The doctor’s sermon would have had more effect if the assistant had not once or twice had occasion to test his highest, and come upon it at unexpectedly humble elevations. It is always so particularly easy to “compound for sins we’re most inclined to by damning those we have no mind to.” In any case, Montgomery felt that of all the men concerned in such a fight — promoters, backers, spectators — it is the actual fighter who holds the strongest and most honourable position. His conscience gave him no concern upon the subject. Endurance and courage are virtues, not vices, and brutality is, at least, better than effeminacy.
There was a little tobacco-shop at the corner of the street, where Montgomery got his bird’s-eye and also his local information, for the shopman was a garrulous soul, who knew everything about the affairs of the district. The assistant strolled down there after tea and asked, in a casual way, whether the tobacconist had ever heard of the Master of Croxley.
“Heard of him! Heard of him!” the little man could hardly articulate in his astonishment. “Why, sir, he’s the first mon o’ the district, an’ his name’s as well known in the West Riding as the winner o’ t’ Derby. But Lor,’ sir,” — here he stopped and rummaged among a heap of papers. “They are makin’ a fuss about him on account o’ his fight wi’ Ted Barton, and so the Croxley Herald has his life an’ record, an’ here it is, an’ thou canst read it for thysel’”
The sheet of the paper which he held up was a lake of print around an islet of illustration. The latter was a coarse wood-cut of a pugilist’s head and neck set in a cross-barred jersey. It was a sinister but powerful face, the face of a debauched hero, clean-shaven, strongly eye-browed, keen-eyed, with huge, aggressive jaw, and an animal dewlap beneath it. The long, obstinate cheeks ran flush up to the narrow, sinister eyes. The mighty neck came down square from the ears and curved outwards into shoulders, which had lost nothing at the hands of the local artist. Above was written “Silas Craggs,” and beneath, “The Master of Croxley.”
“Thou’ll find all about him there, sir,” said the tobacconist. “He’s a witherin’ tyke, he is, and we’re proud to have him in the county. If he hadn’t broke his leg he’d have been champion of England.”
“Broke his leg, has he?”
“Yes, and it set badly. They ca’ him owd K, behind his back, for that is how his two legs look. But his arms — well, if they was both stropped to a bench, as the sayin’ is, I wonder where the champion of England would be then.”
“I’ll take this with me,” said Montgomery; and putting the paper into his pocket he returned home.
It was not a cheering record which he read there. The whole history of the Croxley Master was given in full, his many victories, his few defeats.
Born in 1857 (said the provincial biographer), Silas Craggs, better known in sporting circles as the Master of Croxley, is now in his fortieth year.
“Hang it, I’m only twenty-three!” said Montgomery to himself, and read on more cheerfully.
Having in his youth shown a surprising aptitude for the game, he fought his way up among his comrades, until he became the recognised champion of the district and won the proud title which he still holds. Ambitious of a more than local fame, he secured a patron, and fought his first fight against Jack Barton, of Birmingham, in May 1880, at the old Loiterers’ Club. Craggs, who fought at ten stone-two at the time, had the better of fifteen rattling rounds, and gained an award on points against the Midlander. Having disposed of James Dunn, of Rotherhithe, Cameron, of Glasgow, and a youth named Fernie, he was thought so highly of by the fancy that he was matched against Ernest Willox, at that time middle-weight champion of the North of England, and defeated him in a hard-fought battle, knocking him out in the tenth round after a punishing contest. At this period it looked as if the very highest honours of the ring were within the reach of the young Yorkshireman, but he was laid upon the shelf by a most unfortunate accident. The kick of a horse broke his thigh, and for a year he was compelled to rest himself. When he returned to his work the fracture had set badly, and his activity was much impaired. It was owing to this that he was defeated in seven rounds by Willox, the man whom he had previously beaten, and afterwards by James Shaw, of London, though the latter acknowledged that he had found the toughest customer of his career. Undismayed by his reverses, the Master adapted the style of his fighting to his physical disabilities and resumed his career of victory — defeating Norton (the black), Hobby Wilson, and Levi Cohen, the latter a heavy-weight. Conceding two stone, he fought a draw with the famous Billy McQuire, and afterwards, for a purse of fifty pounds, he defeated Sam Hare at the Pelican Club, London. In 1891 a decision was given against him upon a foul when fighting a winning fight against Jim Taylor, the Australian middle weight, and so mortified was he by the decision, that he withdrew from the ring. Since then he has hardly fought at all save to accommodate any local aspirant who may wish to learn the difference between a bar-room scramble and a scientific contest. The latest of these ambitious souls comes from the Wilson coal-pits, which have undertaken to put up a stake of 100 pounds and back their local champion. There are various rumours afloat as to who their representative is to be, the name of Ted Barton being freely mentioned; but the betting, which is seven to one on the Master against any untried man, is a fair reflection of the feeling of the community.
Montgomery read it over twice, and it left him with a very serious face. No light matter this which he had undertaken; no battle with a rough-and-tumble fighter who presumed upon a local reputation. The man’s record showed that he was first-class — or nearly so. There were a few points in his favour, and he must make the most of them. There was age — twenty-three against forty. There was an old ring proverb that “Youth will be served,” but the annals of the ring offer a great number of exceptions. A hard veteran full of cool valour and ring-craft, could give ten or fifteen years and a beating to most striplings. He could not rely too much upon his advantage in age. But then there was the lameness; that must surely count for a great deal. And, lastly, there was the chance that the Master might underrate his opponent, that he might be remiss in his training, and refuse to abandon his usual way of life, if he thought that he had an easy task before him. In a man of his age and habits this seemed very possible. Montgomery prayed that it might be so. Meanwhile, if his opponent were the best man who ever jumped the ropes into a ring, his own duty was clear. He must prepare himself carefully, throw away no chance, and do the very best that he could. But he knew enough to appreciate the difference which exists in boxing, as in every sport, between the amateur and the professional. The coolness, the power of hitting, above all the capability of taking punishment, count for so much. Those specially developed, gutta-percha-like abdominal muscles of the hardened pugilist will take without flinching a blow which would leave another man writhing on the ground. Such things are not to be acquired in a week, but all that could be done in a week should be done.
The medical assistant had a good basis to start from. He was 5ft. 11 ins. — tall enough for anything on two legs, as the old ring men used to say — lithe and spare, with the activity of a panther, and a strength which had hardly yet ever found its limitations. His muscular development was finely hard, but his power came rather from that higher nerve-energy which counts for nothing upon a measuring tape. He had the well-curved nose and the widely opened eye which never yet were seen upon the face of a craven, and behind everything he had the driving force, which came from the knowledge that his whole career was at stake upon the contest. The three backers rubbed their hands when they saw him at work punching the ball in the gymnasium next morning; and Fawcett, the horse-breaker, who had written to Leeds to hedge his bets, sent a wire to cancel the letter, and to lay another fifty at the market price of seven to one.
Montgomery’s chief difficulty was to find time for his training without any interference from the doctor. His work took him a large part of the day, but as the visiting was done on foot, and considerable distances had to be traver
sed, it was a training in itself. For the rest, he punched the swinging ball and worked with the dumb-bells for an hour every morning and evening, and boxed twice a day with Ted Barton in the gymnasium, gaining as much profit as could be got from a rushing, two-handed slogger. Barton was full of admiration for his cleverness and quickness, but doubtful about his strength. Hard hitting was the feature of his own style, and he exacted it from others.
“Lord, sir, that’s a turble poor poonch for an eleven-stone man!” he would cry. “Thou wilt have to hit harder than that afore t’ Master will know that thou art theer. All, thot’s better, mon, thot’s fine!” he would add, as his opponent lifted him across the room on the end of a right counter. “Thot’s how I likes to feel ‘em. Happen thou’lt pull through yet.” He chuckled with joy when Montgomery knocked him into a corner. “Eh, mon, thou art coming along grand. Thou hast fair yarked me off my legs. Do it again, lad, do it again!”
The only part of Montgomery’s training which came within the doctor’s observation was his diet, and that puzzled him considerably.
“You will excuse my remarking, Mr. Montgomery, that you are becoming rather particular in your tastes. Such fads are not to be encouraged in one’s youth. Why do you eat toast with every meal?”
“I find that it suits me better than bread, sir.”
“It entails unnecessary work upon the cook. I observe, also, that you have turned against potatoes.”
“Yes, sir; I think that I am better without them.”
“And you no longer drink your beer?”
“No, sir.”
“These causeless whims and fancies are very much to be deprecated, Mr. Montgomery. Consider how many there are to whom these very potatoes and this very beer would be most acceptable.”
“No doubt, sir, but at present I prefer to do without them.”
They were sitting alone at lunch, and the assistant thought that it would be a good opportunity of asking leave for the day of the fight.
“I should be glad if you could let me have leave for Saturday, Dr.
Oldacre.”
“It is very inconvenient upon so busy a day.”
“I should do a double day’s work on Friday so as to leave everything in order. I should hope to be back in the evening.”
“I am afraid I cannot spare you, Mr. Montgomery.”
This was a facer. If he could not get leave he would go without it.
“You will remember, Dr. Oldacre, that when I came to you it was understood that I should have a clear day every month. I have never claimed one. But now there are reasons why I wish to have a holiday upon Saturday.”
Dr. Oldacre gave in with a very bad grace. “Of course, if you insist upon your formal rights, there is no more to be said, Mr. Montgomery, though I feel that it shows a certain indifference to my comfort and the welfare of the practice. Do you still insist?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very good. Have your way.”
The doctor was boiling over with anger, but Montgomery was a valuable assistant — steady, capable, and hardworking — and he could not afford to lose him. Even if he had been prompted to advance those class fees, for which his assistant had appealed, it would have been against his interests to do so, for he did not wish him to qualify, and he desired him to remain in his subordinate position, in which he worked so hard for so small a wage. There was something in the cool insistence of the young man, a quiet resolution in his voice as he claimed his Saturday, which aroused his curiosity.
“I have no desire to interfere unduly with your affairs, Mr. Montgomery, but were you thinking of having a day in Leeds upon Saturday?”
“No, sir.
“In the country?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are very wise. You will find a quiet day among the wild flowers a very valuable restorative. Have you thought of any particular direction?”
“I am going over Croxley way.”
“Well, there is no prettier country when once you are past the iron-works. What could be more delightful than to lie upon the Fells, basking in the sunshine, with perhaps some instructive and elevating book as your companion? I should recommend a visit to the ruins of St. Bridget’s Church, a very interesting relic of the early Norman era. By the way, there is one objection which I see to your going to Croxley on Saturday. It is upon that date, as I am informed, that that ruffianly glove fight takes place. You may find yourself molested by the blackguards whom it will attract.”
“I will take my chance of that, sir,” said the assistant.
On the Friday night, which was the last night before the fight, Montgomery’s three backers assembled in the gymnasium and inspected their man as he went through some light exercises to keep his muscles supple. He was certainly in splendid condition, his skin shining with health, and his eyes with energy and confidence. The three walked round him and exulted.
“He’s simply ripping!” said the undergraduate.
“By gad, you’ve come out of it splendidly. You’re as hard as a pebble, and fit to fight for your life.”
“Happen he’s a trifle on the fine side,” said the publican. “Runs a bit light at the loins, to my way of thinking’.”
“What weight to-day?”
“Ten stone eleven,” the assistant answered.
“That’s only three pund off in a week’s trainin’,” said the horse-breaker. “He said right when he said that he was in condition. Well, it’s fine stuff all there is of it, but I’m none so sure as there is enough.” He kept poking his finger into Montgomery as if he were one of his horses. “I hear that the Master will scale a hundred and sixty odd at the ring-side.”
“But there’s some of that which he’d like well to pull off and leave behind wi’ his shirt,” said Purvis. “I hear they’ve had a rare job to get him to drop his beer, and if it had not been for that great red-headed wench of his they’d never ha’ done it. She fair scratted the face off a potman that had brought him a gallon from t’ ‘Chequers.’ They say the hussy is his sparrin’ partner, as well as his sweetheart, and that his poor wife is just breakin’ her heart over it. Hullo, young ‘un, what do you want?”
The door of the gymnasium had opened and a lad, about sixteen, grimy and black with soot and iron, stepped into the yellow glare of the oil lamp. Ted Barton seized him by the collar.
“See here, thou yoong whelp, this is private, and we want noan o’ thy spyin’!”
“But I maun speak to Mr. Wilson.”
The young Cantab stepped forward.
“Well, my lad, what is it?”
“It’s aboot t’ fight, Mr. Wilson, sir. I wanted to tell your mon somethin’ aboot t’ Maister.”
“We’ve no time to listen to gossip, my boy. We know all about the
Master.”
“But thou doan’t, sir. Nobody knows but me and mother, and we thought as we’d like thy mon to know, sir, for we want him to fair bray him.”
“Oh, you want the Master fair brayed, do you? So do we. Well, what have you to say?”
“Is this your mon, sir?”
“Well, suppose it is?”
“Then it’s him I want to tell aboot it. T’ Maister is blind o’ the left eye.”
“Nonsense!”
“It’s true, sir. Not stone blind, but rarely fogged. He keeps it secret, but mother knows, and so do I. If thou slip him on the left side he can’t cop thee. Thou’ll find it right as I tell thee. And mark him when he sinks his right. ‘Tis his best blow, his right upper-cut. T’ Maister’s finisher, they ca’ it at t’ works. It’s a turble blow when it do come home.”
“Thank you, my boy. This is information worth having about his sight,” said Wilson. “How came you to know so much? Who are you?”
“I’m his son, sir.”
Wilson whistled.
“And who sent you to us?”
“My mother. I maun get back to her again.”
“Take this half-crown.”
“No, sir, I don’t s
eek money in comin’ here. I do it—”
“For love?” suggested the publican.
“For hate!” said the boy, and darted off into the darkness.
“Seems to me t’ red-headed wench may do him more harm than good, after all,” remarked the publican. “And now, Mr. Montgomery, sir, you’ve done enough for this evenin’, an’ a nine-hours’ sleep is the best trainin’ before a battle. Happen this time to-morrow night you’ll be safe back again with your 100 pound in your pocket.”
II
Work was struck at one o’clock at the coal-pits and the iron-works, and the fight was arranged for three. From the Croxley Furnaces, from Wilson’s Coal-pits, from the Heartsease Mine, from the Dodd Mills, from the Leverworth Smelters the workmen came trooping, each with his fox-terrier or his lurcher at his heels. Warped with labour and twisted by toil, bent double by week-long work in the cramped coal galleries or half-blinded with years spent in front of white-hot fluid metal, these men still gilded their harsh and hopeless lives by their devotion to sport. It was their one relief, the only thing which could distract their minds from sordid surroundings, and give them an interest beyond the blackened circle which enclosed them. Literature, art, science, all these things were beyond their horizon; but the race, the football match, the cricket, the fight, these were things which they could understand, which they could speculate upon in advance and comment upon afterwards. Sometimes brutal, sometimes grotesque, the love of sport is still one of the great agencies which make for the happiness of our people. It lies very deeply in the springs of our nature, and when it has been educated out, a higher, more refined nature may be left, but it will not be of that robust British type which has left its mark so deeply on the world. Every one of these raddled workers, slouching with his dog at his heels to see something of the fight, was a true unit of his race.
Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) Page 734
