Guy Livingstone; or, 'Thorough'. George A. Lawrence
As the heroines of the Radcliffe romances say, "I turned to thank my preserver, but he was gone."
When I recovered my breath, I went up to a balcony on the first floor and looked out. The tide of the affray was surging gradually back into the wide open space before the inn, and very shortly this was filled with a chaos of furious faces and struggling arms. The University were evidently recoiling, pressed back by the sheer weight of their opponents; but soon came a re-enforcement of grooms and stable-men, lightweights, active and wiry; and these, with their hunting-crops and heavy cutting-whips used remorselessly—like Cæsar's legionaries, they struck only at the face—once more re-established the balance of the battle.
Suddenly the melée seemed to converge to one point—the mid-eddy, as it were, of the whirlpool; then came a lull, almost a hush; and then fifty strong arms, indiscriminately of town and gownsmen, were locked to keep the ground, while a storm of voices shouted for "A ring!"
In that impromptu arena two men stood face to face under the full glare of the gas-lamps—one was Guy Livingstone; the other a denizen of the Potteries, yclept "Burn's Big 'un," who had selected B—— as his training quarters, in preparation for his fight to come off in the ensuing week with the third best man in England for £100 a side.
They made a magnificent contrast. Guy, apparently quite composed, but the lower part of his face set stern and pitiless; an evil light in his eyes, showing how all the gladiator in his nature was roused; his left hand swaying level with his hip; all the weight of his body resting on the right foot; his lofty head thrown back haughtily; his guard low. The professional, three inches shorter than his adversary, but a rare model of brute strength; his arms and neck, where the short jersey left them exposed, clear-skinned and white as a woman's, through the perfection of his training; his hair cropped close round a low, retreating forehead; his thick lips parted in a savage grin, meant to represent a smile of confidence. So they stood there—fitting champions of the races that have been antagonistic for four thousand years—Patrician and Proletarian.
Suddenly there was a commotion at one corner of the ring, and I saw a small, bullet-headed man, with a voice like a fractious child, striving frantically to force his way through. "Don't let 'em fight!" he screamed: "it's robbery, I tell you. There's hundreds of pounds on him for Thursday next, I'm his trainer; and I daren't show him with a scratch on him."
A great roar of laughter answered his entreaties, and twenty arms thrust the little man back; but his interesting charge seemed to ponder and hesitate, when a drawling nasal voice spoke from the opposite corner: "Ah! you're right; take him away; don't show his white feather till you're druv to it." That turned the wavering scale. The Big 'un ground his teeth with blasphemy, and set-to.
I need not go through the minutiæ of the fight; it was all one way. The professional did his best, and took his punishment like a glutton; but he could do nothing against the long reach of his adversary, who stopped and countered as coolly as if he had only the gloves on.
It was the beginning of the sixth round; our champion bore only one mark, showing where a tremendous right-hander had almost come home—a cut on his lower lip, whence the bright Norman blood was flowing freely. I will not attempt to describe the hideous changes that ten minutes had wrought in his opponent's countenance; but I think I was not the only spectator who felt a thrill of fear mingling with disgust as the Big 'un made his despairing effort, and fought his way in to the terrible "half-arm rally." In truth, there was something unearthly and awful in the sight of the maimed and mangled Colossus; his huge breast heaving with wrath and pain; his one unblinded eye glaring unutterably; his crushed lips churning the crimson foam. It was the last rash of the Cordovan bull goaded to madness by picador and chulo; but Guy's fatal left met him, straight, unyielding as the blade of the matador; twice he reeled back wellnigh stunned; the third time he dropped his head cleverly, so as to avoid the blow, and grappled. For some seconds the two were locked together, undistinguishably; then we saw Guy's right hand, never used till then save as a guard, rise and fall twice with a dull, smashing sound, which was bad to hear; then the huge form of the prize-fighter was whirled up unresistingly over his antagonist's hip, and fell crashing down at his feet, a heap of blind, senseless, bleeding humanity.
"Time!" You must call louder yet before he will hear, and lance a vein in the throat before he will answer.
Then, in the old market-place of B——, there went up such a shout as I think it has never heard since Vikings and Berserkyr caroused there after storming the town. The gownsmen, as they will do on slighter provocation, screamed themselves hoarse and voiceless with delight; and their late opponents—the honest Saxon's love of a fair fight overcoming the spirit of the partisan—echoed and prolonged the cheer.
There was no more thought of battle or broil; and there were as many navvies as University men among the enthusiasts who bore the champion on their shoulders into "The George."
How we reveled on that night of victory, especially when Guy, after necessary ablutions and change of raiment, joined us, calm and self-possessed as ever, only slightly swelled about the lower lip, and a dark red flush on his forehead! He had satisfactory accounts of his adversary, the said amiable individual having so far recovered, under the surgeon's hands, as to swear thrice—"quite like hisself," the messenger said—and to call for cold brandy and water.
Livingstone's health was proposed twice—the first time by a fellow of King's, with a neat talent for classical allusions, who remarked that, "if the olive-crown of the Hippodrome had fallen to the lot of Cambridge, none would deny her sister's claim to the parsley of the cæstus." The second time was very late in the evening, by M'Diarmid. It must be confessed that gallant chieftain was somewhat incoherent, and amid protestations of admiration and eternal friendship, much to our astonishment, wept profusely. Still later, he got very maudlin indeed, and was heard to murmur, looking at his scarred knuckles, that "he was afraid he must have hurt some one that night," with an accent of heartfelt sorrow and contrition which was inimitable.
We heard afterward that the taunt which made the fight a certainty came from the commissioner of the party who stood heavily against the Big 'un, sent down to watch him in his training, and spy out the joints in his harness.
CHAPTER V.
"As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow,
Each carline was flyting and shaking her pow;
But the young Plants of Grace they looked couthie and slee,
Saying, 'Luck to thy bonnet, thou bonnie Dundee.'"
In the autumn of that year my chest became so troublesome that I was obliged to try Italy. Thither I went; and, about the same time, Guy was gazetted to the—— Life Guards. The struggle between climate and constitution was protracted, and for a long time doubtful; but winters without fog, and springs without cold winds, worked wonders, and at last carried the day. In the fourth year they told me I might risk England again. Moving homeward slowly, I reached London about the beginning of December—a most unfavorable season, it is true; but I was weary of foreign wandering, and wanted to spend Christmas somewhere in the fatherland, though where I had not yet determined.
I had heard tolerably often from Livingstone during my absence. His letters were very amusing, containing all sorts of news, and remarks on men and manners. They would have pleased me more if they had not indicated a vein of sarcasm deepening into cynicism.
I stand very much alone in this world, and had few family visits to detain me; so, on the morning after my arrival, I went down to the Knightsbridge barracks, where Guy's regiment happened to be quartered.
It was a field-day, his servant said, and his master was out with his troop; but he expected him in very shortly. Captain Forrester was waiting breakfast for him up stairs.
As I entered the room, its occupant turned his head languidly on the sofa-cushion which supported it; but when he saw it was a stranger, sat up, and, on hearing my name, actually rose and came