Clattering down the stairs and gathering numbers as it went, the party made for the broad space, or passage, between high walls near the back entrance of the Company's caserne, a safe and secluded spot for fights. As they went along, John Bull gave good advice to his young friend.
"Remember he's a wrestler and a savate man," he said, "and that public opinion here recognises the use of both in a fight--so you can expect him to clinch and kick as well as butt."
"Right-o!" said Rupert.
A large ring was formed by the rapidly growing crowd of spectators, a ring, into the middle of which the Bucking Bronco stepped to declare that he would rearrange the features, as well as the ideas, of any supporter of Luigi Rivoli who in any way interfered with the fight.
The two combatants stripped to the waist and faced each other. It was a pleasant surprise to John Bull to notice that his friend looked bigger "peeled," than he did when dressed. (It is a good test of muscular development.) Obviously the youth was in the pink of condition and had systematically developed his muscles. But for the presence of Rivoli, the arms and torso of the Englishman would have evoked admiring comments. As it was, the gigantic figure of the Italian dwarfed him, for he looked what he was--a professional Strong Man whose stock-in-trade was his enormous muscles and their mighty strength.... It was not so much a contrast between David and Goliath as between Apollo and Hercules.
The Italian assumed his favourite wrestling attitude with open hands advanced; the Englishman, the position of boxing.
The two faced each other amidst the perfect silence of the large throng.
As, to the credit of human nature, is always the case, the sentiment of the crowd was in favour of the weaker party. No one supposed for a moment that the recruit would win, but he was a "dark horse," and English--of a nation proverbially dogged and addicted to la boxe.... He might perhaps be merely maimed and not killed.... For a full minute the antagonists hung motionless, eyeing each other warily. Suddenly the Italian swiftly advanced his left foot and made a lightning grab with his left hand at the Englishman's neck. The latter ducked; the great arm swung, harmless, above his head, and two sharp smacks rang out like pistol-shots as the Englishman planted a left and right with terrific force upon the Italian's ribs. Rivoli's gasp was almost as audible as the blows. He sprang back, breathing heavily.
John Bull moistened his Lips and thanked God. Rupert circled round his opponent, sparring for an opening. Slowly ... slowly ... almost imperceptibly, the Italian's head and shoulders bent further and further back. What the devil was he doing?--wondered the Englishman--getting his head out of danger? Certainly his jaw was handsomely swollen.... Anyhow he was exposing his mark, the spot where the ribs divide. If he could get a "right" in there, with all his weight and strength, Il Signor Luigi Rivoli would have to look to himself in the ensuing seconds. Rupert made a spring. As he did so, the Italian's body turned sideways and leant over until almost parallel with the ground, as his right knee drew up to his chest and his right foot shot out with the force of a horse's kick. It caught the advancing Englishman squarely on the mouth, and sent him flying head over heels like a shot rabbit. The Italian darted forward--and so did the Bucking Bronco.
"Assez!" he shouted. "Let him get up." At this point his Legion French failed him, and he added in his own vernacular, "Ef yew think yu're gwine ter kick him while he's down, yew've got another think comin', Loojey Rivoli," and barred his path.