Another roar, friendly if not enthusiastic, greeted the arrival of Kemp who looked a stripling beside the professional. The only time he showed any expression was when he caught sight of Rollison, Chumley and Isobel sitting on camp stools at the ringside. His gaze was rivetted on Isobel, who smiled then looked away.
“ ‘e ain’t gotta chance,” someone said, nearby.
“Won’t last a round,” said another.
“ ‘e don’t strip bad,” conceded a third, grudgingly.
“Has he done any boxing to speak of?” Chumley asked, leaning across Isobel.
“He says he’s done a bit at Oxford,” answered Rollison. “I’m told he was in the finals three years running but he struck good years.”
“He can’t compete with Billy,” Chumley said. “The man’s made of rock.”
Isobel looked at him sharply and then turned reproachfully to the Toff.
The fight started ten minutes late, to roars which echoed up and down the street and were taken up by the hundreds who could not gain admission. As they touched hands in the centre of the ring and Billy danced back, agile for a heavyweight and always surprising his opponents by his footwork, there was a tense, almost a stunned silence.
Kemp went in with a straight left which shook Billy and jabbed a right above the heart, stopping a rush. Kemp danced back and Billy seemed to stand still.
Rollison thought, it’s a pity that Kemp’s started off so well. Until then, Billy the Bull had been inclined to take the bout lightly but, although his smile remained, there was a wary expression in his eyes; the blows had made him realise that he must not be careless. Kemp knew the ring and did not take chances. He kept out of the way of those long arms, only taking two punches of any weight and riding them well. He got in a couple to the ribs, which stung but did no damage, and his footwork was good. He managed to keep the fight away from him without making it a dancing match, sparring rather than fighting but in no way pretentious.
When the gong went, the erstwhile silent crowd let forth; there was a new note in their voices. They knew that they were going to see a real fight, not to gloat over a massacre—for the majority had come to see the complete eclipse of the parson who thought he could punch. The most noticeable change was in the corner where Kemp’s friends were sitting. They were eager and almost elated; the whole party seemed to have been relieved of a great burden.
Rollison glanced at Isobel.
“Enjoying it?” he asked.
“You beast!” she said, half-laughing. “I half believe you were right!”
The little man in Billy’s corner was shrill and vociferous. Kemp’s seconds, including Whiting, behaved as if they could not believe what they had seen and they settled down to see their man through. Kemp glanced once towards Rollison’s corner and his gaze lingered on Isobel. Then the gong went and he began to fight well, still keeping out of range of Billy’s murderous left swing which was the punch which had scored most of his knock-outs. Kemp used his feet as if he were remembering the text book all the time. The round was even.
The change in the temper of the crowd was even more noticeable. Chumley shot a shrewd glance at Rollison and Isobel sat back as if enjoying herself.
Three rounds of hard fighting followed with Billy doing most of the attacking but gaining no noticeable advantage and certainly not gaining ascendancy. Watching closely, Rollison thought that Kemp was beginning to tire; there were red blotches on his fair skin. Billy the Bull showed only one or two, although Kemp had drawn blood first by a slight cut on Billy’s lips. At the start of the sixth round, Billy went in as if he meant to finish it off once and for all. In the first minute, it looked as though he would succeed. He brought out a pace which surprised Kemp who backed swiftly but could not ride the punches. One of those famous lefts took him on the side of the jaw and staggered him. The crowd jumped to its feet. How Kemp fended off the follow-up, Rollison did not know. He felt as excited as the others.
Kemp kept the knock-out away but towards the end of the round he was groggy. He staggered into his corner as the gong went.
“That’s about it,” said Chumley. “But he’s put up a damned good show, Rollison.”
“He can’t lose now!” exclaimed Isobel.
Rollison smiled. “He’s not quite finished,” he said. “If Billy can keep that up next round, though—” he shrugged and broke off.
Money was already changing hands for dozens had wagered that the curate would not last halfway through the bout. The odds, although more even, were still on Billy who remained smiling in his corner but was breathing with greater deliberation. For the first time, Rollison thought that Kemp might possibly pull it off.
The gong went.
The crowd gasped for Kemp moved from his corner with unexpected speed and landed two powerful punches on Billy’s jaw. Before the man could hit back he danced away, came in again and jabbed the professional with three straight lefts, each of which pushed Billy’s head back. The crowd was on its feet again, Chumley had forgotten himself and was exclaiming:
“You’ve got him! You’ve got him!”
Isobel stared, her eyes glistening anil her hands clenched.
Kemp jabbed again and the Hull concentrated on keeping away from thai waspish left but left himself open for a right swing; Kemp had not used one before; now, he flashed it round and landed with a crack! which sounded clearly through the hall. Billy staggered, lost his footing and went down. Kemp backed away and stood with his hands down, unsmiling but with an expression of contentment which showed his satisfaction.
“. . . six—seven,” intoned the referee.
On ‘eight’, Billy rose cautiously to his feet.
