The Fight
My name is Rice, and there was only one thing I hated about the War, and even that I had to stop hating, because of England. My first feeling was the War had come too soon, and that if it had only been four years later, I should have been there. But, saying this to Tracey, he pointed out that, from England’s point of view, it was lucky the War had come when it did, because every year was making the Germans stronger, while we went gaily down the hill reducing our Navy and our Army too. So it was a jolly good thing the Great War hadn’t waited till I went into the Army. In fact, in four years, by all accounts, there mightn’t have been any army to go into.
“No doubt you’d have been a host in yourself, Rice,” said Tracey in his comical way, meaning a joke, which I easily saw; “but, all the same, as we had to fight Germany, the sooner we did it the better.”
So I gave up hating the sad fact of not being there, though it was extra rough on me, because many people seemed to think it was going to be the last war on earth; and if that was so, my occupation was gone, and I might just as well not have been born, except for the simple and rather tame pleasure of being alive. But what’s the good of that, if you’re not going to do anything worth mentioning from the cradle to the grave, as the saying is?
As far as mere fighting went, I did all I could at Merivale, and, after seven regular fights, got to be cock of the Lower School. And in ordinary times I should have been cock of the whole school; but, curiously enough, there was one chap of very unusual fighting ability at Merivale when I was there, and he was rightly regarded as cock of the school in the science of fighting.
It happened, also, that he and I were tremendous chums—such chums as are seldom seen—for we had similar ideas on all subjects and never differed even on the subject of the boxing art. In fact we only differed because I was going into the Navy and Sutherland minor was going into the Law. He had no taste for soldiering, like his brother, Sutherland major; though great genius for boxing, in which he took after his father, and as his father was in the law and wanted him to go into it, he resolved to obey.
But to me the law seemed a feeble profession, and I often tried to dissuade him from it.
Sutherland minor was sixteen and a half and tall; I was fifteen, and three inches shorter. He had better biceps than me and a longer reach, and he said I had a better punch than him, but less science.
After my third fight, he always let me second him in his fights; but he only had two before this particularly interesting fight I am going to mention; and one was against Blades, which he won after six rounds by excellent science and far superior footwork to Blades; and the other was against a chap called Pengelly, who only came for one term and gave himself frightful airs because he was a Cornishman. But I shouldn’t think Cornwall had much use for him.
One day Sutherland said that the Cornish might be very good at catching pilchards and digging up tin, but they didn’t seem much good at enlisting in Kitchener’s Army. And Pengelly said there was a reason for that, though he refused to tell us what the reason was. Then he got into a fearful bate, and, little knowing the truth about Sutherland, challenged him to fight; which, of course Sutherland instantly agreed to. Pengelly was very big and strong, and if he had been able to hit Sutherland as often as he wanted to, the fight might have been interesting, but, having no science whatever, he was useless against Sutherland. By sheer strength he stuck to it for eight rounds, during which time he got a fair doing and Sutherland was hardly marked; but then, though by no means all in, Pengelly realized that he wasn’t going to get a knuckle on Sutherland and so he gave up.
He wasn’t a bad chap really, though rather foolish about Cornwall, and he even said to me deliberately that a Cornishman was as good as an Irishman, which showed, if anything, that he was weak in his head. And after his fight with Sutherland, we asked him again what the reason was that Cornwall was so slack at enlisting, and he said that the truth was that half of all Cornish chaps go into the Navy, which, owing to Cornwall being almost surrounded by sea, they prefer. But whether that’s true, or only a piffling excuse, I don’t know.
Anyway, when it came to counting up the most famous men Cornwall ever produced, he could only mention Sir Humphry Davy, who invented the safety-lamp for miners, which was undoubtedly all right in its way, and “Q,” who wrote Dead Man’s Rock, and was knighted for doing so; and nobody ever deserved it more. But that was all, whereas, when it came to Ireland, of course, I could count up thousands of the greatest heroes in creation, including Mr. Redmond, who has just got Home Rule for us after fearful obstacles.
But I never fought Pengelly; there wasn’t time. For he only had one term at Merivale, and then, I believe, went to Canada suddenly, to an uncle there.
After that began the curious affair between me and Sutherland. But as it was remarkable in every way and will never be forgotten by our families, I may mention them.
In the first place, Sutherland’s mother was a chronical invalid. I said it must be very difficult to love a person who lived in bed and could never be any use out of doors, or ride to hounds, or anything; and he said that it made no difference and that he was accustomed to it, because his mother had always been an utter crock ever since he knew her, and even at her best, when she was feeling unusually fit, she only changed her bed for a sofa in his father’s study. Apparently she was just as keen about him as my mother was about me, and though she didn’t much care to hear about his fights, she tried to understand the beauty of them like his father did. But naturally this father was more to Sutherland than the mother could be; because his father had been amateur middle-weight champion of England in his time, and held the cup for three years, and had been runner-up twice also. He was, therefore, a very great boxer and fighter, and Sutherland had been taught by his father, which accounted for his genius at it and his style, which was very finished. He would undoubtedly have been a “pro” if he had been in another walk of life; but as it was, he fully intended to do as well as his father had done in the amateur boxing world, though, as he was growing very rapidly and was also a great eater, it looked as if he would end by being a heavy-weight, which his father never was; though, as Sutherland told me, his father had beaten a few good heavy-weights in his time, though he never touched twelve stone in his boxing days.
Sutherland major, by the way, had just left Merivale when the War broke out, and he instantly went into the O.T.C.’s and soon became a second lieutenant and went to France.
This father of Sutherland was a lawyer, and Sutherland regretted to say that the War had done him harm as, owing to it apparently, people were not going to law nearly so much as usual. Still he thought, after the War, he might find a great improvement. He was a lawyer of the sort called a barrister, and wore a wig and gown and pleaded for criminals before the judges and juries on the Western Circuit, often getting them off when it looked jolly bad for them—so Sutherland said.
But my father was quite different, being a gentleman at large, and funnily enough, owing to the War, he made the first money he had ever made in his life, for he had a great knowledge of horses, and the War Office, hearing of this, let him go out and choose and buy horses for it, which he willingly did, and for his trouble he got the enormous sum of a guinea a day!
My mother sent me a sovereign of my father’s earnings and told me to keep it and bore a hole in it and put it on my watch-chain, and be proud of it; but this I did not do, because a sovereign is a sovereign, and I simply couldn’t see a good sovereign wasting its time, so to speak, on my watch-chain.
Then one day, walking as usual with Sutherland on the way to a footer match in which we were both playing, both being in the first “soccer” team, him at right back and me at right half, we got talking about a fight I rather hoped to have with Briggs. And Sutherland was trying to think of a casus belli which, in English, means a reason for the fight. But, knowing Briggs, he said no casus belli would ever arise; and I said in that case, if Briggs were willing, we might fight for a purse, if anybody would subscribe one.
And then Sutherland reminded me that I should become a “pro,” and Briggs also, if that were done.
He said:
“Briggs wouldn’t fight just for the sake of fighting, and as you and he are very good friends, and there’s no ‘needle’ in it, it looks difficult.”
Then we talked, and then he happened to say—about fighting in general and weights and so on:
“You might just as well think of licking him”—speaking of Hutchings, who had gone to the Front—“as you might of licking me.”
“Of course,” I said; “it would be absurd.”
That was the whole conversation, and I forgot it while the match was on, and, in fact, it didn’t come back to me till I went to bed that night; and then it fairly kept me awake, and I was fearfully sorry I’d said it would be absurd for me to think of licking Sutherland. In fact I got sorrier and sorrier, and then I wondered why the dickens Sutherland thought it was such a mad idea my licking him; and before I went to sleep I felt, in a way, rather sick with Sutherland for having such a poor opinion of me.
In the morning the feeling was still there, and he noticed I was a bit off and asked me if I was all right, and I said I was.
But it weighed fearfully, and I fairly got to hate myself in about two days for having said the idea of my licking Sutherland was absurd. In fact, the more I thought about it, the less absurd it seemed. I knew he was heavier and had a longer reach and was older and more scientific; but he himself had said that I had a fine punch; and if you’ve got that, you never know what may happen; and many an unlikely thing has come off in the ring owing to unexpected smacks landing at the right moment in the right place.
After a good deal of hard thinking and going down about four in my form, which landed me at the bottom, I felt I must speak to Sutherland, or I should burst.
So when he asked me, for the thousandth time, what was the matter and if anybody had scored off me, or anything, I said:
“Look here, Sutherland, you remember that while going to the footer match last week, you said I might just as well think of licking you as of licking Hutchings?”
And he said:
“Yes, I remember.”
And I said:
“I told you it was absurd, didn’t I?”
“You did—naturally,” answered Sutherland.
“Well,” I said, “I was wrong—it wasn’t in the least natural for me to say that, and there’s nothing absurd about it. It’s been on my mind ever since. And now I see it wasn’t absurd.”
“What wasn’t absurd?” asked Sutherland. “The idea of your licking Hutchings, or the idea of your licking me?”
“The idea of my licking you,” I said firmly.
For a moment Sutherland was quite silent.
“D’you really think so?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “After considering it quietly—in bed and in chapel and at many other times—I can’t see anything absurd about it.”
“In fact, Rice, you think you might have a chance against me?” suggested Sutherland.
“I don’t say that it would be much of a chance,” I told him. “Probably you’d do me, because you’re a lot cleverer and more scientific; but when I said ‘absurd,’ I went too far.”
Sutherland considered.
“You’re quite right,” he admitted. “You might get over a lucky one. It’s very unlikely, but you might. Therefore there would be nothing absurd about our fighting, and I oughtn’t to have suggested there was. Somehow I never regarded us as in the same street. But, of course, we may be.”
“We’re not,” I said. “As for boxing on points we’re not. But fighting is different and—there you are.”
He nodded.
“If you feel like that,” he said, “of course——”
“I never did feel like that; in fact I never thought of it before,” I told Sutherland; “but now——”
He didn’t say anything, so I went on:
“It’s a matter of honour in a way,” I said.
“From your point of view it is, no doubt,” he answered.
“Isn’t it from yours?” I asked him.
“Not exactly,” he explained. “We’re very good friends—in fact more than just common or garden friends—and I never thought of fighting you, regarding you as cock of the Lower School and not supposing the question would ever arise between us, as I shall probably leave Merivale before you get into the Upper School—if ever you do. Still, as you feel your honour makes you want to fight me, you must, of course.”
“There’s no casus belli otherwise,” I said, and Sutherland answered that honour was the best casus belli possible. He said:
“Of course, if you honestly feel that I have wounded your honour, Rice, we must fight.”
And I said:
“You haven’t wounded it exactly. In fact I don’t know what the dickens you have done. But you’ve done something, and though you’re my chum and I hope you always will be for evermore, yet I don’t believe I shall get over this feeling, or, in fact, be any more good in the world till we’ve fought.”
“As a matter of fact,” said Sutherland, “you’ve wounded your honour yourself, by thoughtlessly agreeing to my suggestion that you couldn’t lick me. Still, whatever has done it, the result is the same, I’m afraid.”
“I’m afraid it is,” I said.
I suppose no two chaps ever arranged a thing of this sort in a more regretful frame of mind, for we had always been peculiarly friendly, and the idea of ever fighting had never occurred to us; but it was just that fatal remark of Sutherland, showing his point of view, and showing me, with only too dreadful clearness, his opinion of me as compared with him. And the queerest thing of all was that I quite agreed with him really, only there was a feeling in me I couldn’t possibly let it go at that; and, of course, there was also a secret hope that, after all, Sutherland and I might both be mistaken about his being such a mighty lot better than I was.
So we agreed to fight on the following Saturday afternoon, as there was only a second eleven match on our own ground, and we should have leisure to go into the wood close by, where these affairs were settled.
Needless to say, the world at large was fearfully surprised when it heard we were going to fight. We still pottered about together in our usual friendly way, and when we were asked, as of course we were, what we were fighting for, it was more than I could do to explain, or Sutherland either. Travers major understood the truth of the situation, and I think Thwaites did, and possibly Preston; but to have tried to explain to anybody else the frightfully peculiar situation would have been impossible, for they hadn’t the minds to understand it. So we just said in a general sort of way, we were still chums, but felt such a tremendous interest in the question of which was the greatest fighter, that we were going to find out in the most friendly spirit possible.
Of course, being easily the two best in the school, the sensation was huge, but the general opinion seemed to be that I must be mad to think of beating Sutherland, and I never argued much about it, and said very likely I was, but that I hated uncertainty in a thing like that.
Pegram said:
“It will be your Sedan, Rice,” meaning that I should be treated by Sutherland like the French were treated by the Germans on that occasion.
But I did not think so. I said:
“Most likely I shall be licked and badly licked, which is nothing against such a man as Sutherland; but it won’t be my Sedan by long chalks, because we’ve agreed whichever wins it will make no difference.”
“Certainly there will be no indemnity,” said Pegram, “as you’re both far too hard up for any such thing; but you needn’t think the beaten one will ever feel the same again to the winner; because human nature is all against it.”
“Your human nature may be,” I said to Pegram, who was a foxy chap, great at strategy, but otherwise mean. “Your human nature may be like that, but mine and Sutherland’s is not.”
All the same, I had Pegram to second me, because he is full of cunning, and I also had Travers minor; and Sutherland had Abbott, who is a very fine second, and would be a fine boxer, too, but for a short leg on one side.
Williams was his other second, and Travers major consented to be referee.
Fighting was not allowed at Merivale, but Travers, though head of the school, and never known to break any other rule, supported fair fighting, because he believed it was good; and he also believed that the Doctor did not really much dislike it, though no doubt to parents he had to say he did. Brown, however, hated fighting, and as he was master in charge on the appointed day, we had to exercise precautions and keep the fight as quiet as possible.
Though favourable to fighting as a rule, Travers never cared much about my fight with Sutherland and even tried to make us change our minds. But he had no reasons that we thought good enough, or rather, that I thought good enough; because of course I was the challenger and Sutherland had no choice but to agree.
It turned out that Sutherland was rather glad of the fight, because it distracted his mind from sadness. A fortnight before, he had been home from Saturday till Monday, to see his mother, who was worse, because his brother Tom, or Sutherland major, was in the trenches; and his father had been very gloomy about it, so the fight served to cheer him up, and brighten his spirits, which was one good thing it did.
Then the eventful day arrived, and the fortunate chaps who knew that this was the appointed time, looked at me with awe; and as we were getting up in our dormitory, Percy Minimus whispered to me:
“You’ll look a very different spectacle to-night from what you do now, Rice.”
The morning seemed long and I jolly near messed up the whole thing and had a squeak of being kept in for the half-holiday, but I escaped, and at last the time came when the footer match was in full swing and Brown, with a lot of kids, watching it.
Then, one by one, about fifteen of us strolled off, including Sutherland and me and our seconds and Travers major and Preston and Blades and Saunders and Perkinson and Ash, and Percy Minimus, who liked the sight of blood, if it wasn’t his own.
No time was lost, and a ring was made with a bit of rope while Sutherland and I prepared. They were two minute rounds, and Ash kept the time.
No two chaps ever shook hands in a more friendly spirit, and as to the fight itself, as I cannot relate it, I may copy the notes that Blades took. He missed a good many delicate things that we did, but the general description, though not at all in regular sporting language, gives a fair idea of how it went. He wrote these words:
Round 1.—Sutherland seemed thoughtful and not so much interested as Rice. Rice advanced and dodged about and struck out into the air several times and danced on his feet; and once he would have hit Sutherland; but Sutherland ducked his head under the blow, and before Rice could recover, hit him with both fists on the body. Rice laughed and Sutherland smiled. They were dancing about doing nothing when Ash called time, and they rested, and their seconds wiped their faces and Rice blew his nose with his fingers.
Round 2.—Now Sutherland began to hit Rice a good deal oftener than Rice hit him. But, in the middle of the round, Rice got in a very fine blow on Sutherland’s face and knocked him down. Sutherland instantly rose bleeding, but by no means troubled. He praised Rice and said it was a beauty. And Rice said, “Don’t patronize me, Sutherland,” but Sutherland did not answer. For the rest of the round Sutherland hit Rice several times, but didn’t make him bleed. It was a good round and both were panting at the end.
Round 3.—Sutherland wouldn’t let Rice get near enough to hit him and kept catching Rice’s attempts on his arms. And his arms being longer than Rice’s, he could land on Rice without being hit back. He did not hit so hard as Rice, but he hit Rice, whereas Rice hit the air. Still Rice got in a very good one just in the middle of Sutherland’s body, which doubled up Sutherland, and before he could undouble again, Rice had hit him very hard on the face with an upper cut. Sutherland fairly poured with blood, but was quite cool and showed no signs of not liking it. He got in a very good blow with his left on Rice’s neck before Ash called time.
Round 4.—It was certainly a very fine fight of much higher class than we had ever seen before at Merivale. This round was the fiercest up to now, and Travers major had to caution Rice for being inclined to use his head. Still he fought very finely, but it worried him fearfully to be hit so often without getting one back. The hits were not heavy hits to the spectator, but they must have been harder than they looked, because Rice, who has black hair and a very pale skin by nature, was now getting a mottled sort of skin. In this round they were rather slower than before, and stood and panted a good deal, and while they panted, they looked at one another with a sort of doleful cheerfulness from time to time. But there was also fierce fighting, and Sutherland at last drew blood from Rice with a blow on the nose. At the sight of his blood, Rice gave a great display and kept Sutherland moving about, and at last hit him backwards out of the ring. But Sutherland instantly returned and went on fighting till the end of the round. It was a splendid round in every way.
Round 5.—Both were now rather tired, and in this round they took it easy.
But at taking it easy Sutherland was much better than Rice and did not waste so much energy in feinting. He had the best of this round and hit Rice twice or three times on the face. At the end he fairly knocked Rice down, and when Ash said “Time,” Pegram and Travers minor rushed to pick up Rice and carry him to his corner; but he rose and walked.
Round 6.—This looked as though it was going to be the last, for Sutherland was now fresher than Rice and evidently stronger. Rice began the round well, but soon fell away, and Sutherland hit him several times, and once over the right eyebrow and cut him, and evidently did that eye no good. Rice made ferocious dashes and Sutherland got away from them; and then, while Rice was resting, Sutherland dashed in and Rice didn’t get away. Sutherland hit Rice on the chest and knocked him down, and it looked as though he wasn’t going to get up again; but he did, and still had good strength. He was being licked, but slowly. At the end of the round he got one good one in, though it was lucky.
I must here break off the account of the fight by Blades to describe a most amazing thing which made this fight far unlike any other that I or Sutherland had ever fought. After the sixth round we were being mopped up and Pegram was advising me to chuck it, and I was saying, in a gasping sort of way, I should try to stick a few more rounds and hope for a bit of luck, when, to our great horror, there suddenly appeared from the trees Brown and a man clad in black. At first we thought it was a policeman, and that Brown had heard of the fight and had called a constable to take us up; but it turned out that Brown hadn’t heard of the fight, and the man in black was none other than the father of Sutherland, the famous middle-weight of other days!
He had called to see Sutherland, and had been sent to the playing field; and there he had been met by Brown. And Brown, guessing that the big chaps were in the wood, had brought Sutherland’s father actually to the ring side!
Brown, of course, was furious and wanted to stop the fight and take down all our names; but the famous middle-weight would not hear of this. The moment he found that Sutherland was fighting, a wave of animation went over him and he begged Brown as a personal favour to let us finish. He even promised to put it all right with the Doctor if anything was said, which showed his fighting qualities were still there. Brown, of course, curled up; but his little eyes blazed, and he said that Sutherland’s father must take the responsibility, which he gladly undertook to do. Then Brown, giving us a look which told without words what would happen when Sutherland’s father was gone, went back to the kids.
In the meantime, I and Sutherland had a fine rest, and after that we went on again. I wished much that his father had seen the whole fight, because I knew now, only too well, that Sutherland had got me and that, of course, with his father there, he’d buck up and do something out of the common; and I deeply wished my father were there, and not far away buying horses at a guinea a day in Ireland. But I hoped now, with this good rest, to last at least two more rounds.
I may now go on with the description of Blades.
Round 7.—Much refreshed by about six minutes’ rest, Rice and Sutherland began again, and Sutherland’s father watched the fight with a calm and sporting interest. He was a clean-shaved man of large size about the shoulders; but he had a pale, sad-looking face and very thin lips, and one ear larger than the other. Sutherland had to withstand a wild rush from Rice and hit Rice while he backed away from him, which pleased his father. But Rice was not stopped, and he got close to Sutherland and hit him very hard on the body until they fell into each other’s arms. And Sutherland’s father said, “Break! Break!” and then apologized to Travers major, who was referee. They parted, and Rice, evidently much refreshed, went after Sutherland and hit him about three or four times; then Sutherland hit him once. Then it was time.
Round 8.—Sutherland’s father certainly seemed to have brought Sutherland bad luck, for in the next round Rice held his own, and though knocked down at the beginning of the round, got up and went on. And Sutherland’s father asked me how many rounds had been fought, and was very much interested in my notes. And, owing to him reading them, I could not describe this round. At the end both were tired, one not more than the other.
Round 9.—Rice, feeling he had still a chance, fought as well as ever in this round, and Sutherland was clearly not taking anything like his old interest in the fight. He kept looking mournfully at his father and didn’t seem to care where Rice hit him, and I could see that his father was a good deal disappointed. Rice had much the best of this round, and Sutherland bled again, though Rice did also.
Round 10.—It began all right, though both could hardly keep up their arms, and then, without a blow, suddenly Sutherland shook his head and extended his hand to Rice, and Rice shook it and the battle was over.
That was the end of what Blades wrote, but much remains to be told, and the fight, which was extraordinary in the beginning, turned out far more extraordinary at the end. I couldn’t believe my senses when Sutherland gave in, and more could his father, and then came out the truth, which was sad in a way, but really much sadder for me than Sutherland. Because what I had thought was a right down glorious victory, well worth the pint of blood I had shed and the tooth I had lost, turned out to be what you might really call very little better than winning on a foul.
After the fight, Sutherland hastened to his father and asked him about Sutherland major and heard he was all right and going strong. Then he actually began to blub; and his father rotted him and asked him what the dickens was the matter with him, and how he had given in to a chap sizes smaller than himself, and then Sutherland, between moments of undoubted weeping explained.
He said:
“I never saw you in black clothes before, because at home you always wear tweeds with squares and a red tie; and seeing you in pitch black, of course I thought Tom was dead. Till then I was winning, and Rice knows I was; but after you came and I felt positive Tom was dead——”
Then Sutherland was quite unable to go on, and his father asked him however he thought he could have stood there grinning at a kid fight under such sad circumstances. Then he led Sutherland away and explained that he happened to have been attending a funeral, near Plymouth, of some old lawyer friend; and he thought he would kill two birds with one stone, as they say, and come over and have a look at Sutherland and tell him they’d heard good news of his brother and that his mother had bucked up again.
Well, there it was, and much worse for me than Sutherland, because his grief was turned into joy; but my joy was turned into grief—winning in that footling way, which didn’t amount to winning at all. In fact it was mere dust, and enough to make me weep myself, only that was a thing I had never been known to do, and never shall in this world, or the next.
However, Sutherland minor was jolly sporting about it, and thoroughly understood how it must look from my point of view. He even offered to come to Ireland in the Christmas Holidays, if my people would ask him, and fight me again on my own ground. He couldn’t say more, but though I gladly accepted the idea of his coming to Ireland, which was a very happy thought on his part, I told him frankly that I should not fight him again at present.
“We may meet some happy day in the Amateur Championships, Sutherland,” I said, “if I get large enough and you don’t get too large.”
“No, Rice,” he answered; “for I shall be a heavyweight when I’m twenty, and you at best can never hope to be anything but a welter; but I hope we’ll second each other many a time and oft.”