“Every time!” nodded Ravenslee.
“But Lord, sir—”
“Shut up, Joe, shut up,” snarled the Old Un, hopping out of the armchair. “Don’t gape like a perishin’ fish; come on up-stairs an’ knock the Guv’nor down like ‘e tells ye—an’ ‘arves on the money, mind; it was me as taught ye all you know or ever will, so ‘arves on the money, Joe, ‘arves on the money. Come on, Joe—d’j ‘ear?”
“Crumbs!” said Joe.
“Look at ‘im. Guv—look at ‘im!” shrieked the old man, dancing to and fro in his impatience, “‘ere’s a chance for ‘im to earn a pore old cove a bit o’ ‘bacca money, an’, what’s better still, t’ show a pore old fightin’ man a bit o’ real sport—an’ there ‘e stands, staring like a perishing pork pig! Blimy, Guv, get behind an’ ‘elp me to shove ‘im up- stairs.”
“But, crikey, sir!” said Joe, “five dollars every time I—”
“Yus, yus, you bloomin’ hadjective—two dollars fifty for each of us! ‘Urry up, oh, ‘urry up afore ‘e changes ‘is mind an’ begins to ‘edge.”
So Joe follows his “Guv’nor” and the Old Un up a flight of stairs and into a large chamber fitted as a gymnasium, where are four roped and padded posts socketed into the floor; close by is a high-backed armchair in which the Old Un seats himself with an air of heavy portent.
But when Joe would have ducked under the ropes, the Old Un stayed him with an imperious gesture, and, clambering into the ring, advanced to the centre and bowed gravely as if to a countless multitude.
“Gentlemen,” he piped in his shrill old voice, “I take pleasure to introduce Joe Madden, undefeated ‘eavyweight champion o’ the world, an’ the Guv—both members of this club an’ both trained by me, Jack Bowser, once lightweight champion of England an’ hall the Americas. Gentlemen, it will be a fight to a finish—Markis o’ Queensberry rules. Gentlemen—I thank ye.” Having said which, the Old Un bowed again, gravely stepped from the ring, and ensconcing himself in the armchair, drew out a large and highly ornate watch, while Ravenslee and Joe vaulted over the ropes.
Behold them facing each other, the brown-skinned fighting man wise in ringcraft and champion of a hundred fights, and the white-fleshed athlete, each alike clean and bright of eye, light-poised of foot, quivering for swift action, while the Old Un looks needfully from one to the other, watch in one bony hand, the other upraised.
“Get ready!” he croaked. “Go!”
Comes immediately a quick, light tread of rubber-soled feet and the flash of white arms as they circle about and about, feinting, watchful and wary. Twice Ravenslee’s fist shoots out and twice is blocked by Joe’s open glove, and once he ducks a vicious swing and lands a half-arm jolt that makes Joe grin and stagger, whereat the Old Un, standing upon his chair, hugs himself in an ecstasy, and forgetful of such small matters as five-dollar bills, urges, prays, beseeches, and implores the Guv to “wallop the blighter on the p’int, to stab ‘im on the mark, and to jolt ‘im in the kidney-pit.”
“Go it, Guv!” he shrieked, “go it! In an’ out again, that’s it—Gorramighty, I never see sich speed. Oh, keep at ‘im, Guv—make ‘im cover up—sock it into ‘im, Guv! Ho, lumme, what footwork—you’re as quick as lightweights—oh, ‘appy, ‘appy day! Go to it, both on ye!”
And “to it” they went, with jabs and jolts, hooks and swings, with cunning feints and lightning counters until the place echoed and reechoed to the swift tramp of feet and dull thudding of blows, while the Old Un, hugging himself in long, bony arms, chuckled and choked and rocked himself to and fro in an ecstasy; moreover, when Joe, uttering a grunt, reeled back against the ropes, the Old Un must needs shriek and dance and crow with delight until, bethinking him of his duty, he checked his excitement, seated himself in the armchair again, and announced: “Time! End o’ round one.”
And it is to be noticed that as they sit down to take their two minutes’ rest, neither Ravenslee nor Joe, for all their exertions, seem unduly distressed in their breathing.
“Sir,” says Joe, looking his pupil over, “you’re uncommon quick on your pins; never knowed a quicker—did you, Old Un?”
“No, me lad—never in all me days!”
“An’ you’ve sure-ly got a punch, sir. Ain’t ‘e, Old Un?”
“Like a perishin’ triphammer!” nodded the Old Un. “Likewise, sir, you’ve a wonderful judgment o’ distance—but, sir, you need experience!”
“That’s what I’m after, Joe.”
“And you take too many chances; you ain’t larned caution yet.”
“That you must teach me, Joe.”
“Which I surely will, sir. In the next round, subject to no objection, I propose to knock ye down, sir.”
“Which means two dollars fifty for each on us, Joe—mind that,” added the Old Un.
“So fight more cautious, sir, do,” pleaded Joe, “and—look out.”
“Time!” croaked the Old Un. “Round two! And Guv, look out for yer p’int, cover yer mark, an’ keep a heye on yer kidney-pit!”
Once again they faced each other, but this time it was Joe who circled quick and catlike, massive shoulders bowed, knees bent, craggy chin grim and firm-set, but blue eyes serene and mild as ever. A moment’s silent sparring, a quick tread of feet, and Joe feints Ravenslee into an opening, swings for his chin, misses by an inch, and ducking a vicious counter, drives home a smashing body-blow and, staggering weakly, Ravenslee goes down full length.
“Shook ye up a bit, sir?” enquired Joe, running up with hands outstretched, “take a rest, now do, sir.”
“No, no,” answered Ravenslee, springing to his feet, “the Old Un hasn’t called ‘Time’ yet.”
“Not me!” piped the old man, “not bloomin’ likely! Go to it, both on ye—mind, that’s two-fifty for me, Joe!”
