One of the two he knew, but the other, whom he took to be a Whyterigger, was a stranger to him, a big, fair man scaling fourteen stone, with a splendid pair of shoulders slightly overweighting the rest of him, and a long reach. He had a sullen expression, and a temper not thoroughly under control, Christian judged, noticing his restless hands as the Whyteriggers went down before Crump. He strode on to the mat aggressively and rather contemptuously, and made short work of the young groom who fell to his lot, barely stopping to shake hands before marching off again.
After that, Christian watched him intently as he lived through the next few rounds, foreseeing that he and Gaskarth would meet in the finals, and hoping to see him downed—not because he was an outsider, but because the man’s attitude annoyed him, lacking as it did the frank heartiness of the genuine sportsman. His science was creditable—he knew more than a little—did not rely entirely, by any means, upon his strength and lightness of foot; but it was evident that he was not popular, though his favourite trick was the showy swinging hipe which takes so tremendously with the crowd. And once, when he felled Lanty Strickland, a beginner who had fought his way gallantly to the last round, finishing him off with needless force, after a fashion of which Gaskarth would never have been guilty, an ominous murmur ran through the room, checked instantly and gruffly by the umpires. Christian pricked his ears, looking more intently than ever at the stranger. During the last eighteen months he had got out of touch with wrestling-gossip, but he knew that behind that murmur was something of older standing than to-night, a grudge born, not of the moment, but of settled prejudice. He tapped one of the committee on the shoulder, and learned the man’s name to be Harker; and when, as he had anticipated, he came out with Gaskarth for the finals, he settled himself keenly to enjoy the contest.
Gaskarth was not smiling, now. He knew he had big work before him, to be approached seriously; yet that hardly accounted for the fact that he offered his hand with less than his usual open good-will, or that the crowd, while urging him to “Git on to him, Bob! Good lad, Bob! Mind what thoo’s at!”—had scarcely a word or even a name for the other.
They fell to—Gaskarth quiet in all his movements, from the settling of his chin to his easy, circling step and the swing of his sinewy reach; but Harker closed and unloosed rather fiercely, in a manner more suggestive of real combat than of scientific play. Gaskarth got hold soon, too—it was only his cowman friend whom he played for the fun of the crowd—but Harker dallied beyond all reason, irritating the spectators and drawing reproof from the umpires, at the same time wearing his opponent in a manner scarcely worthy of his superior strength and weight. He got hold at last though—a greedy hold, Christian noticed, that made Gaskarth bite his lip with annoyance, and a brilliant struggle followed, during which the stout umpires were harried from pillar to post by the indignant sportsmen whose view they blocked. The hold was too much for Gaskarth, however, backed by Harker’s greater power, and he went down at last before the swinging hipe which had sent the others to the mat. He got back on him, though, in the next round, taking very good care that holds should be fair this time, and with his usual neat inside stroke flooring his man in a few seconds. Harker got up frowning as the other pulled him to his feet, and in the pause before the last round stood breathing hard, his thick, fair brows drawn sharply together.
But it was not until the third round was well advanced that Christian discovered the real cause of his unpopularity. Not only was he maddeningly slow to “close for fair,” but when once at grips he deliberately forced Gaskarth’s arms upward above his shoulders, until their heads were set crown to crown, the deadlock ending in a futile slipping of holds. Time after time this happened, earning the disapprobation of the umpires and the open condemnation of the crowd. Gaskarth, not a man of particularly powerful physique, depending more upon his knowledge of the game than on sheer strength, began to show signs of exhaustion as this senseless waste of energy continued.
Dripping with perspiration in the crowded, airless room, he looked across to Christian, lifting his eyebrows meaningly, to be answered by an infinitesimal nod, and Gaskarth was comforted, though he knew he was done. His fine temper broke a little when he took hold for the last time, and he endeavoured to force himself over his adversary in a final spurt, but the edge had been worn off his delicate dexterity, and instead he went hurtling over his opponent’s head, and lay panting, looking up into Harker’s sullen eyes.
There was a pause for realisation, and then, as he dragged himself up, grinning humorously and reaching out an ungrudging hand, a storm of disapproval broke from the room. Shaking his head rebukingly at the demonstration, he walked cheerfully back to his corner, but Harker stayed doggedly on the mat, waiting for the winner’s ticket, and staring defiantly round him when the paper was in his hand. The discontent was so marked that the big referees looked appealingly at Christian, who responded by rising to his feet and holding up his hand for silence.
“Did you give the fall?” he asked quietly, when the last murmur had died down, and, as the umpires reluctantly signified their assent, he beckoned Harker forward, lifting the belt from the table beside him. From the platform he looked down into the square, dogged face, and in spite of his forced impartiality, his voice was cold as he spoke the usual formula of presentation; but when he would have handed him the trophy, Harker shook his head brusquely, and stepped back.
“I haven’t won it yet, sir,” he said, rather insolently, “though I mean to have it in the end, all right! There’s one Crump man that hasn’t come out against me, and that’s yourself!”
The colour flamed into Christian’s face as he stood with the belt in his hands, lifting his head rather haughtily; and instantly from the disappointed assembly a chorus of demand was flung towards him, the more insistent pressing to the very steps.