LOST AND WON.
“Now, mind ye,” said Dick, in a loud voice, “I’m goin’ to tell ye how the play mun be. It shan’t last o’er an hour; and, won or drawn, it ends then. Every ten minutes I cry “Over,” unless the play ‘s hot at the time, and then the players take five minutes’ rest An’ if one tak’s a skelp o’ the other, and when time’s ca’d he can’t be up and to’t, he’s bet; but an’ if it’s a banger over f head, en he’s floor’d, he has ten minutes’ rest, in place of five, to cum till himseF. En noo, is beath pleased?”
“Ay!” cried Sinfield.
“All right!” said William.
“Weel, then, blitely lads, lig intul to’t, noo!” shouted the yeoman, lifting his hand for a sign.
And, each eyeing his adversary closely, the two combatants stepped cautiously from opposite sides, with cudgels well-poised, towards one another.
And now the cudgels cross, and now come a few quick feints, and each player shows something more of caution. Each has formed, I suspect, a higher estimate of his antagonist.
William Haworth’s face is stem; he is heart and soul in the battle. Victory is more to him than any one dreams; it is everything to him; he would sell Haworth, I am sure, to secure it. Pale with an intense anxiety, and stem, looks the blue-eyed Saxon Squire. His swarthy adversary, on the contrary, grins merrily, showing under his lowering brow and fiery eyes white rows of small teeth.
That fellow has the tricks of a prize-fighter — this smiling or grinning for the groundlings, a trick to maintain confidence, and ape good-humor. He has often played for money, one would conclude. The odds are awfully against the amateur.
Now comes a sudden break in this cautious play, and with beautiful rapidity cuts and parries whistle and rattle; and a heavy blow takes the horse-dealer across the leg, another at his head is parried, and he replies swiftly, and is met, in return, by a parry. They draw back a little, and the swarthy fellow laughs with all his glittering teeth.
Dick Hoggen looks at his watch, which is nestled snugly in his hand; it wants two minutes and a half still of the time at which he is to cry “Over!” His confidence in William has revived; and, judge of the lists though he be, he would like to call the five minutes’ rest during which that resounding cut across the dark fellow’s leg, just above the knee, would possibly stiffen and spoil his action.
But there remain two minutes still, and suddenly the dark fellow advances, and a very pretty and fierce bit of play follows instantly. “Click-dack — click-clack,” with sightless speed and force the strokes and guards fly and meet. The ten minutes are up, but the play is at the moment too “hot” to be interrupted, in accordance with the articles.
The two minutes have passed, and on a sudden, with the sound of a stroke on a well-stretched sail, a single blow ended the “round.”
You could hardly have seen who gave it or where it fell — all was so quick. But instantly William Haworth lay stretched on his back, looking up to the sky with a white sad face, and blood was trickling over his cheek and ear.
Well was it for William that his fall was so instantaneous, for his adversary followed it with a swinging swoop, that might have cut him across the temple, and ended his dream of love and glory.
Thus, by a few inches and a small fraction of a second he escaped, and folly and passion lived on; though, looking on the young fellow’s face, some of the spectators feared he was dead. The cudgels with which they played were quite heavy enough for such a feat It was soon evident, however, that the Squire was not in that predicament.
A broken head, pure and simple, is a trifle where the cudgel is a pastime — is no more matter than a broken pipe. William Haworth sat up. His friends stanched the blood as well as they could; and as he was still giddy, “daddled” him, in Dick Hoggen’s phrase, one at each side, across the arena.
Ten minutes rallying-time, according to agreement, was allowed William Haworth. He needed every second of it.
As William showed signs of recovery, his adversary frequently called to Dick Hoggen, “How’s time?”
William was now on his legs, and his friend quietly advised his withdrawing from the contest, and so escaping the “bevellin’” that awaited him.
“I’m all right again — thank you, old fellow. You quite mistake. He’s a better man than I thought him, and I was too rash; but Ï know him now. The lesson was worth a knock, and I go in now to win, you’ll see.”
Sinfield, on the other hand, talked in an undertone, laughing, as he passed to and fro, to his companion; and the old fellow, fired by the combat and the sight of blood, jabbered fiercely in reply, and looked more horribly ugly than ever.
The fellows who had been sitting round on the grass stood up now, and a loud gabble was going on all round. When order was called, the ring was re-formed; and, after a minute’s hurry and hustle, all was right again, and the battle recommenced.
There is evidently more caution on each side. It is plain, after the first slight skirmish, that the Squire of Haworth had suffered nothing in hand or eye by his disaster. It is also plain that the dark fencer, who has drawn first blood, is resolved not to throw away his advantage, but to await his opportunity, and make his victory sure.
The Squire’s hurt, oddly enough, proved in the end the cause of his safety. Thus it happened. Sinfield having trifled, and “dodged,” and worried, with the intention of tiring a man who had lost some blood and sustained a shock, on a sudden makes a determined and formidable attack, and the Squire of Haworth is sorely pressed — is in danger — five to one, it seems, against him; and Sinfield’s smile has vanished, and an atrocious glare and dark pallor unconsciously betray the animus with which he fights.
The people hold their breath; some in the first ranks stand up. Any instant may see the catastrophe, and at this moment Sinfield’s foot slips: he has placed it in the little patch of blood which flowed from his adversary’s wound. The slight derangement that attends this accident William Haworth avails himself of; and instantly a resounding “skelp,” as they term such a blow in the North-country, proclaims to the world that Sinfield’s skull has “caught it” this time, and, as he reels, quick almost as you can clap your hands, two others follows, and tall lithe Lussha Sinfield lies, face downward, on the short grass, his small black head and green-and-scarlet handkerchief on his doubled arm, and the cudgel in which he trusted a yard away from his open hand. — , The crowd had now closed in about the fallen man; and foremost among the gabbling faces were the silent heads of the gray and the chestnut, pulled over by the powerful old gipsy, who had picked up the cudgel on his way in a trice, and who is violently roaring, stamping, and gesticulating, with the stick and the bridle clenched in his right hand, and the halter in his left; so that the horses are frightened, throwing up their heads and snorting in the air, and in danger of trampling on the feet of the crowd, who are shoving and hustling with them, and bawling to Cowper to mind his horses.
“It’s foul!” he is yelling. “He struck the man down! — he struck him foul! I don’t care a d — n! — he struck him down! I claim stakes for Sinfield! It’s all foul! I’ll fight him for double the money, I will, myself! — I’ll fight that chap myself if he’s the man! — I’ll fight him, double or quits; and Sinfield’s winner! — He struck foul! I’ll lay my oath to’t! Give up the money here; I’ll make ye!”
While he is yelling, in the midst of a sort of scuffle, the men about him are threatening and bawling, “Whar gangst thou, dafy? — wilt tramp the lad’s feace!” and so forth.
It was a full hour before Sinfield came to himself. In the mean time, Dick Hoggen proclaimed the Squire of Haworth winner of the stakes. William took his own, and said he would let off Sinfield, on condition. He would give him a cheque, payable in three months, adding £2 to it, provided that neither Sinfield nor Cowper appeared in the county for that time. If they did he would stop payment of the cheque at the bank.
After much shrieking, threats, and bluster, the terms were accepted, Sinfield and Cowper having conferred for a minute apart; and the crestfallen partners, having by good-luck sold the chestnut, set forth on their march northward.