The Complete Works of H. C. McNeile "Sapper". Sapper
darling," said Cornish with an ugly snarl. "You might spoil my aim. And that would be a dreadful thing for your dear husband, wouldn't it?"
Again the six shots rang out, and the wood round the seated man's head splintered anew. The girl moaned piteously, and her husband cursed and stirred in his chair.
"My other gun," said Cornish thoughtfully, and a horrible-looking brute came forward with a freshly loaded six-shooter. And at that John James Hildebrand sprang. It was his only chance, but it was pitiful to watch. As well might a Pekinese spring at a bull-terrier, if one may so insult a grand breed of dog by comparison with Pete Cornish.
He tried to get home with his fist, did John James—and Cornish hit him once. He hit him straight in the face with a grunt of passion, and the poor devil pitched forward and lay still.
"I still want my gun," said Cornish thoughtfully, and as he spoke one solitary shot rang out. The man who was holding the revolver cursed hideously as his hand was shattered, and Jim laughed gently. Slowly the blue eyes came round and fastened on him, staring unwinking; and for a moment or two there was silence—broken at length by a little gasping cry of "Jim!" from the girl.
"Did you fire that shot?" asked Cornish softly, dropping the girl and taking a step forward.
"I did," answered Jim, equally softly. "And I would suggest your standing very still, because I'm now going to fire five more. Stand away, Ruth,"—but the girl was on her knees beside her husband.
The five shots cut away a strip from Cornish's shirt, and they sounded almost continuous so incredibly quickly were they fired.
"I have also another gun," drawled Jim, "so that any attempt to pick up your own would be a little unwise. Dick, would you retrieve it?"
But Cornish never moved a muscle. The scar on his face showed red and angry, but the eyes, unwinking as ever, stared, and went on staring at Jim.
"Quite passable shooting," he said at length. "And what do you propose should be the next move? Or do we stand like this all night?"
"We do not," answered Jim. "I have been informed of the toast which you suggested Lord Sussex should drink, just before he wasted good liquor on your face, and it fails to appeal to me. So having given you a little of your own medicine in the shooting line, we will now try the second form of exercise. We will fight here and now to a finish with our fists."
A sudden gleam came into Cornish's eyes—merciless and triumphant; and an audible gasp ran round the room. Was this fellow with an eyeglass completely insane? But only One-eyed Mike said anything, and he was nearly frantic.
"For God's sake, sir," he whispered to Jim, "don't do it! He's been a professional, has Cornish—and he's a slaughterer even with gloves."
But Jim paid no attention. He was peeling off his shirt and giving me instructions.
"If he fights fair, Dick, do nothing. But if any of his pals get gay, I rely on you. I'm not under any delusions as to what I've taken on."
For a moment he glanced across the room to where the girl sat crouched on the floor with her unconscious husband's head pillowed on her lap, and he smiled whimsically.
"I'm over it now," he said, "but seven years ago I thought my world had finished when she turned me down for him. But he's a good boy, Dick—and if Cornish knocks me out—well, again I rely on you."
And just then the girl raised her head and looked full at Jim. In her eyes was a wonderful message, for the Marchioness of Sussex was merely a very primitive woman at that moment. Certainly it was the message Jim wanted, and he smiled at her reassuringly as he stepped into the circle of light thrown by the naphtha lamp.
* * * * *
Men still talk about that fight on Christmas Eve in the hotel at Bull Mine Creek. And now as I write about it, it comes back to me as if it had taken place only yesterday. Word had flashed round the camp like lightning that a man was taking on Pete Cornish, bare fists, to a finish, and men came pouring in till the room was crammed almost to suffocation. They stood on the bar, they lined the windows, and very soon it was obvious which way their sympathies lay. Not one out of ten knew Jim, but there wasn't a soul in the room who did not know—and hate Pete Cornish. The betting it is true started at five to one on Cornish, for his form was known, and money is money; then the odds shortened and held steady at threes, when Jim, stripped to the waist, was sized up. But even before the first blow was struck there wasn't a soul who wouldn't willingly have lost his money to see Cornish down and out.
There was no time wasted on preliminaries, no introductions, no retinues of seconds. But one could feel the nerve-gripping tension as the two men faced one another, swaying slightly on their feet under the flaring lamp. Cornish, his blue staring eyes fixed unwinkingly on Jim, was a shade the bigger man of the two. As he stood, crouching a little forward, his huge depth of chest was more apparent than when he had had his clothes on, and a little feeling of sick anxiety got hold of me and made it difficult to swallow. Without doubt he was an amazingly powerful brute, and there was a look of implacable rage on his face that boded ill for Jim if the worst happened. And then I glanced at Jim; took in the glistening health of his skin, the clear, unconcerned eyes, and felt better. And in my own mind I sized up the position to find later that it was exactly how Jim had sized it up himself. Cornish was the stronger man of the two; Cornish was probably the better boxer; but Cornish was not in such good condition.
And then they closed, and a kind of sigh went round the packed spectators. Smack, smack and they were away again, with a jaw-jolting punch on Jim's jaw as Cornish's contribution, and a heavy body blow on the other side of the ledger which made Cornish draw in his breath with a hiss. Not quite such a spectacular punch perhaps, but as Jim said to me afterwards, it was that first blow that probably won him the fight. For it rather more than touched up Cornish's wind, and there lay his weakness. It was a case of bellows to mend, and inside a minute a sullen-looking purple patch was showing on his ribs.
But there was a long way to go yet, and a punishing way. Cornish was no fool; he knew his weakness, none better. And he started to force the fighting. A quick decision was his best hope, and for the next three minutes my heart was in my mouth. Savagely, but never wildly, he went for Jim, taking his own punishment without a sound. And at least two of his upper cuts, if they had got home, would have ended the fight there and then.
But they didn't. Coolly and warily Jim gave ground, letting the other man follow him round and round the room, and concentrating always on his one objective, Cornish's body. Twice, three times he landed—heavy punishing blows, and was away before the other had time to counter. He was bleeding from the mouth, and one eye was horribly swollen.
The room was deadly silent. The patter of their feet was the only sound; that, and the thing that was music to me, Cornish's laboured breathing. And then suddenly an angry roar burst out.
"Too low, Cornish—foul!"
With a snarl Cornish sprang back, but Jim was smiling now. An attempted foul right enough, but countered just in time, and Jim changed his tactics. Rightly he guessed that it was the other man's last throw—his breathing was becoming more and more painful. From the defensive he changed to the attack. He gave Cornish not one second's respite; he was here, there and everywhere waiting for the opportunity of a knock-out. Twice Cornish hit him, heavy stopping rib binders, but he was weakening perceptibly. His blue eyes, fixed and implacable, still stared at Jim from his swollen face, but he was getting slower and slower, while he sucked in air in great wheezing gasps. And then quite suddenly came the end. Jim feinted at his body, and as his guard dropped Jim hit him under the jaw. Feet, body, weight were exactly right, and the blow sounded like the dropping of a billiard ball on a wooden floor.
So came the finish. Cornish spun round, his knees sagging under him, and crumpled up on the floor. He lay there motionless and inert—knocked out, insensible, and Jim stood watching him and rubbing the knuckles of his right hand. For the blow that had knocked out Cornish, had also broken three of Jim's fingers.
There was one dazed moment while nobody spoke; then pandemonium broke loose. A seething, shouting crowd of miners thronged across the floor to where Jim stood, led by One-eyed