Had Kemp gone straight in, he might have finished him off but Kemp waited just too long. What chance he had was lost in Billy’s determined covering-up and Chumley shot a meaning glance at Rollison as the round ended.
Isobel said nothing.
“Give you six-ter-four on the parson,” muttered a little fellow behind them, one who had been shortening the odds for a long time. “Six-to-four on the parson!”
He hedged when he was taken up by a dozen eager backers of Billy the Bull and was in the midst of a heated altercation when the gong rang. He sat down and snapped:
“Watch the fight, can’t yer?”
Rollison smiled but felt a tenseness which surprised him. If Kemp could repeat his performance of the last round, he would yet beat the professional but in a few seconds Rollison saw that Kemp had spent himself on his great effort. If Billy had been less wary, he might have made an end to it that round but he waited until the ninth. A spark of energy came back to Kemp but, as he swung a right which connected too near the end of the swing, he left himself wide open. Billy sent in three killer-punches—right-left-right! Kemp’s mouth sagged, he staggered and bent at the knees.
“Get ‘im, Billy!
“You got ‘im, Billy!”
“Don’t wait, you fool!”
Billy the Bull, still smiling, stood back from the curate who tried to pull himself together. He managed to raise his hands but then crumpled up. There was a tense moment of silence, followed by an uproar which drowned the referee’s voice but Rollison knew it was all over.
The referee turned to Billy the Bull to acclaim him the winner but Billy stepped past him and went down on one knee beside the curate.
The crowd loved it.
Rollison looked at Isobel and saw a film of tears over her eyes. She fought against them and was smiling when Kemp, sitting up in his corner with Billy standing over him and towels flapping, seht another glance towards her.
Rollison put a hand on Isobel’s.
“It’s all right,” he said, “Kemp’s paid his entrance fee. Will you come to the dressing-room with me?”
“No,” she said, hastily, “I must get back, I shouldn’t have stayed so long.”
“I’ll find you an escort,” Rollison said. Watching her go, he smiled thoughtfully. Then a man bumped against him and he looked round—to see Keller.
“You damned fool!” Keller growled. “I warned you.”
“What’s that?” snapped Chumley.
As if he realised that he had made a mistake, Keller turned and was lost in the crowd. Chumley was about to follow him, but drew back.
“What did he say, Rollison? Did he threaten you?”
“It sounded like it,” said Rollison, perfunctorily.
“Who was it?”
Rollison hesitated.
“I know you like to go your own way but there are times when you can’t,” Chumley said. “If you know that man and he’s connected with Kemp’s trouble, you must tell me his name.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” said Rollison. “But not here— I’ll come to the station in about an hour’s time.”
“All right,” said Chumley.
Rollison went through the thinning crowd to the dressing-rooms. Kemp was on a table, being pummelled enthusiastically by his seconds with Whiting standing by and smiling widely. Ebbutt had successfully overcome the handicap of his swollen lips and was smiling as if the world had fallen into his lap, the bald-headed man who had been with Billy the Bull was here, there and everywhere.
Kemp looked at Rollison.
“You’ll do,” he said drily.
We’ll do!” said Rollison.
“What abaht the gite?” demanded the bald-headed man, shrilly. “What abaht it, Billy-boy; Two hundred and forty-nine pounds eight an’ thruppence, I dunno ‘ow the thruppence come in, must’a been a miscount. That’s less tax. Wot about it, Billyboy? Goes to charity, don’t it? Charity begins at home, don’t it?” He grinned, expectantly.
Billy the Bull came in with his gay dressing-gown tight about him.
“Shut your silly marf, Tike,” Billy said, stepping to Kemp’s side. “I decided what to do with the gite. That’s if Mr Kemp won’t mind assepting it.”
Kemp eyed him in surprise.
“It must go to charity,” he said. “That was a condition, wasn’t it?”
“S’right,” said Billy. “You’ve got a relief fund down at St Guys, ain’t-cher? And you’ve “ad a lot o’ espense lately’—Billy the Bull grew tongue-tied’ and the others fell silent. “Just seed the management, I ‘ave,” he went on at last. “They’ve agreed that they doan want no espenses fer ter-night, so it’s all going to charity. Will yer assept it for the church, Mr Kemp?”
