Snake and Sword Part 29

"I'll watch it, me lad," returned Sergeant O'Malley, wondering whether Dam were fool or knave.

"Trooper Matthewson, get ready," called the Corporal, and Dam stepped into the ring, saluted, and faced the Sergeant.

A brief direction and caution, the usual preliminary, and the word--

"On guard--_Play_" and Dam was parrying a series of the quickest cuts he had ever met. The Sergeant's sword flickered like the tongue of a--_Snake_. Yes--of a _Snake_! and even as Dam's hand dropped limp and nerveless, the Sergeant's sword fell with a dull heavy thud on his head-guard. The stroke would have split Dam's head right neatly, in actual fighting.

"Stop," shouted the referee. "Point to Red."

"On guard--_Play_"

But if the Sergeant's sword flickered like the tongue of a snake--why then Dam must be fighting the Snake. _Fighting the Snake_ and in another second the referee again cried "Stop!" And added, "Don't fight savage, White, or I'll disqualify you".

"I'm awf'ly sorry," said Dam, "I thought I was fighting the Sn----"

"Hold your tongue, and don't argue," replied the referee sternly.

"On Guard--_Play_."

Ere the Sergeant could move his sword from its upward-inclined position Dam's blade dropped to its hilt, shot in over it, and as the Sergeant raised his forearm in guard, flashed beneath it and bent on his breast.

"Stop," cried the referee. "Point to White. Double"--two marks being then awarded for the thrust hit, and one for the cut.

"On guard--_Play_."

Absolutely the same thing happened again within the next half-second, and Dam had won the British Troops' Sword _v_. Sword Dismounted, in addition to being in for the finals in Tent-pegging, Sword _v_. Sword Mounted, Jumping (Individual and By Sections), Sword _v_. Lance, and Tug-of-War.

"Now jest keep orf it, Matthewson, and sweep the bloomin' board,"

urged Troop-Sergeant-Major Scoles as Dam removed his fencing-jacket, preparatory to returning to barracks. "You be Best Man-at-arms in the Division and win everythink that's open to British Troops Mounted, and git the 'Eavy-Weight Championship from the Gorilla--an' there'll be some talk about promotion for yer, me lad."

"Thank you, Sergeant," replied Dam. "I am a total abstainer."

"Yah! _Chuck_ it," observed the Sergeant-Major.

_Of no interest to Women nor modern civilized Men_.

The long-antic.i.p.ated hour had struck, the great moment had arrived, and (literally) thousands of British soldiers sat in a state of expectant thrill and excited interest, awaiting the appearance of the Gorilla (Corporal Dowdall of the 111th Battery, Royal Garrison Artillery--fourteen stone twelve) and Trooper Matthewson (Queen's Greys--fourteen stone) who were to fight for the Elliott Belt, the Motipur Cup, and the Heavy-Weight Championship of India.

The Boxing Tournament had lasted for a week and had been a huge success. Now came the _piece de resistance, the_ fight of the Meeting, the event for which special trains had brought hundreds of civilians and soldiers from neighbouring and distant cantonments. Bombay herself sent a crowded train-load, and it was said that a, by no means small, contingent had come from Madras. Certainly more than one sporting patron of the Great Sport, the n.o.ble Art, the Manly Game, had travelled from far Calcutta. So well-established was the fame of the great Gorilla, and so widely published the rumour that the Queen's Greys had a prodigy who'd lower his flag in ten rounds--or less.

A great square of the gra.s.sy plain above Motipur had been enclosed by a high canvas wall, and around a twenty-four foot raised "ring" (which was square) seating accommodation for four thousand spectators had been provided. The front rows consisted of arm-chairs, sofas, and drawing-room settees (from the wonderful stock of Mr. Dadabhoy Pochajee Furniturewallah of the Sudder Bazaar) for the officers and leading civilians of Motipur, and such other visitors as chose to purchase the highly priced reserved-seat tickets.

Not only was every seat in the vast enclosure occupied, but every square inch of standing-room, by the time the combatants entered the arena.

A few dark faces were to be seen (Native Officers of the pultans[23]

and rissal[24] of the Motipur Brigade), and the idea occurred to not a few that it was a pity the proceedings could not be witnessed by every Indian in India. It would do them good in more ways than one.

Although a large number of the enormously preponderating military spectators were in the khaki kit so admirable for work (and so depressing, unsw.a.n.ksome and anti-enlistment for play, or rather for walking-out and leisure), the experienced eye could see that almost every corps in India furnished contingents to the gathering. Lancers, dragoons, hussars, artillery, riflemen, Highlanders, supply and transport, infantry of a score of regiments, and, rare sight away from the Ports, a small party of Man-o'-War's-men in white duck, blue collars, and straw hats (huge, solemn-faced men who jested with grimmest seriousness of mien and insulted each other outrageously).

Officers in scarlet, in dark blue, in black and cherry colour, in fawn and cherry colour, in pale blue and silver, in almost every combination of colours, showed that the commissioned ranks of the British and Indian Services were well represented, horse, foot, guns, engineers, doctors, and veterinary surgeons--every rank and every branch. On two sides of the roped ring, with its padded posts, sat the judges, boxing Captains both, who had won distinction at Aldershot and in many a local tournament. On another side sat the referee, _ex_-Public-Schools Champion, Aldershot Light-Weight Champion, and, admittedly, the best boxer of his weight among the officers of the British Army. Beside him sat the time-keeper. Overhead a circle of large incandescent lamps made the scene as bright as day.

"Well, d'you take it?" asked Seaman Jones of Seaman Smith. "Better strike while the grog's 'ot. A double-p.r.i.c.k o' baccy and a gallon o'

four-'arf, evens, on the Griller. I ain't never 'eard o' the Griller till we come 'ere, and I never 'eard o' t'other bloke neether--but I 'olds by the Griller, cos of 'is name and I backs me fancy afore I sees 'em.--Loser to 'elp the winner with the gallon."

"Done, Bill," replied the challenged promptly, on hearing the last condition. (He could drink as fast as Bill if he lost, and he could borrer on the baccy till it was wore out.) "Got that bloomin'

'igh-falutin' lar-de-dar giddy baccy-pouch and yaller baccy you inwested in at Bombay?" he asked. "Yus, 'Enery," replied William, diving deeply for it.

"Then push it 'ere, an' likewise them bloomin' 'igh-falutin'

lar-de-dar giddy f.a.g-papers you fumble wiv'. Blimey! ain't a honest clay good enough for yer now? I knows wots the matter wiv _you_, Billy Jones! You've got a weather-heye on the Quarter Deck you 'ave. You fink you're agoin' to be a blighted perishin' orficer you do! Yus, you flat-footed matlot--not even a blasted tiffy you ain't, and you buys a blighted baccy-pouch and yaller baccy and f.a.g-pipers, like a Snottie, an' reckons you's on the 'igh road to be a bloomin' Winnie Lloyd Gorgeous Orficer. 'And 'em 'ere--fore I'm sick. Lootenant,--Gunnery Jack,--Number One,--Commerdore!"

"Parding me, 'Enery Smiff," returned William Jones with quiet dignity.

"In consequents o' wot you said, an' more in consequents o' yore clumsy fat fingers not been used to 'andlin' dellikit objex, and most in consequents o' yore been a most ontrustable thief, I will perceed to roll you a f.a.g meself, me been 'ighly competent so fer to do. Not but wot a f.a.g'll look most outer place in _your_ silly great ugly faice."

The other sailor watched the speaker in cold contempt as he prepared a distinctly exiguous, ill-fed cigarette.

"Harthur Handrews," he said, turning to his other neighbour, "'Ave yew 'appened to see the Master Sail-maker or any of 'is mermydiuns 'ere-abahts, by any chawnst?"

"Nope. 'An don' want. Don' wan' see nothink to remind me o'

Ther blue, ther fresh, ther _hever_ free, Ther blarsted, beastly, boundin' sea.

Not even your distressin' face and dirty norticle apparile. Why do you arksk sich silly questchings?"

"w.i.l.l.yerm Jones is amakin' a needle for 'im."

"As 'ow?"

"Wiv a f.a.g-paper an' a thread o' yaller baccy. 'E's makin' a bloomin'

needle," and with a sudden grab he possessed himself of the pouch, papers, and finished product of Seaman Jones's labours and generosity.

Having p.r.i.c.ked himself severely and painfully with the alleged cigarette, he howled with pain, cast it from him, proceeded to stick two papers together and to make an uncommonly stout, well-nourished, and bounteous cigarette.

"I 'fought I offered you to make yourself a cigarette, 'Enery,"

observed the astounded owner of the _materia nicotina_.

"I grabbed for to make myself a cigarette, w.i.l.l.yerm," was the pedantically correct restatement of Henry.

"Then why go for to try an' mannyfacter a bloomin' banana?" asked the indignant victim, whose further remarks were drowned in the roars of applause which greeted the appearance from the dressing-tents of the Champion and the Challenger.

Dam and Corporal Dowdall entered the ring from opposite corners, seated themselves in the chairs provided for them, and submitted themselves to the ministrations of their respective seconds.

Trooper Herbert Hawker violently chafed Dam's legs, Trooper Bear his arms and chest, while Trooper Goate struggled to force a pair of new boxing-gloves upon his hands, which were scientifically bandaged around knuckles, back, and wrist, against untimely dislocations and sprains.

Clean water was poured into the bowls which stood behind each chair, and fresh resin was sprinkled over the canvas-covered boards of the Ring.

Men whose favourite "carried their money" (and each carried a good deal) anxiously studied that favourite's opponent.

The Queen's Greys beheld a gorilla indeed, a vast, square, long-armed hairy monster, with the true pugilist face and head.