The Definite Object Page 10

  Behold them facing each other, the brown-skinned fighting man wise in ringcraft and champion of a hundred fights, and the white-fleshed athlete, each alike clean and bright of eye, light-poised of foot, quivering for swift action, while the Old Un looks needfully from one to the other, watch in one bony hand, the other upraised.

  “Get ready!” he croaked. “Go!”

  Comes immediately a quick, light tread of rubber-soled feet and the flash of white arms as they circle about and about, feinting, watchful and wary. Twice Ravenslee’s fist shoots out and twice is blocked by Joe’s open glove, and once he ducks a vicious swing and lands a half-arm jolt that makes Joe grin and stagger, whereat the Old Un, standing upon his chair, hugs himself in an ecstasy, and forgetful of such small matters as five-dollar bills, urges, prays, beseeches, and implores the Guv to “wallop the blighter on the p’int, to stab ‘im on the mark, and to jolt ‘im in the kidney-pit.”

  “Go it, Guv!” he shrieked, “go it! In an’ out again, that’s it—Gorramighty, I never see sich speed. Oh, keep at ‘im, Guv—make ‘im cover up—sock it into ‘im, Guv! Ho, lumme, what footwork—you’re as quick as lightweights—oh, ‘appy, ‘appy day! Go to it, both on ye!”

  And “to it” they went, with jabs and jolts, hooks and swings, with cunning feints and lightning counters until the place echoed and reechoed to the swift tramp of feet and dull thudding of blows, while the Old Un, hugging himself in long, bony arms, chuckled and choked and rocked himself to and fro in an ecstasy; moreover, when Joe, uttering a grunt, reeled back against the ropes, the Old Un must needs shriek and dance and crow with delight until, bethinking him of his duty, he checked his excitement, seated himself in the armchair again, and announced: “Time! End o’ round one.”

  And it is to be noticed that as they sit down to take their two minutes’ rest, neither Ravenslee nor Joe, for all their exertions, seem unduly distressed in their breathing.

  “Sir,” says Joe, looking his pupil over, “you’re uncommon quick on your pins; never knowed a quicker—did you, Old Un?”

  “No, me lad—never in all me days!”

  “An’ you’ve sure-ly got a punch, sir. Ain’t ‘e, Old Un?”

  “Like a perishin’ triphammer!” nodded the Old Un. “Likewise, sir, you’ve a wonderful judgment o’ distance—but, sir, you need experience!”

  “That’s what I’m after, Joe.”

  “And you take too many chances; you ain’t larned caution yet.”

  “That you must teach me, Joe.”

  “Which I surely will, sir. In the next round, subject to no objection, I propose to knock ye down, sir.”

  “Which means two dollars fifty for each on us, Joe—mind that,” added the Old Un.

  “So fight more cautious, sir, do,” pleaded Joe, “and—look out.”

  “Time!” croaked the Old Un. “Round two! And Guv, look out for yer p’int, cover yer mark, an’ keep a heye on yer kidney-pit!”

  Once again they faced each other, but this time it was Joe who circled quick and catlike, massive shoulders bowed, knees bent, craggy chin grim and firm-set, but blue eyes serene and mild as ever. A moment’s silent sparring, a quick tread of feet, and Joe feints Ravenslee into an opening, swings for his chin, misses by an inch, and ducking a vicious counter, drives home a smashing body-blow and, staggering weakly, Ravenslee goes down full length.

  “Shook ye up a bit, sir?” enquired Joe, running up with hands outstretched, “take a rest, now do, sir.”

  “No, no,” answered Ravenslee, springing to his feet, “the Old Un hasn’t called ‘Time’ yet.”

  “Not me!” piped the old man, “not bloomin’ likely! Go to it, both on ye—mind, that’s two-fifty for me, Joe!”

  What need is there to tell the numerous feints, the lightning shifts, the different tricks of in-fighting and all the cunning strategy and ringcraft that Joe brought to bear and carefully explained between rounds? Suffice it that at the end of a certain fierce “mix up”, as Ravenslee sat outstretched and panting, the white flesh of arms and broad chest discovered many livid marks and patches that told their tale; also one elbow was grazed and bleeding, and one knee showed signs of contact with the floor.

  “Joe,” said he, when his wind was somewhat recovered, “that makes it thirty dollars I owe you, I think?”

  “Why, sir,” said Joe, who also showed some slight signs of wear, but whose breathing was soft and regular, “why, sir, you couldn’t call that last one a real knockdown—”

  “You ‘m a liar, Joe, a liar!” cried the Old Un. “Blimy, Guv, Joe’s a-tellin’ you crackers, s’ help me—your ‘ands touched the floor, didn’t they?”

  “And my knees, too,” nodded Ravenslee, “also my elbow—no, that was last time or the time before.”

  “Well, then, tell this lying Joe-lad o’ mine as ‘e surely did knock ye down. Lord, Joe!” cried the Old Un, waxing pathetic, “‘ow can ye go takin’ money from a pore old cove like I be. Joe, I blushes for ye—an’—Time, Time there, both on ye!”

  “But we don’t want any more, do we, sir?” enquired Joe.

  “Why, yes, I think I can go another round or so.”

  “There y’ are, Joe, the Guv’s surely a game cove. So get at it, me lad, an’ try an’ knock it up to fifty dollars—’arves, Joe, mind!”

  “But, sir,” began Joe, eyeing the livid blotches on Ravenslee’s white skin, “don’t ye think—”

  “Time—oh, Time, Time!” shrieked the Old Un. Whereupon Ravenslee sprang to the centre of the ring, and once again the air resounded with tramp of feet and pant of breath. Twice Ravenslee staggers beneath Joe’s mighty left, but watchful ever and having learned much, Ravenslee keeps away, biding his time—ducks a swing, sidesteps a drive, and blocking a vicious hook—smacks home his long left to Joe’s ribs, rocks him with a swinging uppercut, drives in a lightning left and right, and Joe goes down with a crash.

  Even while the Old Un stared in wide-eyed, gaping amaze, Joe was on his feet again, serene and calm as ever, only his great chest laboured somewhat, but Ravenslee shook his head.

  “I guess that’ll be about enough, Joe,” said he.

  “Guv,” cried the Old Un, seizing Ravenslee’s right hand, boxing glove and all, and shaking it to and fro, “you’re a credit to us, you do us bloomin’ proud—strike me pink, ye do! ‘Ere ‘s Joe ‘ammered you an’ ‘ammered you—look at your bloomin’ chest—lumme! ‘Ere ‘s Joe been knockin’ ye down an’ knockin’ ye down, an’ you comin’ up smilin’ for more an’ gettin’ it—’ere’s Joe been a-poundin’ of ye all over the ring, yet you can finish strong an’ speedy enough to put Joe down—blimy, Guv, you’re a wonder an’ no error!”

  “I don’t think Joe fought his hardest, Old Un.”

  “If ‘e didn’t,” cried the old man, “I’ll punch ‘im on the nose so ‘e won’t never smell nothink no more.”

  “Sir,” said Joe, “in the first round p’raps I did go a bit easylike, but arter that I came at you as ‘ard an’ ‘eavy as I could. I ‘it you where an’ ‘ow I could, barrin’ your face.”

  “I hope I shall soon be good enough for you to go for my face as well, Joe.”

  “But, sir—if I give you a black eye—”

  “How will—say, ten dollars do?”

  “Ten dollars! For blacking your eye, sir?”

  “Lumme, Joe!” cried the Old Un, “get back into the ring and black ‘em both—”

  “Shut up!” said Joe, scowling down into the Old Un’s eager face, “you ‘eartless old bloodsucker, you!”

  “Bloodsucker!” screamed the old man, “w’ot, me? I’ll punch you on the ear-‘ole, Joe, so’s you never ‘ear nothin’ no more.”

  “Are you on, Joe?” asked Ravenslee, while the Old Un, swearing softly, unlaced his gloves.

  “But, crumbs, sir—axin’ your pardon, things’ll come a bit expensive, won’t they? Y’ see—”

  “So much the better, ye blighted perisher!” snarled the Old Un, “an’ don’t forget as
the Guv owes you thirty dollars a’ready—an’ ‘arves, mind.”

  “Stow it, you old bag o’ wickedness—”

  “Bag o’—” the Old Un let fall the boxing gloves and turning on Joe, reached up and shook a feeble old fist under the champion’s massive chin. “Look at this, me lad—look at this!” he croaked. “Some day I shall ketch you sich a perishin’ punch as’ll double ye up till kingdom come, me lad, and—Lord, the Guv’s countin’ out our money—”

  “Thirty of ‘em, Joe,” said Ravenslee, holding out a wad of bills.

  “Why, sir,” said Joe, backing away, “axing yer pardon, but I’d rayther not—you give me such uncommon good wages, sir, and a bonus every race we run, win or lose—so, sir, I—I’d rayther not—”

  “Not?” cried the Old Un, “not take money as is ‘arf mine—Oh, kick ‘im, somebody—kick ‘im! Pound ‘im for a pigeon-‘earted perishin’ pork pig—”

  “That’ll be no sugar in your tea t’night, old viciousness! But, sir, I’d rayther not—”

  “Don’t ‘eed ‘im, Guv—don’t ‘eed the flappin’ flounder. If ‘e wont obleege ye in a little matter like thirty dollars, I will—I’ll always obleege you—”

  “That’s enough from you, old tombstones.”

  “Tombstones!” hissed the Old Un, scowling darkly and squaring his trembling fists, “all right, me lad, ‘ere ‘s where I ketch ye one as’ll flatten ye out till the day o’ doom—”

  Hereupon Joe caught him above the elbows, and lifting him in mighty hands that yet were gentle, seated the snarling old fellow in the armchair.

  “Old Un,” said he, shaking his finger, “if ye give me any more of it—off t’ bed I take ye without any tea at all!” The Old Un, cowering beneath that portentous finger, swore plaintively and promptly subsided.

  “And now,” said Ravenslee, thrusting the money into Joe’s reluctant hand, “when I make a bargain, I generally keep it. I wish all my money had been spent to such good purpose.”

  “What about me?” whined the old man humbly, “don’t I get none, Joe-lad?”

  “Not a cent, you old rasper!”

  “Blimy, Guv, you won’t forget a old cove as ‘ud shed ‘is best blood for ye?”

  “The Guv’nor don’t want yer blood, old skin-and-bones. And now, come on, sir—”

  “Stay a minute, Joe, the Old Un generally keeps time for us when we spar rounds.”

  “That I do, Guv,” cried the old man, “an’ give ye advice worth its weight in solid gold; you owe me a lot, s’ ‘elp me.”

  “About how much?”

  “Well, Guv, I ain’t got me ledger-book ‘andy, but roughly speakin’ I should say about five or six ‘undred dollars. But seein’ you ‘s you an’ I’m me—a old man true-‘earted as never crossed nobody—let’s say—fifteen dollars.”

  “Why, you old—thievin’—vagabone!” gasped Joe, as Ravenslee gravely handed over the money.

  “Vagabone yourself!” said the Old Un, counting the bills over in trembling fingers. “The Guv wants a bath—take ‘im away—’ook it, d’j ‘ear?”

  “Has Patterson got everything ready, Joe?” enquired Ravenslee, taking up his clothes.

  “No, sir,” mumbled Joe, “but I’ll have ye bath ready in a jiffy, sir.”

  “But where’s Patterson?”

  “Well, ‘e—’e ‘s out, sir.”

  “And the footmen?”

  “They’re out, sir.”

  “Oh! And the housekeeper—er—what’s her name—Mrs. Smythe?”

  “Gone to call on her relations, sir.”

  “Ah! And the maids?”

  “Mrs. Smythe give ‘em leave of habsence, sir. Y’ see, sir,” said Joe apologetically, “you’re ‘ere so seldom, sir.”

  “My servants are not exactly—er—worked to death, Joe?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Manage to look after themselves quite well?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It seems I need some one to look after them—and me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “A woman, Joe—one I can trust and honour and—what d’ ye think?”

  “I think—er—yes, sir.”

  “Well—what do you suggest?”

  “Marry her, sir.”

  “Joe, that’s a great idea! Shake hands! I surely will marry her—at once—if she’ll have me.”

  “She’ll have you, sir.”

  “Do you really think she will, Joe?”

  “I’m dead certain, sir.”

  “Joe, shake again. I’ll speak to her when she comes home. To-morrow’s Saturday, isn’t it?”

  “As ever was, sir.”

  “Then, Joe—wish me luck; I’ll ask her—to-morrow!”

  CHAPTER XVI

  OF THE FIRST AND SECOND PERSONS, SINGULAR NUMBER

  It was Saturday morning, and Hermione was making a pie and looking uncommonly handsome about it and altogether feminine and adorable; at least, so Ravenslee thought, as he watched her bending above the pastry board, her round, white arms bared to each dimpled elbow, and the rebellious curl wantoning at her temple as usual.

  “But why kidneys, my dear?” demanded Mrs. Trapes, glancing up from the potatoes she was peeling. “Kidneys is rose again; kidneys is always risin’, it seems to me. If you must have pie, why not good, plain beefsteak? It’s jest as fillin’ an’ cheaper, my dear—so why an’ wherefore kidneys?”

  “Arthur likes them, and he’ll be hungry when he comes in—”

  “Hungry,” snorted Mrs. Trapes, “that b’y’s been hungry ever since he drawed the breath o’ life. How’s he gettin’ on with his new job?”

  “Oh, splendidly!” cried Hermione, flushing with sisterly pride, “they’ve promised him a raise next month.”

  “What, already?” exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, cutting viciously into a potato. “If he don’t watch out, they’ll be makin’ him a partner next.”

  “Oh, Ann, I wish you were not quite so—so hard on him!” sighed Hermione. “Remember, he’s only a boy!”

  “You were a woman at his age, earning enough t’ keep ye both—but there! I don’t mean t’ be hard, Hermy; anyway, a man’s never much good till he’s growed up, and then only because some woman teaches him how t’ be.”

  “What do you say to that, Mr. Geoffrey?” enquired Hermione, pausing, flour-dredger in hand, to glance at him slily under her brows.

  “I think Mrs. Trapes is a wonderful woman,” he answered.

  “Ah, now, Mr. Geoffrey, quit y’r jollying,” said Mrs. Trapes, smiling at the potato.

  “Mrs. Trapes has taught me much wisdom already and, among other things, that I shall never be or do anything worth the while without the aid of a woman—”

  “Lord, Mr. Geoffrey, I never remember sayin’ no sich thing!”

  “Not in so many words, perhaps, but you implied it, Mrs. Trapes.”

  “H’m!” said Mrs. Trapes dubiously.

  “Consequently, I mean to ask that woman—on the very first opportunity, Miss Hermione.” Seeing that Hermione was silent, all her attention being centred in the dough her white fists were kneading, Mrs. Trapes spoke instead.

  “D’ ye mean as you want some one t’ look after you—to sew an’ cook an’ wash an’ sew buttons on for ye—I know the sort!”

  “I certainly do, and—”

  “Ah, it’s a slave you want, Mr. Geoffrey, and peanut men don’t have slaves—not unless they marries ‘em, and a woman as would marry a peanut man has only herself t’ blame—peanuts!”

  Hermione laughed, reached for the rolling-pin, and immediately fell to work with it, her head stooped rather lower than was necessary. As for Ravenslee, he lounged in his chair, watching the play of those round, white arms.

  “But why the kidneys, Hermy? You’ve got to cut out luxuries now, my dear—we all have, I guess; it’ll be dry bread next, I reckon.”

  “Why so?” enquired Ravenslee lazily.

  “Why?” cried Mrs. Trapes bitterly, “I’ll tell you why—
because me an’ Hermy an’ every one else is bein’ squeezed dry t’ fill the pockets of a thing as calls itself a man—a thievin’ beast on two legs as is suckin’ our blood, gnawin’ our flesh, grindin’ the life out of us—a great fat man as is treadin’ us down under his great boots, down an’ down to slavery—death—an’ worse—it’s such men as him as keeps the flames of hell goin’—fat frizzles well, an’ so will Mulligan, I hope!”

  “Mulligan?” enquired Ravenslee.

  “He’s raised the rents on us, Mr. Geoffrey,” sighed Hermione.

  “Raised the rents?” said Ravenslee, forgetting to lounge.

  “Sure!” nodded Mrs. Trapes grimly. “I guess he thinks we live too easy an’ luxoorious, so he’s boosted it up a dollar per. A dollar a week don’t sound a whole lot, p’raps, but it sure takes some gettin’; folks expects a deal o’ scrubbin’ an’ sewin’ an’ slavin’ for a dollar—yes, sir.”

  “We shall have to work a little harder, that’s all, Ann dear.”

  “Harder? I guess you work hard enough for two—an’ who gets the benefit? Why, Mulligan does. Oh, it’s a great comfort t’ remember the flames of hell, sometimes. Lord, when I think how we have t’ slave t’ make enough t’ live—”

  “There are others worse than us, Ann.”

  “Why, yes, there’s poor Mrs. Finlay; she’s got to go, an’ her husband paralysed! There’s little Mrs. Bowker sewed herself pretty well blind t’ keep her home together—she’s got to go. There’s Mrs. Sims with all those children, and the—but there, who cares for the likes o’ them—who cares, eh, Mr. Geoffrey? An’ what might you be dreamin’ over this time?” she enquired, eyeing Ravenslee’s long figure a little contemptuously, for he had fallen to lounging again, sleepy eyes half closed.

  “I was thinking what a lot of interest we might find in this busy world—if we only would take the trouble to look for it!” he answered. “The fool who complains that his life is empty is blind and deaf and—damnably thick—er—pardon me, I—er nearly got excited.”