“And so the worm turned,” said Hambridge Ost, running his forefinger round inside the edge of his collar. “Smarting from upper-cuts administered by the woman who was destined ere long to become the wife of his bosom, flushed from having his head in Chancery, gravely embarrassed by body-blows, dazzled by stars and stripes seen as the result of merciless punches received upon the nose, Rustleton summoned all his courage to the effort, and declined to take any more lessons. Miss Twissing, to do her justice, was thunderstruck.
“‘Oh!’ she said, her lips quivering—like a hurt child’s, according to Rustleton—‘and you were coming on so capitally—we were getting on so well. You are really gaining a knowledge of good boxing principles, you were actually benefiting by our light little friendly spars.’ Rustleton felt his nose, which was painfully swollen. ‘Of course, you could never, never become a first-rater. Your poor little muscles are too rigid. You haven’t the strength to hit a print of your knuckles into a pound of butter, but you might come to show form enough to funk a big duffer, supposing he went for you under the impression that you were as soft as you look. But, of course, if you mean what you say’—she pulled her gloves off and threw them into a corner of the gymnasium at Hopsacks specially fitted up for her by a noted firm—‘there they go. I’ll read the Greek Anthologists with you instead, or’—her eyes brightened—‘have you ever tried polo?’ she asked. ‘We have some trained ponies in the stable, and the largest croquet-lawn could be utilized for a ground, and I’ll wire to the County Players for clubs and a couple of members to teach us the rules of the game. You’ll like that?’
“‘I’m dashed if I shall!’ were the actual words that burst, so to put it, from Rustleton. Celine drew herself up and looked him over, from the feet upwards, as though she had never, so he says, seen him before. Five feet five—his actual height—gave her an advantage of five inches and a bit over. He begged her to be seated, and, standing before her in as dignified an attitude as it is possible to assume in a light suit of gymnasium flannels, with sawdust in your hair and a painfully swollen nose, he broke the ice and demanded his release from their engagement, saying that he felt it incumbent on him to live his own life in his own way, that Celine crushed, humiliated, and oppressed him by the mere vigor of her intellect and the exuberance of her physical personality—with considerably more to the same effect.
“She looked up when Rustleton, almost breathless, reached a full stop. ‘You give me your word of honor that there is no other woman in the case,’ she murmured; ‘I can stand your not loving me, I can’t your loving somebody else better.’ As Rustleton gave the required denial—scouted the bare idea—a tear ran down her cheek and dropped on her large powerful arms, which were folded upon her bust—really amazing, dear fellow, and one of her strong points. ‘That settles it,’ she uttered. ‘It’s understood, all’s off between us; you are free. And there is a through express to London at 3:25. But I’m afraid I must detain you a moment longer.’ She rang the bell, and told a servant to tell Professor Pudsey she was wanted in the gym. ‘Tell her to come in sparring kit, and be quick about it,’ were her actual words.
“Until the Professor appeared, Miss Twissing chatted quite pleasantly with Rustleton. The Professor was a large, flat-faced woman, of remarkable muscular development, with her hair coiled in a tight knob at the back of her head, her massive form attired in a thin jersey, short serge skirt, long stockings, and light gymnasium shoes. ‘Let me introduce my friend and resident instructress in boxing, fencing, and athletics,’ says Celine, ‘and one of the best, so to put it, that ever put a novice through his paces. Celebrated as the wife and trainer of the late Ponto Pudsey, Heavy-weight Champion of England, and holder of the Hyam’s Competition Belt three seasons running until beat by Bat Collins at the International Club Grounds in ’92. Pudsey dear’—she turned to the Professor—‘you know my little way when I’ve had a set-back. Instead of playing le diable à quatre and being disagreeable and cantankerous all round, I simply send for you and say, as I say now, “Put up your hands, and do your best; I warn you I’m going in for a regular slugging match under the rules of the Amateur Boxing Association. Three rounds—the first and second of three minutes’ length, the third of four minutes’. This gentleman will act as time-keeper, and pick up whichever of us gets knocked out. He has plenty of time before he catches the express to town—and the lesson will be good for him.”’ She and the Professor shook hands, and, with heads erect, mouths firmly closed, eyes fixed, left toes straight, bodies evenly balanced, left arms workin’ loosely, rights well across mark, and so forth, started business in the most thorough-goin’ way. Such a bout of fisticuffs—accordin’ to Rustleton—you couldn’t behold outside the American prize-ring.”
“By—Jingo!” ejaculated one of the listeners.
“They led off in a perfectly scientific manner at the head, guarded and returned, retreated and advanced, ducked, feinted, countered, and cross-countered,” said Hambridge Ost, “until Rustleton grew giddy. Terrific hits were given and taken before he could command himself sufficiently to call ‘Time,’ the Professor with a black eye, Celine with a cut lip, both of ’em smilin’ and self-possessed to an astonishin’ degree; went in again at the end of the brief breathin’ space, and fairly outdid the previous round. When a smashin’ knock-out on the point of the jaw finally floored the Professor and she failed to come up to time, leavin’ Miss Twissing mistress of the gory field, Celine nodded significantly to Rustleton, and said, as she rolled down her sleeves, ‘That would have been for you, Russie, old boy, if there had been another woman in the case. As there isn’t—goodbye, and good luck go with you! I’m going to put dear old Pudsey to bed, and plaster this cut lip of mine.’”
“I like that girl!” declared the man who had said “By Jingo!” “A rattling good sort, I call her. But a punch-bag would have done as well as the Professor, I should have thought.” He tugged at his mustache and wrinkled his forehead thoughtfully. “A damaged lip is so fearfully disfiguring. Has it quite healed?”
“I know nothing of Miss Twissing,” said Hambridge, settling his necktie, “and desire to know nothing of that very unfeminine young person, who, I feel sure, would have been as good as her word and pounded Rustleton into a human jelly, had she been aware that there actually existed, if I may so put it, an adequate feminine reason for the dear fellow’s—shall I say, change of mind?”
“Of course,” said the man who had been anxious about Miss Twissing’s lip, “the little bounder—beg pardon! Of course, Rustleton was telling a colossal howler. As all the world knows, or will know when the newspapers come out to-morrow, there was another woman in the case.”