Chapter IV: Part 4

These distressing circumstances finally ejected Bartley from the maternal threshold. He saw his mother daily, but felt that until the battle was lost or won, he could endure her constant remonstrances no more. He strove to make her take a sterner view, and she assured him that had she not been a woman of gentle birth, it might have been possible; but from one with the delicate Saunders blood in her veins, only a genteel outlook on life could be expected; and there was no room for tolerance of prize-fighting in that survey.

*CHAPTER XI*

*MR. FOGO IS SHOCKED*

’Frosty-face’ very naturally looked to it that this little encounter of rustics should have some useful bearing on his own affairs. He was a poor man and could not afford to ignore opportunities. With Mr. Shillabeer he set about reviving all the glories of the twenty-four-foot square, and he was determined that nothing should be omitted which could make the approaching fight a dignified and successful entertainment, worthy, in its small way, of the best traditions.

Before a full bar Mr. Fogo spoke at length. He had sold thirteen of his poems that evening, and he was now about to unfasten a parcel that day received from London; but, before doing so, he outlined the situation.

"I’m very pleased to find you know a bit down here," he began. "There’s more of the right sort in these parts than we might have expected, and there’ll be a good sprinkling of Corinthians at the ring-side too. The doctor from Tavistock, who is going to referee, is as spicy a dare-devil as I wish to meet at any mill; and he knows his job; and afterwards, if either of you chaps want to be blooded, he can do it for you."

"We shall judge of the patronage by the number of fogies the swells take up," said Mr. Shillabeer. "You see, the old rule is that a fighter gives his colours to all who’ll take ’em; and it’s understood that if he’s beat, the colours cost nought; but if he wins, everybody as took a handkerchief be expected to pay a guinea for it."

"Well, here they are," answered ’Frosty-face.’ "I got ’em myself so cheap as they could be got through a friend. Fifty there are--twenty-five for each of the men--and if they go off, I can get more at the same low figure."

He opened his parcel and revealed the colours. Bartley and several of his friends were present; but David, who was to call that night with his father, had not yet arrived. Mr. Crocker’s handkerchief was much admired. It showed a rich orange centre bordered with three inches of purple.

Both Fogo and Shillabeer took one, though not on the usual understanding, and Bartley calculated that he knew about twenty sportsmen, including Sir Guy, who would be glad to possess this memento of the battle.

Then came the Bowdens, and the future combatants shook hands in a friendly spirit and compared their colours. David’s were simpler and quieter--a blue ’bird’s-eye’ with a white spot. Both parties could number a good handful of patrons, and the encounter, albeit date and place were still kept a dark secret, promised to be well attended.

"I’m painting the true blue stakes myself," said ’Frosty-face,’ "and we’ll have a nobby ring if we don’t have a nobby fight in it."

"And where is it to be, Mr. Fogo?" asked Simon Snell.

"I wouldn’t tell everybody, but you shall know," answered the old man, assuming a grim expression, which always preceded his finest jokes. "We’ll have our turn up in the bull-ring, Mr. Snell. It have seen many a bit of fun, they tell me, so why not a bit more?"

Everybody laughed, because Sheepstor bull-ring was the most public spot for many miles round. It lay under the churchyard wall at the centre of the hamlet.

"Couldn’t choose a better place, all the same," said Reuben Shillabeer, "that is, if they’d let us alone. The burying-ground runs eight feet above the ring; and there’s good grass there, and a nice tilt to the ground, and proper trees all round for the sporting public to climb into. However, that’s rather too warm a corner for modest men. We don’t want the eyes of the nation on us."

"Leave it to me," said the Londoner. "There are certain people we shan’t have no use for on the morning of the fight. And if they stop at Sheepstor, ’tis clear we must go somewhere else. However, look to me; I’ll give you the office in plenty of time."

"You’ll never get round parson and Mr. Moses and p’liceman and Mrs. Crocker," foretold Tim Mattacott.

"I fear but one of ’em," answered Mr. Fogo. "They are all harmless men, and I can handle ’em as easy as a mother handles her tenth babby. ’Tis that spry lady will take some stopping. I’ve not got the length of her foot yet--to say it with all respect. But all in good time."

"There’s to be a sermon preached by Mr. Merle next Sunday against this here fight," said Mr. Bowden. "I’m sorry to the bone that he’s taken this view, because I never like to quarrel with my betters; but to the House of the Lord me and mine go as usual next Sunday, and whatever he may preach won’t change my opinions."

"And I’ll go too," declared Fogo. "Yes, I’ll go and hear his argeyments. ’Tis a good few years since I was in a place of prayer--in fact, never since I stood best man when Alec Reid, ’the Chelsea Snob,’ was married. But on Sunday I shall be there, and you’ll see I can shut my eyes and sniff my hat with the best among ye."

"You shall come along of me," said the ’Dumpling.’ "I go most times and get a deal of good from it. My wife was a steady church member, for though she’d fling off to chapel for change now and again, as women will, yet she comed back again and again to the Establishment; and she died in it, and Parson Merle will tell you ’twas so."

Then exploded suddenly a piece of news that quite staggered and shocked the renowned visitor. It also cast down Mr. Shillabeer, for he felt that Fogo, as a man, and the P.R., as an institution, were alike insulted by such an astounding assertion from the rival camp.

The question of seconds had been raised and Mr. Fogo explained that he and Shillabeer proposed to look after Crocker.

"I shall carry the bottle and offer advice as it’s called for, and Reuben will pick him up and give him a knee," he declared.

"If he wants it," added the ’Dumpling’; "but unless David here be cleverer than we think he is, Bartley won’t ask for much picking up."

"And who are going to look after you?" asked Fogo of David.

"My father and--"

"He can’t pick you up. Who else?"

"And my sister, Rhoda Bowden--a strong maiden. She and father will do all that’s got to be done."

"Blow my dickey!" said Mr. Fogo, "that’s the first knock-down for you anyway. A woman--a woman in the P.R.! You really thought that? That’s the best joke I’ve heard since ’45."

"It’s settled," said David, calmly.

"A woman in the P.R.!" repeated Fogo. "Well, I’ve seen most things during the last seventy years, but not that. Why don’t you ax your sister to fight for you?"

"Look here," said the elder Bowden, "I won’t have nothing said in this matter by you or anybody, Mr. Fogo, till you see for yourselves. Anyway it’s going to happen."

"I quite agree!" declared Mr. Snell, suddenly. "Miss Rhoda’s a born wonder and a most renowned creature for courage. None ever was like her. A female no more feared to look on blood than we be to count our wages. And as to picking him up, she could pick him up--and you too, Mr. Fogo, as easily as I can turn a stop-cock."

"Can such things be?" asked Mr. Fogo. "This bangs Bannagher! A woman--a young, female woman inside the P.R.! ’Tis enough to provoke the anger of Heaven. May I die like a trundle-tailed cur, with a brick round my neck, if I could ever stand it!"

"’Tis my girl that you saw up to the Warren House," said Mr. Bowden, "her you said was a very fine woman, and you wished you’d got such a pair of arms."

"Her with the chin?"

"She have a chin, I grant you."

"And who haven’t?" asked Mr. Snell.

"You must know ’tisn’t a common case," explained David. "My sister and me be very close friends, and she’s terrible interested in this fight, and, in short, she’ll have to be there--there’s no law against it."

"I’m shocked," said the old man. "’Tis a very indecent, outrageous thing, and I protest with all my might. A petticoat in the P.R.! Can’t everybody in this bar see it’s all wrong and disgraceful and disorderly?"

"In a general way it would be," admitted Shillabeer; "but she ain’t no common young woman, ’Frosty,’ and I’m not surprised to hear she means it. She was axing me what a bottle-holder be expected to do a bit back-along; and I half twigged that she’d got this idea in her noddle."

"Then it’s the end of the world," declared Mr. Fogo. "I ask for nothing more. Perhaps our man wants his mother in his corner--also his aunt? I’m sure they very much wish to be there by all accounts."

"Since the fight be in part about my sister, she’s a right on the spot," said David; "and this I’ll tell you, Mr. Fogo: though you laugh, you’ll see what she’s like in the Ring; and if she does one thing--one single thing--she shouldn’t, and fails of aught where a man could do better, then I’ll give you the stakes if I win ’em."

"It’s contrary to all history and law and decency and nature. It isn’t possible, I tell you. Here am I trying to revive the P.R. in a first chop, gentlemanly fashion, and then you yokels plan a sin and a shame like this," said Mr. Fogo. He was very much annoyed and returned again and again to the threatened female incursion. Most of the company agreed with him; indeed, only the Bowdens and Simon Snell supported Rhoda as a second. Mr. Shillabeer was doubtful.

"Be there any law against it? That’s the question," he said. "Well, I can’t say there is, ’Frosty.’ Of course there’s nought in the rules about it."

"Because the rules was drawn for respectable, law-abiding people," answered Mr. Fogo.

They wrangled on, while David and Bartley spoke aside.

"Did you say that Miss Rhoda was really interested?" asked Crocker. "I shouldn’t like to think that, David. I know I kissed her, like a silly fool, in the Pixies’ House that day of the storm; but she don’t bear malice, I hope, any more than you do?"

"Oh, no--no malice. It angered her cruel all the same, as it did me; and she won’t be sorry to see you lose--though there’s no malice--certainly not."

"You’re in luck with such a sister and such a wife to be."

David changed the subject.

"Have they settled where ’tis to come off?"

"No--only the day."

"Monday week?"

"Yes."

"I’m going down to Plymouth Monday to practise with the boxers there," said David, and Bartley nodded.

"They’ll larn you a lot," he said.

Mr. Fogo’s voice again rose in wrath.

"The Fancy won’t stand it. Mark me; they’ll hiss her out of the Ring. Such a thing won’t be suffered in a Christian land."

The hour grew late and Mr. Maunder looked in somewhat coldly. Since his vital difference of opinion on the subject of the prize-fight, he had withdrawn his patronage from ’The Corner House.’ It was felt that he could hardly be present in the camp of a combatant until the matter of the pending battle was at an end.

"Closing time, Mr. Shillabeer," he said, and the ’Dumpling’ nodded.

"Right you are, Ernest. Come in and take a thimbleful along with me, won’t ’e?"

"No, thank you. Not till this business is over. I’m against you, and I won’t have bit or sup along with the enemy. I speak as the law, Shillabeer, and not as a man. Of course _afterwards_ I shall come back again; but not till I’ve bested you, or you’ve bested me."

"Nobody could speak fairer," declared Mr. Shillabeer.

Then the company departed; Bartley Crocker went to bed; and Reuben asked his friend what steps he proposed to take with respect to evading the police on Monday week. But Fogo was in no amiable or communicative mood. His feelings had that night been much lacerated and the prospect of seeing a woman in a prize-ring affected him acutely. He would not talk about the matter, and when Mr. Shillabeer, according to custom, brought conversation round to his vanished partner over the last glass, Mr. Fogo failed of that tact for which he was renowned and refused even to speak well of the deceased.

"I’ve heard enough about women to make me sick of the name of female this night," he said. "I won’t utter a word more about ’em, living or dead. Thank my stars I kept single anyway. They may be all right in their proper place, but they don’t know the meaning of fair play, and are worse than useless in every branch of sport that man ever invented. You mark me: this man’s sister will come across the ring and try to gouge our eyes out if her brother’s getting worsted!"

"Not she," promised the ’Dumpling.’ "I grant ’tis a sign the P.R.’s coming to nought that a chap should have his sister to second him in a fight; but since it had to be, never was a woman built more likely to give a good account of herself in that place than Rhoda Bowden."

"Well, I hope to God the Fancy will rise like one man," answered Mr. Fogo. "And now I’ll go to my bed; and if I don’t have a nightmare and dream that I’m in a Ring along with the Queen of England and a few duchesses and other high female characters, may I be blowed from here to the top of Paul’s cathedral and back again."

He then retired.

Bowden and Crocker had both paid for their colours and Mr. Shillabeer called his friend back to hand him the money, which, in his misery, Mr. Fogo had forgotten.

*CHAPTER XII*

*FOR THE GOOD CAUSE*

Probably the Prince of Darkness himself had won little more profound attention than Mr. Fogo when, in his cape and black knee-breeches, the old sportsman attended divine service on the following Sunday. Those interested entirely attributed the forthcoming fight to him, and many of the mothers and grandmothers of the hamlet would have been well pleased to mob ’Frosty-face’ and drive him by force of arms from the village.

One painful interview with Bartley Crocker’s mother he had not been able to escape. She offered him ten pounds in gold to prevent the fight, and when he explained that not for a hundred or a thousand pounds would he be party to a ’cross,’ she had ’given him a bit of her mind and threatened him with her ten commandments,’ as he afterwards expressed it.

And now Mr. Fogo, supported by Mr. Shillabeer, sat at worship, answered the responses and even essayed to join in the hymns. The behaviour of both old men was marked by highest propriety; and both put a penny in the plate when it reached them. The Bowdens, including David, were also present, and Mr. Fogo’s sole acts of inattention were caused by the circumstance that Rhoda sat beside her father. He stole several glances at her and observed a powerful, handsome young woman, exceedingly self-possessed and apparently well able to keep her nerve under any circumstances. He admitted to the ’Dumpling’ that in an ordinary emergency or difficulty Miss Bowden might probably hold her own; but a prize-fight was not an ordinary emergency, and he held that, under no conceivable tangle of circumstances, should a woman, in any capacity whatsoever, be present at such a proceeding.

Mr. Merle preached, or it would be more correct to say thundered, from a peaceable text in the New Testament. He hit hard and spared not. From the lord of the manor to the landlord of ’The Corner House’ he ranged; and he called heaven to witness that, for his part, no stone should be left unturned to overthrow the forces of disorder. Incidentally Mr. Merle gave his hearers a picture of a prize-fight, for it appeared that in his degenerate Oxford days the pastor had witnessed a battle.

"One of the unhappy creatures who marred God’s own image on that occasion was called Peter Crawley and known to his friends by the vulgar soubriquet of ’Young Rump Steak,’" said the clergyman. Then glaring at his congregation as though to dare a smile, he pulled his black gown from his wrists and proceeded: "The name of the other pugilist was Jem Ward, and they met on a winter’s day within a hundred miles of London--"

"At Royston--I was there," whispered Mr. Fogo to Reuben Shillabeer. Both old men paid the preacher every attention.

"Their degrading operations were considered to constitute a pretty day’s sport," continued Mr. Merle. "These men battered and tore and dashed each other upon the earth time after time. Again and again they fought themselves to a standstill, which is, I believe, the technical expression for absolute physical exhaustion. It was a battle of ferocious fiends disguised as men, and when this Peter Crawley had stricken the wretched Ward senseless in the eleventh round; and when both were reduced to mere swollen, half-blind palpitating masses of bruised and bleeding flesh, the people present shouted with infamous joy and bore both combatants away in triumph from the ensanguined field."

"Jem lost all along of not having Tom Oliver for second," whispered Fogo.

The clergyman proceeded at considerable length to point his moral, and he wound up an eloquent appeal with special allusion to the stranger who had come among his sheep. He did not actually describe ’Frosty-face’ as a wolf; but he left no manner of doubt as to his opinion of the Londoner; and he expressed acute regret that this Philistine should be spending his leisure in Sheepstor, to the debasement of the youth and manhood of the district.

Mr. Fogo listened with attention and propriety; while Mr. Shillabeer, fearing what might happen, rolled uneasily, puffed, perspired and grew red at intervals.

Of the principals and those who intended to aid them, only Bartley Crocker was not present; but his mother heard the sermon, and the vision of Peter Crawley and Jem Ward caused her to become so faint, that she had to be helped into the air by Charles Moses long before the sermon was finished.

Mr. Fogo himself and the company of the Bowdens accepted all the vicar said without emotion. Only once, when he quoted Horace, did they lose him for a moment. Elias Bowden had long convinced himself that a fair stand-up fight, between men pretty closely matched, was a circumstance morally justifiable in every respect; and his children accepted this conclusion without demur. As for ’Frosty,’ his deep mind moved far too busily with the future to trouble about any harsh present criticisms, personal and public though they might be. He saw in Mr. Merle’s attitude an opportunity that he sought, and after the service was ended, he bade Reuben Shillabeer get home and leave him behind. Then, when most of the people had gone; when the Bowdens, full of this charge, trailed up to Ditsworthy; when the ’Dumpling,’ in great uneasiness, got him back to his public-house; and when the congregation of chattering women and dubious men had vanished this way and that, Mr. Fogo prevailed upon Mr. Moses to introduce him to the vicar. The Rev. Theodore Merle was a solid, plethoric parson of the old school--a pillar of Church and State, loud-voiced, red-faced, kind-hearted, narrow-minded and conservative.

Mr. Fogo saluted this gentleman with the greatest deference, and briefly explained that his discourse had caused him deep interest and touched his conscience very forcibly at certain points. He then begged to know if he might, at the vicar’s convenience, enjoy a little private conversation.

Mr. Merle gladly consented to go at greater length into the matter with the old stranger. He named the following evening for their meeting at the vicarage, and expressed a hope that he might yet lead the Londoner from his turbulent and unlawful ways.

Mr. Fogo replied that if any man had the art to do such a thing, it must be Mr. Merle, whose eloquence had deeply impressed him. He then bowed in a very courtly manner and withdrew. Afterwards, he secretly confided to the shoemaker that the sermon had left him in great doubt of his conduct, and he very patiently suffered Charles Moses to press the case for law and order without offering much in the nature of opposition. He hoped finally that Mr. Moses would make it convenient to be present at the meeting with Mr. Merle; and the cobbler, firmly convinced that ’Frosty-face’ was yielding, promised to oblige him.

At ’The Corner House,’ in public, Mr. Fogo maintained a taciturn attitude, and when invited to express an opinion on the sermon, replied that there was a good deal to be said on both sides. Mr. Shillabeer smelt mystery, but knew his friend’s ways too well to interfere. At present the event stood fixed for an early hour on the following Monday week, and Mr. Fogo was prowling about the neighbourhood to find a secluded and suitable theatre for it; but nothing had been settled, and not until the Tuesday before the fight did he make the final announcement.

Mr. Fogo had already kept his appointment with Mr. Merle and listened to the arguments of the vicar and the churchwarden.

"I may tell you that the lord of the manor has only just left me," remarked Mr. Merle. "He, too, has harboured some erroneous opinions on the subject of this outrage, and I have gone far to convince him of his mistake."

But Mr. Fogo knew all about the opinions of Sir Guy Flamank. Indeed, he had enjoyed a considerable discourse in private with that sound sportsman only a few hours earlier in the day.

"Sir Guy Flamank," said the vicar, "at first argued speciously that there are times when a magistrate ought to act, and times when he ought to shut his eyes, or look the other way. Deluded by fanciful obligations to the claims of sport, he supposes that this is an occasion for looking the other way. But he is wrong--ignorantly, rather than wickedly, wrong--and I have thoroughly convinced him of the fact. A fight between two men, no matter whether they fight in the spirit of friends, or avowedly as foes, is none the less legally a breach of the peace, morally an outrage on the Creator. It is an un-christian, a brutal, a degraded performance, even though we regard it not as a battle of enmity but a trial of strength. Who are we that we dare to deface the image of God? Tell me that, Mr. Fogo. A prize-fight is the most complicated and many-sided offence it is possible to conceive--an affront alike on man and his Maker. None can attend such orgies without lowering his sense of decency and manhood; none can be present at such a spectacle and not suffer for it in the secret places of his self-respect. In the interest of public morals and of religion I take my stand, Mr. Fogo; and as a minister of the Word of God I tell you that, Heaven helping, this thing shall not be within my spiritual jurisdiction--nay, or beyond it, if energy and foresight can prevent."

Mr. Fogo rose from the chair whereon he sat, and bowed.

"I have not heard such burning words, your reverence, since I sat under a bishop a few weeks ago in Paul’s, London. I would have you to know that I take life seriously. I am a pious man, though my calling has to do with rough characters; but I never saw things quite in this light before. We sporting blades mean no harm, and we are honest according to our lights. I’ve known many of the noted pugs and can assure your reverence that they are straight and kindly men--just such good souls as Mr. Shillabeer, my friend in this village. If they’ve done wrong, ’tis through their ignorance of right. And as for me, never, until I heard your great and forcible discourse o’ Sunday, did I think that a fair mill was not agreeable to the morals of the kingdom, even though the law don’t allow it."

"A prize-fight is not agreeable--either to the morals of this kingdom or the next," said Mr. Merle; "and I hope you are convinced of it."

"You told me you was," said Moses. "You made it very clear to me you was wavering, Mr. Fogo."

"I am wavering," answered the old hawk, while he tried to cool the fire in his eye with a film of piety. "I am hit very hard over this. You’ve let in the light on me, your reverence. It calls back to my mind that famous party, namely Bendigo--once a Champion of England, now a champion of the next world; for he’s taken to preaching and, as he told me last time we met, is under articles to fight the Devil and all his works. A great man in his way, and they’ve given his name to half Australia, I’m told; but, though very free and forcible with words, he hasn’t got the flow of your reverence. Of course you wouldn’t expect it from a prize-fighter. And now with your solemn speeches booming on my sinful ears, I ask myself what I am to do."

"Let me tell you the answer to that question, Mr. Fogo," said the clergyman, very earnestly. "If your conscience has been mercifully permitted to waken at my voice, take heed that it shall not sink to sleep again. Emulate your reformed friend, Mr. Bendigo. Put on the armour of light and the breastplate of righteousness. Look back at these days of seclusion in this rural scene as Paul looked back to that journey on which burst in the dazzling light of living truth. Let the scales fall from your eyes, Mr. Fogo. Choose the better path, henceforth, sir. You are an able man. I can see it in your face. There is intellect there. With greater advantages you might have made a mark in the world and assisted its welfare. And that you must and shall still do! There is none among us so humble but that he possesses the grand, the glorious privilege and power to help the world towards goodness. Act rightly in this matter and great will be your reward--if not in this world, my dear friend, none the less and of a surety in the world to come."

"Exactly so," said Mr. Fogo. "I know you’re right--I’m sure of it. You understand these things--nobody better. It is your holy calling so to do. I see now as never I saw before, that fighting oughtn’t to be. I almost begin to believe that it’s my duty to stop this fight. And yet--"

"Don’t dally with the idea, Mr. Fogo," urged Charles Moses. "Believe it once for all and do your duty. Your salvation may hang upon it!"

Mr. Merle was a little vexed with the warden’s interference. He put up his hand and said, "Hush, Moses; leave this to me, please."

"It’s like this," explained ’Frosty-face,’ mildly; "most of the males are for the fight; most of the women are against it. And his reverence here is against it, and you’re against it, Mr. Moses, and of course the constable is against it, being paid by the nation to be so. Well, I must tell you that in these cases, if the police appear on the ground, the fight is always stopped at once and the Fancy goes off--either into another county, where the warrant don’t hold, or else, if that’s impossible, they stop altogether till the next meeting is arranged by the referee. Now, in this business, the fight has either got to stop or not begin at all if the police put in their appearance, because there’s no getting into another county; so it all comes to this: if your reverence knows when and where the fight is to take place, you can stop it."

"Then your duty stares you in the face, Mr. Fogo. You must tell me," asserted Mr. Merle.

"It isn’t decided yet."

"You’ll have a hand in the decision, all the same," declared Charles Moses. "Very like they’ll look to you to settle that point, as, with your learning of such things, would be natural."

Mr. Fogo glanced round about him as though he feared an eavesdropper.

"If I do this, and tell you the battle-ground, will you promise never to let it out?" he asked.

"It will be for you to let it out, and triumph in your righteous action," said Mr. Merle.

"Well, I’d rather not," answered the Deputy Commissary, with frankness. "I’ll do good by stealth, and ’twill be quite time enough for me to write and tell Mr. Shillabeer that ’twas my work after I’ve got back to London out of harm’s way. So there it stands: you’ve conquered me, your reverence. I put myself in your power. But this is thirsty work--this well-doing. Might I make so bold as to ask for a drop of liquor--spirits, if they may be taken without harm in the dwelling of holiness?"

Mr. Merle went to his sideboard and got a bottle of whisky, from which the repentant Fogo helped himself to a stiff glass.

"On Monday next at eleven o’clock the fight will begin, unless we stop it," he said. "And since, in the high name of the church and parson, it did ought to be stopped, stopped it shall be. The place is still a secret. But this I’ll do for the sake of my own salvation, and other reasons, including my great respect to your reverence--this I’ll do: on Monday morning next, at cock-light or earlier, I’ll be here in secret to meet the police and his reverence and Mr. Moses; and I’ll lead them to the ring. That’s the work of your Sunday sermon on the heart of a sinful creature, parson Merle. At five o’clock next Monday I’ll be at this house; but I trust those present to keep the secret, for if a word is breathed and it gets out, there’s men interested in this fight that will change the ’rondeyvoo’ and hide it even from me."

The clergyman, elated, yet not without secret doubts, gave all necessary promises, and Mr. Moses did the like. Then Mr. Fogo went his way.

He was in church again next Sunday and, meantime, conducted himself in a manner that mystified most frequenters of ’The Corner House.’ Shillabeer declared that something was weighing on Mr. Fogo’s mind, and Moses, who heard rumours, carried them to the vicar.

Then came grey dawn on the eventful morning and, before it was yet light, ’Frosty-face,’ as good as his word, arrived at the vicarage.

Mr. Ernest Maunder, with the warrant and another constable, had already arrived, and a moment later Mr. Moses came on the scene. The first glimmer of light was in the sky and the day opened cold and clear. Stars shone overhead and the road tinkled with ice underfoot; but clouds were already banking against the northern horizon.

"I’m here to take you to the appointed place," said Fogo. "All is settled and the men are to be in the ring before eleven o’clock. You will be snugly hidden not a hundred yards from the spot when they begin. ’Tis Ringmoor Down has been chosen--alongside the wood at the west end by the turnpike. We can’t miss it, because the ring was pitched overnight--I helped, so as not to bring down no suspicion on myself."

They started silently to climb the steep hill that ascends out of Sheepstor to Ringmoor. At Fogo’s advice they carried food and drink with them, for the morning was very cold and laden with promise of snow.

"You mustn’t mind hard words," said the betrayer. "They can’t do nothing to any of you, because it’s a fair score and you’ve won for two reasons. Firstly, by having more wits in your heads than them, and secondly, because his reverence has converted me to see the truth. I’m the only one as would be roughly handled and very likely--an old man like me--get my death from it; so I shan’t stop for the great moment when you step forth in the name of the Queen’s Majesty and bid ’em all to keep the peace. I shall see you in your places, and then I’ve arranged for a trap to come for me to the pike, and off I go to Plymouth. I won’t face the music--why should I? As it is, I shall go in fear and trembling this many a day."

"You need neither fear nor tremble, Fogo," said Mr. Merle. "The mind conscious of rectitude is armed against all fear. You have done your duty, difficult though it was; you will have your reward."

"Thank you for that helpful word," answered ’Frosty-face’; "and I beg, if your reverence don’t find it too much for your bellows against the hill, that you’ll speak a few comforting speeches to me as we travel along. I’m an aged man to turn from vanity at my time of life; yet in your sermon yesterday you said ’twas never too late to mend, and I took that to myself."

"You were perfectly justified in so doing," said Mr. Merle.

He uttered exhilarating reflections until the severity of the hill reduced him to silence. Then Ernest Maunder, who had not yet recovered from his amazement at finding Fogo a traitor, asked him a question.

"If you’re going straight away off to Plymouth, what about your luggage?"

"You’ll see it in the trap," answered ’Frosty.’ "I’ve got a box and a bundle and no more. Mind, Constable Maunder, that you step boldly into the ring; and don’t do it too soon. Wait till the men have stripped and shook hands. Then out you go, and not a man dare withstand you. Have no fear for yourself. At their everlasting peril would they do it, for you are the State. ’Twill be the greatest moment in your life, and I hope you’ll bear yourself with dignity."

"I hope I shall," replied Mr. Maunder; "but ’twould be easier if ’twas milder weather."

Dawn rolled along Dartmoor edge as they reached the silent hill-top, and it revealed an unfamiliar object upon the featureless bosom of Ringmoor. As Fogo had foretold, distant one hundred yards from a little wood beside the highway, the twenty-four-foot Ring stood stark in the twilight of morning. Heavy stakes, painted blue, supported the ropes. An outer ring--to keep spectators clear from the fight--was also set up beyond, and the ground could not have been better chosen.

Close at hand an open trap was waiting, and the driver stamped up and down to keep himself warm. Mr. Maunder, with a flash of professional zeal, satisfied himself that ’Frosty’s’ luggage was really in this vehicle and marked a wooden box, studded with brass nails, and a parcel containing a large umbrella and some walking-sticks.

"I got my kit out last night, after Shillabeer had gone to his rest," explained Mr. Fogo. "This morning he’ll think that I’ve risen betimes and come up here--and he’ll think right, for that matter."

In half an hour the party had cut down some boughs of fir, made a screen against the north wind, and hidden themselves carefully at the edge of the wood. Then Mr. Fogo joined the vicar in a light breakfast of hard-boiled eggs and cold tea; and finally he prepared to take his leave.

He declared that he left for Plymouth with reluctance and would much have liked to see the triumph of right; but, in plain English, he feared greatly for his own skin if the disappointed sportsmen discovered him with the police. Therefore he bade all farewell, invited and obtained Mr. Merle’s formal blessing upon his future, and then drove away along the road to Plymouth.

Yet, for some private and obscure reason, when a mile had been traversed, Mr. Fogo appeared suddenly to change his mind. He directed the driver to sink down to Meavy valley; and thence the trap returned as swiftly as possible to Sheepstor.

Already that village was awake and alert. Strange men moved about through it; within the field, under the churchyard wall, had sprung up a square of ropes and bright blue stakes--the counterpart of that besides which Mr. Merle and his friends were waiting and crowing somewhat cold on the sequestered loneliness of Ringmoor.

Mr. Fogo had told Simon Snell the truth, though his listeners all laughed at the joke when they heard it. The fight, instead of taking place upon Ringmoor Down at eleven o’clock, was planned for Sheepstor bull-ring at nine.

*CHAPTER XIII*

*THE FIGHT*

The bull-ring of Sheepstor is a grassy field of near an acre in extent, surrounded west and east with beech trees, hemmed by a road and a little river southward, and flanked by the churchyard wall on the north. Here bull-baiting, cock-fighting, cock-shying, and other rough sports of our great-grandfathers were enjoyed; and here, on this winter morning, one of the last authentic prize-fights ever fought in England was duly conducted with all right ritual, pomp and circumstance, under direction of that high priest and poet of the P.R., ’Frosty-face’ Fogo.

From Lowery and Kingsett by Crazywell; from Yellowmead and Dennycoombe; from Meavy and Middleworth and Good-a-Meavy those in the secret came. A large sprinkling of local sportsmen rode into Sheepstor before eight o’clock and stabled their horses at ’The Corner House.’ Sir Guy Flamank’s friend, the young boxer from Oxford, and a Plymouth professional, were umpires for the men; while the sporting doctor from Tavistock acted as referee on the strength of wide experience and sound knowledge.

Bowden and his party came down from Ditsworthy in a cart, and beside it walked Bartholomew Stanbury and his son. Simon Snell also arrived, with Mattacott, Screech and other local men. Just before nine o’clock two stout and frantic women rushed to the rectory and then disappeared up the hill towards Ringmoor. They were Mr. Crocker’s mother and aunt.

As for Bartley, he arrived in the bull-ring at five minutes to nine, met David beside it and shook hands with him and his father. Rhoda stood by, clad in a dark stuff dress with short skirt and short sleeves. On her head was a man’s cap and her bright hair had been coiled small and tight on her neck. She paid no attention to Mr. Crocker. Then Fogo appeared and assumed command. With him came the Corinthian contingent, jovial and jolly, clad in the most showy and stylish sporting costumes of the ’sixties.’ The colours of both men were generally displayed.

"Throw your castors in the ring," said Shillabeer, and the fighters dropped their hats over the ropes.

A crowd of above a hundred persons was assembled. The front row sat ten feet from the ring; others stood behind them and twenty men clustered along the churchyard wall. Into the beech trees many boys had also climbed. Rhoda Bowden was the only woman present. Many protested and shook their heads, but none interfered.

The colours were tied to the stakes and the combatants tossed. Bowden won, and his father chose the corner with its back to the rising sun. Red light ranged along the eastern edge of Dartmoor; but it promised swiftly to perish, for the air was already heavy with coming snow.

Both men now stripped to the waist. They wore flannel drawers, socks and shoes with sparrow-bill nails in them. Each was clean-shaved and close-cropped. Fogo and Shillabeer, with bottles, towels and sponges, entered Bartley’s corner, while his father and sister took their places in Bowden’s.

As the church clock struck nine the men came to the scratch, listened to a brief word from the referee and again shook hands. Each in his different way looked strong and well. David’s white body shone in the red sunlight and showed a silky texture over the big muscles. He was shorter in the reach than Bartley Crocker and far sturdier below the waist. Big thews and sinews held him up; but, as he came on guard, he shaped rather awkwardly with his hands and his head was somewhat too far forward. Crocker appeared slighter, taller and more graceful. His brown body seemed somewhat thin about the ribs, but his face was clean and hard and his eyes bright. His legs were not so solid as David’s, but they showed more spring about them. His pose was good: he carried his head well back, and his hands neither too high nor too low. One man obviously possessed greater strength; while the other looked likely to be quicker both on his legs and with his fists. What either had learned about scientific fighting in the short time of preparation remained to be seen. Both were nervous and both were eager to begin.

David dashed out at his man and hit with his right but was parried. Again he tried his right, rather round, and just touched Crocker’s shoulder; whereupon Bartley, hitting straighter, got his left on the other’s face and followed it with his right on the throat. The second blow was heavy and shook David for a moment. They stood apart, then both began to fight desperately, but with little science. Some tremendous counters succeeded and each received a few blows in the face; but Bowden evidently hit harder than the younger man, though he did not get home so often. The little knowledge either possessed belonged to Crocker. He guarded to some purpose with his left and avoided one or two strong, right-handed blows in this manner. Twice Crocker missed his right; then the best blow of the round was struck by him. It fell fairly and full on David’s forehead, and he followed it by another, under the eye. Then Bartley received one on the nose which drew blood. A moment later the men closed and Crocker threw Bowden with an ordinary cross-buttock and fell on him. Both walked to their corners and the round ended with nothing of importance done on either side. First blood was claimed and allowed for David.

Bartley sat on Mr. Shillabeer’s knee, while Mr. Fogo polished him up and poured advice into his ear.

"Keep moving more," he said. "Dance ’Jim Crow’ round the man! make him come after you and blow him a bit. He hits harder than you do; but he’s not as clever and not as long in the arm. Get on to the right eye again. If you can shut that at the start, it’s worth half the stakes."

And elsewhere David reposed on Elias Bowden’s knee while Rhoda, white to the lips, but firm as a rock, sponged his face. He laughed at her.

"It’s all right," he said to his father. "He only hit me once worth mentioning. I’ll soon find his measure. I’m stronger than him."

"Don’t talk," answered the old man. "And get the fall, if you can, next round. Better you drop on him than he drop on you."

The half-minute was over and both came instantly to the scratch. Preliminary nervousness had passed and they were eager to fight. David panted a little; Hartley appeared quite calm. The second round began with Bowden leading off; but Crocker easily jerked his head out of harm’s way and escaped an ugly round hit.

They fell to heavy milling of a scrambling character, with few blows getting home on either side. Presently they stood apart, panting with hands down a moment; then, in response to shouts from partisans, they began to fight again. Crocker now had the best of it until the end of the round. David seemed unable to use his left and Bartley was learning to avoid the swinging round-arm blows delivered by his opponent’s right. Thrice he escaped these attempts and each time countered with his own right. To Mr. Fogo’s satisfaction one of these blows reached the damaged eye with great force and instantly raised a big ’mouse’ beneath it. Then the round ended, almost exactly like the last, by David landing on the other’s nose and drawing a copious flow of blood. Upon this they closed and David tried hard for the crook, but Bartley was the cleverer wrestler and Bowden went down with the other on top of him as before. Again they walked strongly to their corners and their friends did all that was necessary in the space of thirty seconds.

"Fight for his eyes, and even take a bit of risk to get there," said Mr. Fogo. "But, for the love of the Lord, don’t let him land that round-arm hit on your ear. It won’t do you no good. And use your left more."

Rhoda bathed the curious blue mark that had leapt into existence under her brother’s eye. His face was puffy round it, but neither she nor her father guessed at the threatened danger. As for David, he was very cheerful and only vexed that he had missed so often with his right.

"I’ve got to get nearer to him," he explained. "Out-fighting’s no good against his long arms. I must go inside ’em and see what I can do then."

The men smiled and nodded at one another as they came up to time.

Bartley began with his left. David threw it off well with the right guard and tried to begin in-fighting. But the taller man danced away before him and hit twice, right and left, on the retreat. Then Bowden, coming with a rush, caught him, and the finest rally of the battle followed. The combatants fought all across the ring with both hands almost entirely at the head. More by good chance than science each stopped some heavy hits and sparred much above their true skill. Immense applause greeted the round, and the ’Dumpling’ bellowed a word of encouragement to his man. Fogo watched every move with his old, keen eyes. He was not entirely pleased with the result of the round. It ended in a scrambling fall with no advantage to either. But both, though blowing heavily, were still strong, and each man rose instantly and got back to his corner without aid.

The little advantage of the rising sun in his opponent’s eyes was now lost to Bowden, for grey clouds had swallowed the morning and already a few stray flakes of snow fell leisurely. Elias, at the end of this round, complained that Crocker was holding some hard substance within his fists, but Fogo with disdain showed that they carried paper only.

Some marks of the last bout were visible when ’time’ brought the men to the scratch. Bartley had a cut on his forehead and another on his cheek-bone, while his nose and lips had swollen and become distorted; the eyelids of Bowden’s right eye were puffed and bulged. His face and breast were mottled with red; but Crocker, on the contrary, was as pale as a parsnip. David led off right and left, just touching with the first but missing with the latter. They countered heavily and then, in obedience to orders, Crocker got in suddenly, caught David’s head in chancery, and before the elder, by sheer strength, broke loose, fibbed him thrice. Mr. Fogo rolled in an ecstasy. The blows had reached David’s sound eye and done some damage. In getting away David fell and Bartley immediately went to his corner. The round had been much in his favour.

Rhoda worked hard to reduce the swelling on her brother’s face, but it was not possible. He continued strong, cheerful and impatient to repay a little of Crocker’s attention in the last round.

Yet from this point the fight went steadily in favour of the younger man. He was naturally quicker, neater and straighter in his hitting. The next round was a long one. David got to work first and lashed out as usual with his right, but was short. Then Bartley retreated until he had his enemy on the move, whereupon he stood and let fly both right and left at the head. Both told, though the blows were light. David slipped on to one knee but was up again instantly, and a moment later, for the first time since the beginning of the battle, he got his right home on Crocker’s ear. The hit fairly staggered Bartley but did not drop him. He recovered before Bowden could repeat the blow and some furious fighting brought the men into Bartley’s corner, where David had the worst of the rally. Crocker at last closed and might have gone far to end the fight, for he had his enemy on the ropes and was about to punish him in that position. His instinct, however, prevented it. He had raised his right and Bowden was for the moment defenceless; then the younger drew back and shook his head. "Nay, David," he said, "I’ll not take advantage of thee."

A hearty cheer greeted this sportsmanlike act; but in his corner at the end of the round, Mr. Fogo took occasion to caution his man against further display of such a spirit.

"You haven’t got him beat yet," he said. "’Tis all very well to play to the gallery when you’re safe, but not sooner. He’s harder than you and will take a lot of knocking out. You had it in your power then to give him pepper, and you ought to have done it till he dropped. Fight for his eyes and don’t let’s have no softness. You mind there’s a lot of money going to change hands over this job, and you’ve no right to throw away half a chance."

In answer Crocker showed temper.

"I’ll fight fair and be damned to you and your London ways," he said; but Mr. Fogo permitted himself no retort.

A great deal of tedious sparring occurred in the next round and Bowden got his second wind. He was strong and still confident, but the sight of his right eye grew much impaired. After a time the pace quickened, but when they began to fight in earnest, the round was Hartley’s own. David received all the hits, and one on the mouth nearly floored him. At the end they closed and Bowden was thrown. Both still went to their corners without help.

Five and six to one were betted on Crocker, and even Fogo felt sanguine. But he had time to take close stock of his man and noticed that Crocker was weaker.

In the next round the men closed almost instantly and went down, David undermost.

"All Dartmoor to a lark-sod on our chap!" said Mr. Shillabeer. "Go in and finish him, Bartley. Only get on his left peeper again and the shutters will be up. The right’s done for."

"I can do it, but I’m frightened to--might blind him for life," answered the fighter; and ’Frosty-face’ was frantically expostulating at this mistaken sentiment at the call of ’time.’

Heavy counter hits were exchanged in this round and Bartley’s left ear was again visited. Blood sprang from it in answer to the blow and for a moment he was dazed; then he hit David heavily on the neck and jaw. A rally followed and Bartley used his legs and got away. At the end Crocker hit out with his left and caught David on his sound eye. The blow was well timed and Bowden nearly fell. A moment later they closed and wrestled long for the fall. Neither won it decisively, but they went down together. Both were weak after this round and both, for the first time, were carried to their corners. Rhoda and her father lifted David swiftly and neatly.