Роберт Фиш - Rough Diamond

“Gentlemen!” Mathews said in a loud voice. “The fight will continue. At the sound of the whistle, we shall be coming out for the third round. That is all.” He climbed from the ring, studied his watch a few seconds, and then gave a loud blast on his whistle. The fight was on again.

Barney came out of his corner, hesitated a moment as a brief wave of dizziness caused him to stumble slightly, and then came on. Armando was awaiting him in the middle of the ring, a look of sympathy on his large features. He looked almost Neanderthal, his long arms held before him loosely in a pawing position. Barney decided there was no time to waste. He stepped in quickly while Armando was still raising his fists, and sank his glove almost to the wrist in the soft belly of the giant Angolan. Barney stepped back, but this time Armando was in no positon to counter quickly. That blow hurt the big man, Barney said to himself with the little satisfaction he could feel, and watched the pain cross the other man’s face. Armando’s large gloved hands had dropped to protect that vulnerable spot of his, and Barney now came in to settle the matter with a few swift and powerful blows to the unprotected chin. But Armando automatically brought up one loglike arm to block the blow and at the same time swept the other arm about, catching Barney on the side of the head where he had been struck before. Barney found himself on his knees while he could hear Rudd beginning to count over him. The crowd was screaming wildly; Harry, white-faced, was leaning through the ropes, yelling something, and Barney could only assume his brother was imploring him to either quit or get to his feet. There seemed to be someone in a slouch hat beside Harry with his hands over his face. Bloody fool shouldn’t come to fights if he can’t take them, Barney thought with one small portion of his mind, while the rest of his mind commanded him to come to his feet at the count of eight. Rudd wiped the mud from the gloves and stepped away.

Armando now moved in, anxious to finish this very unpleasant fight, one he knew he would never be proud of. Actually, Armando was proud of no fight he had been in, all of which he had won. Armando had never liked to fight particularly, and it always seemed to him quite unfair to put his great size, weight, and strength against a smaller man and then to claim any form of victory from the obvious results. And that was especially true of this bout with the tough little opponent Armando had come to respect. Until the blow he had struck by accident — almost an unfair one — Armando knew in his heart he had actually been losing the fight. The poor man must need the five pounds desperately! Still, Armando needed his job with the circus if he wanted to continue eating, and while he felt sorry for the little man he was fighting, he also felt the best thing to do would be to end it as quickly as possible.

He watched his opponent come to his feet, wait while his gloves were cleaned, and then bring the fists up to position; then Armando moved in. He slashed at the little man, praying he would go down and stay down; the blow caught Barney on the cheek, staggering him, but he maintained his balance. Armando frowned in surprise to see the little man still erect. What did it take to put him down and keep him down? Unless he was losing his strength, which Armando doubted, that last blow should have ended the fight. He glanced over to his corner for some idea from his second, his boss, as to how to eliminate this tenacious little tsetse fly that seemed intent upon buzzing around his ears forever. His boss was screaming something over the noise of the crowd; Armando tilted his head a bit to hear better. It was a mistake. Barney, putting all his effort, all his strength, and with the full weight of his body behind the blow and not even thinking about it, hit the big man flush on the chin with all the force he had. It was the hardest punch he had ever thrown in his life, and he felt the bones of his hand give way with the crushing power of the blow; but he also saw Armando, a look of total surprise frozen on his face, collapse as if struck by a runaway ox, and lie unconscious on the floor while Charles Rudd counted him out.

The crowd was standing, screaming, cheering, yelling, whistling, even those whose lost bets at that moment reposed in the Paris Hotel safe. Barney stood swaying on his feet while Rudd completed his count over the large Angolan and raised Barney’s arm in victory; then he staggered to his corner and fainted at Harry’s feet.

He came to consciousness slowly, with the swaying of the Scotch cart lulling him gently, his eyes remaining closed as he tried to understand where he was and how he had gotten there. Then the pain in his right hand reminded him of the events of the afternoon and he allowed himself to drift off again under the sedative the doctor had injected into his arm. Dr. Mathews had managed a crude splint to support the hand on the trip to his office in town, where he had the materials for a plaster cast.

Barney was aware he was lying down, his back protected by cloth of some sort, his head resting on something soft. For a frightening moment he forgot his victory, wondering if he had imagined it after having been knocked out, but then he remembered that last blow and looking down, stupefied, to see Armando stretched out, cold. No, he had won. But he would never forget that fight, and he would never tackle anyone that big again. He was lucky Armando hadn’t broken his neck.

He awoke a second time and attempted to sit up, only to have his head pressed down gently. He opened his eyes, looking up. Fay was looking down at him, a worried look on her face, and he became aware that his head was in her lap. Barney turned his head; it ached with the effort. Harry, with Jack Joel and Solly Loeb seated next to him at the front of the cart, was handling the reins of old Rhodes: their jackets, it was obvious, had been used to make him as comfortable as possible on the hard boards of the cart. He turned back to Fay.

“Fay—”

“Shhh,” she said softly, but relieved that he was awake.

“Fay — how did you get here?”

“I’ll tell you about it later, darling.”

Barney tried to sit up again; again she pressed him down. He was staring at her unbelievingly. “Darling? Did you call me darling?”

“Darling,” she said firmly. She smiled at him, but it was a nervous smile. If she were wrong, she would never see him again, and she knew it. But she had to chance it; it was now or never. “Barney,” she said, “tomorrow we’re going to get married.”

Barney’s disbelief grew. “Married?”

“Unless you don’t want to.”

“Fay! I never thought—”

“I think I know what you thought, darling. I thought the same thing. And then I thought how foolish we both were, if we were in love with each other and never said anything…”

Barney closed his eyes. He had to be dreaming; out of his mind. That big Armando had hit him harder than he had thought. His brains were scrambled. What would Fay be doing at a fight? And saying she loved him! It was a dream he had often had, imagining a scene just exactly like that one, with her saying she loved him. But it would never happen. He apparently had gotten a concussion. He only hoped Dr. Mathews knew how to fix him up; with the money he had won he had too much to do without wasting time recovering.

But when he opened his eyes again, there was Fay, still looking down at him with an odd combination of worry and pride. Barney swallowed and pressed his broken hand against the floorboards of the cart; the pain made him realize he wasn’t dreaming. He swallowed. “Did you say you loved me?”

“I think I have since I first met you on the trail,” she said simply.

“Oh, Fay!” He felt tears sting his eyes. “Don’t make fun of me!”