through his second count when Sean interrupted him by lifting the reclining Portuguese to his feet, using the tangled bush of his hair as a handle.
He balanced the man on his unsteady legs and hit himOne, two, three. resignedly Jock Heyns began his third count, this time he managed to reach ten.
There was a howl of protest from the crowd and Jock Heyns struggled to make himself heard above it. Does anyone want to lodge a formal objection?
It seemed that there were those who did. Very well, please step into the ring. I can't accept shouted comments. Jock's attitude was understandable he stood to lose a considerable sum if his decision were reversed. But Sean was patrolling the ropes as hungrily as a lion at feeding time. Jock waited a decent interval, then held up Sean's right arm.
, The winner, ten minutes for refreshments before the next bout. Will the keepers please come and fetch their property He gestured towards the Portuguese. Nice going laddie, unorthodox perhaps but beautiful to watch Duff took Sean's arm and led him to a chair on the veranda. Three more to go, then we can call it a day. He handed Sean a glass. What's this? Orange juice. I'd prefer something a little stronger Later, laddie. Duff collected the Portuguese purse and dropped it into the valise while that gentleman was being carried from the ring by his straining sponsors and laid to rest at the far end of the veranda.
Mr Anthony Blair was next. His heart was not in the encounter. He moved Prettily enough on his feet but always in the direction best calculated to keep him out of reach of Sean's fists. The boy's a natural long-distance champWatch it, Courtney, he'll run you to deathLast lap, Blair, once more round the ring and you've done five miles. The chase ended when Sean, now sweating gently, herded him in a corner and there dispatched him.
The third challenger had by this time developed a pain in his chest. It hurts like you wouldn't believe it, he announced through gritted teeth. Does it sort of gurgle in your lungs as you breatheV
asked Francois. Yes, that's it, gurgles like you wouldn't believe itPleurisy, diagnosed du Toit with more than a trace of envy in his voice.
Is that bad? theman asked anxiously. Yes it is. Page one hundred and Sixteen. The treatment I won't be able to fight, Hell, thats bad luck the invalid complained cheerfully It's exceptionally bad luck, agreed Duff. It means you'll have to forfeit your purse money. You wouldn't take advantage of a sick man? Try me Duff suggested pleasantly The fourth contestant was a German. Big, blond and happy-faced. He stumbled three or four times on his way to the ring, tripped over the rones and crawled to his corner on hands and knees; once there he was able to regain his feet with a little help from the ring post. Jock went close to him to smell his breath and before he could dodge, the German caught him in a bear hug and led him into the opening steps of a waltz. The crowd loved it and there were no objections when at the end of the dance lock declared Sean the winner on a technical knockout.
More correctly the decision should have gone to Candy who had provided the free drinks. We can close down the circus now if you want to, laddie, Duff told Sean. You've made enough to keep the Candy Deep afloat for another couple of months. I haven't had a single good fight out of the lot of them.
But I like the looks of this last one. The others were for business; this one I'll have just for the hell of it. You've been magnificent, now you deserve a little fun, agreed Duff.
Mr Timothy Curtis. Heavyweight champion of Georgia, U. S. A. Jock introduced him.
Gideon Barnard put his weight at two hundred and ten pounds, the same as Sean's. Sean shook his hand and from the touch of it knew he was not going to be disappointed. Glad to know you. The American's voice was as soft as his grip was hardY our servant, sir, said Sean and hit the air where the man's head had been an instant before. He grunted as a fist slogged into his chest under his raised right arm and backed away warily. A soft sigh blew through the crowd and they settled down contentedly. This was what they had come to see.
The red wine was served early; it flew in tiny drops every time a punch was thrown or received. The fight flowed smoothly around the square of trampled grass. The sound of bone on flesh was followed immediately by the growl of the crowd and the seconds between were filled with the hoarse breathing of the two men and the slither, slither of their feet. Yaaaa! Through the tense half silence ripped a roar like that of a mortally wounded foghorn. Sean and the American jumped apart startled, and turned with everyone else to face Candy's Hotel. Fernandes was with them again; his mountain-wide hairiness seemed to fill the whole veranda. He picked up one of Candy's best tables and holding it across his chest tore off two of its legs as though they were the wings of a roasted chicken. Francois, the bag! shouted Sean. Francois snatched it up and threw it high over the heads of the crowd. Sean held his breath as he followed its slow trajectory, then he blew out again with relief as he saw Mbejane field the pass and vanish around the corner of the Hotel. Yaaaa! Femandes gave tongue again. With a table leg in each hand he charged the crowd that stood between him and Sean; it scattered before him. Do you mind if we finish this some other time? Sean asked the American of course not. Any time at all. I was just about to leave myself Duff reached through the ropes and caught Sean's arm. There's someone looking for you, or had you noticed? It might just be his way of showing friendliness. I wouldn't bet on it, are you coming?
Fernandes nimbled to a halt, braced himself and threw.
The table leg whirred like a rising pheasant an inch over Sean's head, ruffling his hair with the wind of its passage. Lead on, Duff. Sean was uncomfortably conscious of the fact that Fernandes was again m motion towards him, still armed with a long oak, and that three very thin ropes were all that stood between them. The speed that Sean and Duff turned on then made Mr Blair's earlier exhibition seem like that of a man with both legs in plaster, Fernandes, carrying top weight as he was, never looked like catching them.
Francois came up to the Candy Deep just after midday with the news that the Portuguese, after beating three of his sponsors into insensibility, had left on the noon coach back to Kimberley.
Duff uncocked his rifle. Thanks, Franz, we were waiting lunch for him. I thought he might call on us. Have you counted the takings? Yes, your commission is in that paper bag on the table. Thanks, man, let's go down and celebrate. You go and have one for us. Hey, Duff, you promised - Sean started. I said later, in three or four weeks time. Now we've got a little work to do, like digging a trench fifty feet deep and three hundred yards long. rWe could start first thing tomorrow. You want to be rich, don't you? asked Duff.
Sure, but You want nice things, like English suits, French champagne andYes, butWell, stop arguing, get off your fat arse and come with me!
The Chinese use firecrackers to keep the demons away.
Duff and Sean applied the same principle. They kept the mill running; as long as its clunking carried across the valley to the ears of their creditors all was well. Everyone accepted the fact that they were working a payable reef and left them alone, but the money they fed into the front of the mill had halved its value by the time it came out of the other side in those pathetic little yellow pellets.
In the meantime they cut their trench, teaxiing into the earth in a race against Settlement Day. They fired dynamite and as the last stones dropped back out of the sky they were in again, coughing with the fumes, to clear the loosened rock and start drilling the next set of holes. it was summer, the days were long, and while it was light they worked. Some evenings they lit the last fuses by lantern light.
Sand fell through the hour-glass faster than they had bargained for, the money dribbled away and on the fifteenth of February Duff shaved himself, changed his shirt and went to see Candy about another loan. Sean watched him walk away down the slope. They had sold the horses a week before, and he said a small prayer, the first for many years.
Duff came back in the late morning. He stood on the edge of the trench and watched Sean tamping in the charges for the next cut. Sean's back was shiny with sweat; each individual muscle standing out in relief, swelling and subsiding as he moved. That's the stuff, laddie, keep at it Sean looked up with dust-reddened eyes. How much? he asked. Another fifty, and this is the last, or so she threatens. Sean's eyes fastened on the package Duff held under his arm. What's thatV He could see the stains seeping through the brown paper and the saliva flooded out from under his tongue. Prime beef chops, no mealie meal porridge for lunch today Duff grinned at him. Meat. Sean caressed the word. Underdone, bleeding a little as you bite it, a trace of garlic, just enough salt. And you beside me, singing in the wilderness, agreed Duff. Cut out the poetry, light those fuses and let's go and eat. An hour later they walked side by side along the bottom of their trench, Mbejane and his Zulus crowding behind them. Sean belched. Ah, pleasant memory, I'll never be able to look another plate of mealie meal in the face again. They reached the end, where the freshly broken earth and rock lay piled. Sean felt the thrill start in his hands, tingle up his arms and squeeze his lungs. Then Duff's fingers were biting into his shoulder; he could feel them trembling.
It looked like a snake, a fat grey python crawling down one wall of the trench, disappearing under the heap of new rabble and out the other side.
Duff moved first, he knelt and picked up a piece of the reef, a big grey mottled lump of it and he kissed it.
It must be it, hey, Duff? It must be the Leader? It's the end of the rainbow. No more mealie meal, Sean said softly and Duff laughed. Then Sean laughed. Wildly, crazily, together they howled their triumph.
