Роберт Фиш - Rough Diamond

Dr. Mathews had waited long enough. “Gentlemen! Please!”

At last a partial silence fell, broken only by the sound of bottles being rattled and the slurping of drinking sounds. Somewhere someone was getting sick. The doctor accepted this as normal and raised his voice.

“Gentlemen, this boxing match shall be held under the rules of Mr. John Chambers and the London Amateur Athletic Club as promulgated in the year eighteen sixty-five. As you can see, the contestants are wearing padded gloves. Each round shall consist of three minutes of fighting followed by a minute of rest. A fighter who is downed must get up unaided within ten seconds, or forfeit the match. There shall be six rounds to this match.” The doctor looked first at the giant and then at Barney, mentally wondering what on earth young Isaacs could have been thinking to get himself involved in anything like this. Ah, well, the doctor had plenty of collodion and bandage should they be needed, and he had a feeling a good part of the items in his bag might be needed before the afternoon was over. He continued his speech. “I shall blow a whistle to signal the start and end of each round. Mr. Charles Rudd has consented to referee this match. Mr. Rudd?”

The doctor climbed through the ropes and took his place at the side of the ring where he could have an unobstructed view of the action without interfering with the view of the spectators crowded on the Nest. His place in the ring was taken by the stocky Charles Rudd, who wasted no more time in calling the two fighters to the middle of the ring.

“No wrestling,” he said sternly. “When I slap you on the back, step away and then resume fighting. No blows beneath the belt. No kicking or slapping. Stop instantly when you hear Dr. Mathews whistle. That’s it.” He suddenly glanced at the large Armando. “Did you understand what I just said?”

Armando shrugged. He hadn’t understood a word, but he had heard the same thing in the same tone so often he was fairly sure he knew what the instructions had been. “Okay,” he said, exhausting his English.

“Fine,” Rudd said. “That’s it, then. Now go back to your corners and be ready to start.”

Rudd watched the two return to their respective corners and nodded to Mathews. The doctor consulted his pocket watch, waited until the second hand had come around to twelve. The crowd waited in drunken expectation, holding their breath. The doctor’s whistle shrilled. The bout was on.

Barney advanced cautiously, his gloved hands out, aware of the other’s far greater reach, watching his opponent’s eyes as well as his gloves. Armando held one arm straight before him like a battering ram on a ship; his other fist was cocked at his side, ready for a roundhouse swing that would end the fight and allow him to return to the Queen’s Hotel for supper. Armando had to admire the courage of the little man, but in view of his having to fight that afternoon he had forgone dessert at lunch, and was in a hurry to get back to some food. Had the fight been held in the circus tent, and admissions charged, Armando might have considered drawing the fight out for three or even four rounds, to give the customers something for their money, but this crowd was seeing the fight free, and Armando felt no responsibility toward them. So better to get it over with and go home.

The big Angolan made a pawing motion with his outstretched glove, inviting some response, an attempt to entice the smaller man to counter and thus come within reach of his other, cocked fist. He pawed the air invitingly again, and then was surprised to receive a sharp blow to his unprotected stomach. For a moment he did not resent having missed the dessert and even wondered if all that much lunch had been necessary, but he put the thought away at once. Food was the thing that made his job interesting; besides, the blow hadn’t bothered him at all, and how had the little man gotten close enough to him to strike the blow without having been seen? He lowered his outstretched arm a bit to protect the huge and bulging expanse of his stomach and in response received a sharp and painful rap on his nose. And there, in front of him, dancing about lightly and looking as if he hadn’t moved from that spot, was his opponent.

Well, Armando thought, his feelings hurt as much as, if not more than, his nose, we can’t have much of that, can we? One good solid punch should teach the little man some respect. He moved in more determinedly, resolved to get the final blow in before the round ended; he pulled back his arm and let go with all his might at the face that was just before him, but suddenly the face wasn’t there and the big man almost lost his balance with the force of the blow. And then there was a painful blow to the side of his face followed at once by a punch in his kidneys while he was straightening up.

Armando stepped back, a bit puzzled by this unexpected style of fighting. Usually everyone he fought was of a decent size and tried to knock his head off, but only the head; and with his greater reach and greater strength he always got to the other’s head first, and that was that. But here was a little man who kept pecking away at his belly and his kidneys. We’ll have to watch that, Armando said to himself, and then heard the doctor’s whistle. He walked to his corner and sat down on the stool his second had hastily thrust into the ring. His second was the owner of the circus and he didn’t like the way the first round had gone. He didn’t like the fact that there were no admission prices going into the circus till, as well.

“I know he’s small,” he said to Armando in Portuguese, “and I know you’re soft-hearted. But enough of this nonsense! Take him this round!” The circus owner had made his own wager, after seeing Barney, that the fight would not go two rounds. He figured he had at least one round’s security in that bet; now that security was gone. It was bad enough the fight was not earning him a penny in admissions; he had no intention of losing the bet, especially since he had given extremely high odds, and to the brother of the other fighter, yet! “This round!” he repeated direly, and took the stool from beneath Armando as his fighter stood up.

“Sim,” Armando said equably, and nodded. Whatever the boss said was all right with him. It seemed a pity, though, to hurt the game little man, but without hurting him in some way how could he end the fight in that round? Still, Armando thought philosophically, that was what happened to challengers. It was the way of life. He glanced across the ring, waiting for the whistle. In the opposite corner Barney was leaning back against the ropes, completely relaxed, staring out over the crowd, apparently either unaware or unafraid of the beating he was about to take. A pity! Armando thought, and glanced about. The crowd was buzzing loudly; money was being exchanged. Apparently some had bet that the little man wouldn’t even last the single round. Armando was not sorry for them; the little man deserved to last at least one round, even with him. He bit back a slight yawn, remembering that he had not had his usual nap after his large lunch, and then straightened up as the whistle blew for the start of the second round.

Barney moved from his corner, his face still expressionless, his narrowed blue eyes steady on Armando’s big, round, peasant face. Armando wondered just how he could put the little man out of action the least painful way and still earn his boss’s approval. But he was concentrating on the matter too much. There was a quick movement on Barney’s part and Armando felt his nose sting again, this time even more painfully than the last, followed almost instantly by a hard blow to the soft, unprotected belly. And then — amazing! — the little man was away and moving again, gloves up, ready, waiting for the next opportunity.