Luck at the Diamond Fields

by Dalrymple J. Belgrave

It was at such a place as this that the coach stopped for the night, and discharged its passengers for a few hours’ enjoyment of the accommodation it afforded.

A meal had been served, and those passengers who were able to secure beds had retired for the night. Darrell was smoking and reading by the dim light of a flickering oil lamp in the living-room. Jim Brawnston was stretched upon the floor in a sleep from which he would not easily wake. The Jews were listlessly fingering a dirty pack of cards; nobody had cared to play with them, and they had not thought it worth while to play with one another; while the landlord, who was not very sober, was laughing hoarsely at some not over pleasant stories they were telling.

“Do you know there is a lady in the next room?” said Darrell, who had thrown his book down and walked up to where they sat.

“Lady? Do you mean Mother Hemp, or the other girl?” said Aarons, and his brutal nature found vent in a sentence of Houndsditch sarcasm. His words were coarse enough to have aroused a milder temper than Darrell’s, whose face turned pale with anger as he heard them. Aarons’ sentence was not quite completed, for before he finished it Darrell’s long left arm had swung out from his shoulder, and his fist had come down with a crash on to the Jew’s jaw. The others saw that if they joined in they would be four to one, so they made a rush at Darrell, the landlord swearing that he’d be damned if he’d see a gent who’d behaved like a gent in his place, ordering drinks and paying for them, hit like that. He looked at Jim Brawnston’s sleeping form, and reassured by the sound of a deep snore, he joined in the fight, aiming a blow at Darrell’s head with a bottle. The latter was not quite as cool as a man ought to be who is fighting four men at once. Instead of keeping on the defensive, he only thought of inflicting as much punishment as possible upon Aarons, and pressed on to strike him again as he staggered back from the first blow. This gave the landlord a chance of getting at him from behind, and he succeeded in pinning his arms, and preventing him from hitting out. A savage gleam came into the Jew’s eyes; he saw that his enemy was in his power as he forced back Darrell’s face with his left hand so as to get a good blow at it with his right.

“Now, my broken-down swell, you’re going to learn not to give your betters any of your damned cheek,” he was saying with a tone of triumph in his voice. The whole group had been too busy to notice a bedroom door which led into the living-room open, and a figure dressed in white glide up to where Brawnston lay sleeping. Kate, as she tried in vain to get some sleep, had heard the row from the beginning. It was not a pleasant scene for a young lady to take part in, but she had heard enough to tell her that the man who had been foolish enough to begin the fight on her account was likely to suffer more than he deserved. She had not understood Aarons’ brutal remark, and would have been better pleased if Darrell had not answered it so forcibly, but she knew the blow she had heard through the door had been given on her account. As she opened the door she saw Brawnston’s sleeping figure close to it; near him on a table there was a jug of water; she dashed it over his face as the quickest way of waking him. The experiment had succeeded admirably. He had woke up with a start, saw the fight which was going on, and in a second was in it. It did not take him long to knock two of the Jews out of time, while the landlord, seeing how things were going, took up the position of a non-combatant.

“Leave him to me,” Darrell cried out as he tried to close with Aarons. There was a look in his partner’s white face which made Brawnston know that he meant mischief. A few seconds’ struggling and then Darrell’s long, lithe fingers were round the Jew’s throat, and as he tightened them there was an ominous twitch round the corners of his mouth.

“Stop it, man, or you’ll kill me,” the Jew gasped out as he felt himself choking. If he had been a good judge of expression, and had been in a position to take stock of Darrell, he would not have been much reassured at the effect his suggestion had. Brawnston didn’t interfere; he was contemplating in a dreamy way the two other men whom he had knocked down. It looked as if a crisis had come in Joe Aarons’ history, but just then a cool hand clasped Darrell’s wrist, and on looking round he for the first time saw that there was a woman present at the not very pretty scene that was taking place.

“Stay, leave him alone, you’ll kill him!” she said, rescuing Darrell from himself and his savageness as she had rescued him just before from his enemies. He will never be likely to forget the little figure with her glorious brown hair sweeping over her shoulders, and the half-frightened, half-disgusted look on her face. He felt rather more ashamed of himself than he had been for some time, so he let go his grip on Aarons’ throat, who fell back a limp mass upon the ground.

“I am sorry that you should have been disturbed by this sort of thing; extremely sorry,” he said to her as she disappeared through the door again.

“What a brute she must think me, as bad as that cur,” he said half to himself, half to Brawnston, glancing at Aarons. “By Jove!” he added, “he looks rather queer.”