Charlie to the Rescue - Robert Michael Ballantyne (ebook reader with highlighter TXT) 📗

this business the better," continued Charlie. "Where shall it come off?"

"Prize-fightin's agin the law," suggested an old pauper, who seemed to fear they were about to set to in the kitchen.

"So it is, old man," said Charlie, "and I would be the last to engage in such a thing, but this is not a prize-fight, for there's no prize. It's simply a fight in defence of weakness against brute strength and tyranny."

There were only a few of the usual inhabitants of the kitchen present at the time, for it was yet early in the evening. This was lucky, as it permitted of the fight being gone about quietly.

In the upper part of the building there was an empty room of considerable size which had been used as a furniture store, and happened at that time to have been cleared out, with the view of adding it to the lodging. There, it was arranged, the event should come off, and to this apartment proceeded all the inhabitants of the kitchen who were interested in the matter. A good many, however, remained behind--some because they did not like fights, some because they did not believe that the parties were in earnest, others because they were too much taken up with and oppressed by their own sorrows, and a few because, being what is called fuddled, they did not understand or care anything about the matter at all. Thus it came to pass that all the proceedings were quiet and orderly, and there was no fear of interruption by the police.

Arrived at the scene of action, a ring was formed by the spectators standing round the walls, which they did in a single row, for there was plenty of room. Then Stoker strode into the middle of the room, pulled off his coat, vest, and shirt, which he flung into a corner, and stood up, stripped to the waist, like a genuine performer in the ring. Charlie also threw off coat and vest, but retained his shirt--an old striped cotton one in harmony with his other garments.

"I'm not a professional," he said, as he stepped forward; "you've no objection, I suppose, to my keeping on my shirt?"

"None whatever," replied Stoker, with a patronising air; "p'r'aps it may be as well for fear you should kitch cold."

Charlie smiled, and held out his hand--"You see," he said, "that at least I understand the civilities of the ring."

There was an approving laugh at this as the champions shook hands and stood on guard.

"I am quite willing even yet," said Charlie, while in this attitude, "to settle this matter without fighting if you'll only agree to leave Zook alone in future."

This was a clear showing of the white feather in the opinion of Stoker, who replied with a thundering, "No!" and at the same moment made a savage blow at Charlie's face.

Our hero was prepared for it. He put his head quickly to one side, let the blow pass, and with his left hand lightly tapped the bridge of his opponent's nose.

"Hah! a hammytoor!" exclaimed the ex-pugilist in some surprise.

Charlie said nothing, but replied with the grim smile with which in school-days he had been wont to indicate that he meant mischief. The smile passed quickly, however, for even at that moment he would gladly have hailed a truce, so deeply did he feel what he conceived to be the degradation of his position--a feeling which neither his disreputable appearance nor his miserable associates had yet been able to produce.

But nothing was further from the intention of Stoker than a truce. Savages usually attribute forbearance to cowardice. War to the knife was in his heart, and he rushed at Charlie with a shower of slogging blows, which were meant to end the fight at once. But they failed to do so. Our hero nimbly evaded the blows, acting entirely on the defensive, and when Stoker at length paused, panting, the hammytoor was standing before him quite cool, and with the grim look intensified.

"If you _will_ have it--_take_ it!" he exclaimed, and shot forth a blow which one of the juvenile bystanders described as a "stinger on the beak!"

The owner of the beak felt it so keenly, that he lost temper and made another savage assault, which was met in much the same way, with this difference, that his opponent delivered several more stingers on the unfortunate beak, which after that would have been more correctly described as a bulb.

Again the ex-pugilist paused for breath, and again the "hammytoor" stood up before him, smiling more grimly than ever--panting a little, it is true, but quite unscathed about the face, for he had guarded it with great care although he had received some rather severe body blows.

Seeing this, Stoker descended to mean practices, and in his next assault attempted, and with partial success, to hit below the belt. This roused a spirit of indignation in Charlie, which gave strength to his arm and vigour to his action. The next time Stoker paused for breath, Charlie-- as the juvenile bystander remarked--"went for him," planted a blow under each eye, a third on his forehead, and a fourth on his chest with such astounding rapidity and force that the man was driven up against the wall with a crash that shook the whole edifice.

Stoker dropped and remained still. There were no seconds, no sponges or calling of time at that encounter. It was altogether an informal episode, and when Charlie saw his antagonist drop, he kneeled down beside him with a feeling of anxiety lest he had killed him.

"My poor man," he said, "are you much hurt?"

"Oh! you've no need to fear for me," said Stoker recovering himself a little, and sitting up--"but I throw up the sponge. Stoker's day is over w'en 'e's knocked out o' time by a hammytoor, and Zook is free to bile 'is pot unmorlested in futur'."

"Come, it was worth a fight to bring you to that state of mind, my man," said Charlie, laughing. "Here, two of you, help to take him down and wash the blood off him; and I say, youngster," he added, pulling out his purse and handing a sovereign to the juvenile bystander already mentioned, "go out and buy sausages for the whole company."

The boy stared at the coin in his hand in mute surprise, while the rest of the ring looked at each other with various expressions, for Charlie, in the rebound of feeling caused by his opponent's sudden recovery and submission, had totally forgotten his _role_ and was ordering the people about like one accustomed to command.

As part of the orders were of such a satisfactory nature, the people did not object, and, to the everlasting honour of the juvenile bystander who resisted the temptation to bolt with the gold, a splendid supper of pork sausages was smoking on the various tables of the kitchen of that establishment in less than an hour thereafter.

When the late hours of night had arrived, and most of the paupers were asleep in their poor beds, dreaming, perchance, of "better days" when pork-sausages were not so tremendous a treat, little Zook went to the table at which Charlie sat. He was staring at a newspaper, but in reality was thinking about his vain search, and beginning, if truth must be told, to feel discouraged.

"Charlie," said Zook, sitting down beside his champion, "or p'r'aps I should say _Mister_ Charlie, the game's up wi' you, whatever it was."

"What d'you mean, Zook?"

"Well, I just mean that it's o' no manner o' use your tryin' to sail any longer under false colours in this here establishment."

"I must still ask you to explain yourself," said Charlie, with a puzzled look.

"Well, you know," continued the little man, with a deprecatory glance, "w'en a man in ragged clo'se orders people here about as if 'e was the commander-in-chief o' the British Army, an' flings yellow boys about as if 'e was chancellor o' the checkers, an orders sassengers offhand for all 'ands, 'e _may_ be a gentleman--wery likely 'e is,--but 'e ain't a redooced one, such as slopes into lodgin'-'ouse kitchens. W'atever little game may 'ave brought you 'ere, sir, it ain't poverty--an' nobody will be fool enough in _this_ 'ouse to believe it is."

"You are right, Zook. I'm sorry I forgot myself," returned Charlie, with a sigh. "After all, it does not matter much, for I fear my little game--as you call it--was nearly played out, and it does not seem as if I were going to win."

Charlie clasped his hands on the table before him, and looked at the newspaper somewhat disconsolately.

"It's bin all along o' takin' up my cause," said the little man, with something like a whimper in his voice. "You've bin wery kind to me, sir, an' I'd give a lot, if I 'ad it, an' would go a long way if I wasn't lame, to 'elp you."

Charlie looked steadily in the honest, pale, careworn face of his companion for a few seconds without speaking. Poverty, it is said, brings together strange bed-fellows. Not less, perhaps, does it lead to unlikely confidants. Under a sudden impulse our hero revealed to poor Zook the cause of his being there--concealing nothing except names.

"You'll 'scuse me, sir," said the little man, after the narrative was finished, "but I think you've gone on summat of a wild-goose chase, for your man may never have come so low as to seek shelter in sitch places."

"Possibly, Zook; but he was penniless, and this, or the work-house, seemed to me the natural place to look for him in."

"'Ave you bin to the work-'ouses, sir?"

"Yes--at least to all in this neighbourhood."

"What! in that toggery?" asked the little man, with a grin.

"Not exactly, Zook, I can change my shell like the hermit crabs."

"Well, sir, it's my opinion that you may go on till doomsday on this scent an' find nuthin'; but there's a old 'ooman as I knows on that might be able to 'elp you. Mind I don't say she could, but she _might_. Moreover, if she can she will."

"How?" asked Charlie, somewhat amused by the earnestness of his little friend.

"Why, this way. She's a good old soul who lost 'er 'usband an' 'er son--if I ain't mistaken--through drink, an' ever since, she 'as devoted 'erself body an' soul to save men an' women from drink. She attends temperance meetin's an' takes people there--a'most drags 'em in by the scruff o' the neck. She keeps 'er eyes open, like a weasel, an' w'enever she sees a chance o' what she calls pluckin' a brand out o' the fire, she plucks it, without much regard to burnin' 'er fingers. Sometimes she gits one an' another to submit to her treatment, an' then she locks 'em up in 'er 'ouse--though it ain't a big un--an' treats 'em, as she calls it. She's got one there now, it's my belief, though w'ether it's a he or a she I can't tell. Now, she may 'ave seen your friend goin' about--if 'e stayed long in Whitechapel."

"It may be so," returned our hero wearily, for he was beginning to lose heart, and the prospect opened up to him by Zook did not on the first blush of it seem very brilliant. "When could I see