The Wages of Virtue Part 18

"_That!_" replied the Englishman, and therewith smote the fat Austrian a most tremendous smack across his heavy blue jowl with the open hand, sending him staggering several yards. Without paying further attention to the great man's amba.s.sador, he strode in the direction of the great man himself, with blazing eyes and clenched jaw.

"You want me, do you?" he shouted at the astonished Luigi, who was rising open-mouthed from his bed; and, putting the whole weight of his body behind the blow, drove most skilfully and scientifically straight at the point of his jaw.

It must be confessed that the Italian was taken unawares, and in the very act of getting up, so that his hands were down, and he was neither standing nor sitting.

He was down and out, and lay across his bed stunned and motionless.

Into the perfect silence of the _chambree_ fell the voice of the Bucking Bronco. Solemnly he counted from one to ten, and then with a shout of "OUT!" threw his kepi to the roof and roared "_Hurrah!_" repeatedly.

"Il ira loin," remarked Monsieur Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat, viewing Rupert's handiwork with experienced, professional eye.

Exclamatory oaths went up in all the languages of Europe.

"Il a fait de bon boulet," remarked a grinning greybeard known as "Tant-de-Soif" to the astounded and almost awe-stricken crowd.

But le Legionnaire Jean Boule looked ahead.

"You've made two bad enemies, my boy, I'm afraid.... What about when he comes round?"

"I'll give him some more, if I can," replied Rupert. "Don't interfere, anyhow."

"Shake, sonny," said the Bucking Bronco solemnly. "An' look at hyar.

Let's interfere, to the extent o' makin' thet cunning coyote fight down in the squar'.... Yew won't hev no chance--so don't opine yew will--but yew'll hev' more chance than yew will right hyar.... Yew want s.p.a.ce when you roughhouses with Loojey. Once he gits a holt on yew--yure monica's up. Savvy?"

"Thanks," replied the Englishman. "Right-ho! If he won't fight downstairs, tell him he can take the three of us."

"Fower, matey. Us fower Henglishmen agin' 'im an' 'is 'ole bleedin'

gang," put in 'Erb. "'E's a bloke as wants takin' dahn a peg.... Too free wiv' hisself.... Chucks 'is weight abaht too much.... An' I'll tell yer wot, c.o.c.ky. Keep a heye on that cove as you giv' a smack in the chops."

"Sure thing," agreed the Bucking Bronco, and turned to the Belgian who stood ruefully holding his face and looking as venomous as a broken-backed cobra, added: "Yew look at hyar, Mounseer Malvin, my lad.

Don't yew git handlin' yure Rosalie[#] any dark night. Yew try ter _zigouiller_[#] my pal Rupert, an' I'll draw yure innards up through yure mouth till yew look like half a pound of dumplin' on the end of half a yard of macaroni. Twiggez vous? _Je tirerai vos gueutes a travers votre bouche jusqu'a vous resemblez un demi-livre de ponding au bout d'un demi-yard de macaroni_.... Got it? ..."

[#] Bayonet.

[#] To bayonet.

Rivoli twitched, stirred, and groaned. It was interesting to note that none of his clients and henchmen offered any a.s.sistance. The sceptre of the great man swayed in his hand. Were he beaten, those whom he ruled by fear, rather than by bribery, would fall upon him like a pack of wolves. The hands of Monsieur Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat twitched and he licked his lips.

"_Je m'en souviendrai_," he murmured.

Rivoli sat up.

"Donna e Madonna!" he said. "Corpo di Bacco!" and gazed around. "What has happened?..." and then he remembered. "A minute," he said. "Wait but a minute--and then bring him to me."

Obedience and acquiescence awoke in the bosoms of his supporters. The great Luigi was alive and on his throne again. The Greek pa.s.sed him a mug of water.

"Yes, wait but a moment, and then just hand him to me.... One of you might go over to the hospital and say a bed will be wanted shortly," he added. "And another of you might look up old Jules Latour down at the cemetery and tell him to start another grave."

"You're coming to me, for a change, Rivoli," cut in Rupert contemptuously. "You're going to fight me down below. There's going to be a ring, and fair play. Will you come now, or will you wait till to-morrow? I can wait if you feel shaken."

"Plug the ugly skunk while he's rattled, Bub," advised the American, and turning to the Italian added, "Sure thing, Loojey. Ef yew ain't hed enuff yew kin tote downstairs and hev' a five-bunch frame-up with the b'y. Ef yew start rough-housin' up hyar, I'll take a hand too. I would anyhaow, only the b'y wants yew all to himself.... Greedy young punk."

"I will kill him and eat him _now_," said the Italian rising magnificently. Apparently his splendid const.i.tution and physique had triumphed completely, and it was as though the blow had not been struck.

"Come on, b'ys," yelped the American, "an' ef thet Dago don't fight as square as he knows haow, I'll pull his lower jaw off his face."

In a moment the room was empty, except for Mikhail Kyrilovitch, who sat on the edge of his brother's bed and shuddered.

Clattering down the stairs and gathering numbers as it went, the party made for the broad s.p.a.ce, or pa.s.sage, between high walls near the back entrance of the Company's _caserne_, a safe and secluded spot for fights. As they went along, John Bull gave good advice to his young friend.

"Remember he's a wrestler and a savate man," he said, "and that public opinion here recognises the use of both in a fight--so you can expect him to clinch and kick as well as b.u.t.t."

"Right-o!" said Rupert.

A large ring was formed by the rapidly growing crowd of spectators, a ring, into the middle of which the Bucking Bronco stepped to declare that he would rearrange the features, as well as the ideas, of any supporter of Luigi Rivoli who in any way interfered with the fight.

The two combatants stripped to the waist and faced each other. It was a pleasant surprise to John Bull to notice that his friend looked bigger "peeled," than he did when dressed. (It is a good test of muscular development.) Obviously the youth was in the pink of condition and had systematically developed his muscles. But for the presence of Rivoli, the arms and torso of the Englishman would have evoked admiring comments. As it was, the gigantic figure of the Italian dwarfed him, for he looked what he was--a professional Strong Man whose stock-in-trade was his enormous muscles and their mighty strength....

It was not so much a contrast between David and Goliath as between Apollo and Hercules.

The Italian a.s.sumed his favourite wrestling att.i.tude with open hands advanced; the Englishman, the position of boxing.

The two faced each other amidst the perfect silence of the large throng.

As, to the credit of human nature, is always the case, the sentiment of the crowd was in favour of the weaker party. No one supposed for a moment that the recruit would win, but he was a "dark horse," and English--of a nation proverbially dogged and addicted to _la boxe_....

He might perhaps be merely maimed and not killed.... For a full minute the antagonists hung motionless, eyeing each other warily. Suddenly the Italian swiftly advanced his left foot and made a lightning grab with his left hand at the Englishman's neck. The latter ducked; the great arm swung, harmless, above his head, and two sharp smacks rang out like pistol-shots as the Englishman planted a left and right with terrific force upon the Italian's ribs. Rivoli's gasp was almost as audible as the blows. He sprang back, breathing heavily.

John Bull moistened his Lips and thanked G.o.d. Rupert circled round his opponent, sparring for an opening. Slowly ... slowly ... almost imperceptibly, the Italian's head and shoulders bent further and further back. What the devil was he doing?--wondered the Englishman--getting his head out of danger? Certainly his jaw was handsomely swollen....

Anyhow he was exposing his mark, the spot where the ribs divide. If he could get a "right" in there, with all his weight and strength, Il Signor Luigi Rivoli would have to look to himself in the ensuing seconds. Rupert made a spring. As he did so, the Italian's body turned sideways and leant over until almost parallel with the ground, as his right knee drew up to his chest and his right foot shot out with the force of a horse's kick. It caught the advancing Englishman squarely on the mouth, and sent him flying head over heels like a shot rabbit. The Italian darted forward--and so did the Bucking Bronco.

"a.s.sez!" he shouted. "Let him get up." At this point his Legion French failed him, and he added in his own vernacular, "Ef yew think yu're gwine ter kick him while he's down, yew've got another think comin', Loojey Rivoli," and barred his path.

John Bull raised Rupert's head on to his knee. He was senseless and bleeding from mouth and nose.

Pushing his way through the ring, came 'Erb, a mug of water in one hand, a towel in the other. Filling his mouth with water, he ejected a fine spray over Rupert's face and chest, and then, taking the towel by two corners of a long side, flapped it mightily over the prostrate man.

The latter opened his eyes, sat up, and spat out a tooth.

"d.a.m.ned kicking cad," he remarked, on collecting his scattered wits and faculties.

"No Queensberry rules here, old chap," said John Bull.

"You do the sime fer 'im, matey. Kick 'is bleedin' faice in.... W'y carn't 'e fight like a man, the dirty furriner?" and turning from his ministrations to where the great Luigi received the congratulations of his admiring supporters, he bawled with the full strength of his lungs: "Yah! you dirty furriner!" and crowned the taunt by putting his fingers to his nose and emitting a bellowing _Boo-oo-oo!_ of incredibly bull-like realism. "If I wasn't yer second, matey, I'd go an' kick 'im in the stummick naow, I would," he muttered, resuming his labour of love.

Rupert struggled to his feet.

"Give me the mug," he said to 'Erb, and washed out his mouth. "How long 'time' is observed on these occasions?" he asked of John Bull.