimentary. “Well done, Lucy!”
Pickle, without any ceremony, pushed in between. “Cut that out! His name is Farnham.”