Читать книгу The Crimson West - Alex Philip - Страница 5

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While on his daily run around Stanley Park the next afternoon Donald was attracted by a horse and rider standing on Prospect Point. The rider was interested in a huge white liner ploughing her way through the Narrows, bucking a head tide. The horse, a noble animal, with full mane and tail, was restive, rocking and prancing in his eagerness to be off.

When Donald lifted his eyes to the rider he saw a beautiful, haughty face with skin of a milky whiteness, a heavy mass of dark brown hair, neatly coiffed under a trim riding hat, and a pair of wonderful brown eyes that suddenly grew cold.

A shower of dirt and pebbles stung Donald’s face as the horse was swung about as though on a pivot and with its rider was off like the wind.

“A thoroughbred,” he exclaimed, as he watched the rider until she turned a corner in the drive. “Two of them! And she thinks I am a low-down masher,” he added ruefully.

That afternoon he went through fifteen rounds of boxing, finishing strong and fresh to tackle pulleys and punching-bag.

Andy was joyful. “It will never go twenty rounds, me lad. That straight left of yours alone would stop ’im in ’arf that time.”

“This is my last day of road-work,” remarked Donald to his friend on Friday afternoon, as he slipped on his running-shoes.

As he and Douglas neared Prospect Point Donald’s thoughts turned to the girl of yesterday. “She was haughty as a princess.” Unwittingly he had spoken his musings aloud.

“What’s that?” queried his companion.

“I was talking to myself,” laughed Donald.

“Bad sign! You are either in love or old age has overtaken you. Too bad!” Douglas wagged his head sadly.

“I may as well tell you,” confided Donald; “I saw a Greek goddess mounted on an Arabian charger here yesterday.”

Douglas threw out his hands tragically. “Donald, my poor friend! I am afraid that I hit you too hard in that last round,” he said in a voice of mock compassion.

Donald stopped short. “Look!” he cried, pointing excitedly, “there she is!”

The girl sat gracefully erect on the big horse, gazing down at the rushing tide.

“I’ll be jiggered!” exclaimed Douglas.

“Don’t blame you, but isn’t she a peach?” said Donald admiringly.

Douglas burst out laughing. “Do you know who that is?” he asked with a peculiar inflection.

“I told you—a Greek goddess, mount——”

“That’s my sister Janet,” interrupted Douglas.

Donald’s mouth opened. He stared at his friend. “Your what?” he exploded.

“Oh, I forgot! Poor fellow!” said Douglas, solicitously, as his face assumed a mournful expression. “I’ll certainly have to pull my punches hereafter.” He leaned toward Donald and placed his lips close to his ear. “S-i-s-t-e-r,” he spelled slowly. “Does the old bean grasp it?”

“Cut the comedy,” growled Donald as he jerked Douglas to the side of the road out of sight of the equestrienne. “Good heavens! Your sister!” he groaned, “and she thinks I am a masher.”

“Why should she think that of you?”

Donald told him of yesterday’s occurrence.

“This is great!” chuckled Douglas. “Come and meet my sister, Donald. I’ll tell her that you can’t help flirting, and that will fix things up all right. I’ll call her.” He grinned facetiously.

“Don’t you dare! You——” Donald warned.

Douglas avoided Donald’s wild clutch, ran to the centre of the road and waved his arm.

“Oh, Janet!” he shouted.

Donald shook an angry fist at his tormentor and sprang to the shelter of the trees. There was a thud of hoofs, a spattering of gravel, and the sound of creaking leather.

“What in the world are you doing here in that dress, Doug?” asked Janet.

“Janet,” said her brother in a low, mysterious voice, “I’ve got the fellow that tried to flirt with you yesterday; he’s in there.” He pointed to the bush. “The poor fellow is a confirmed flirt; has it in its worst form. I beg of you, Sister, be lenient, be merciful. He thinks you are a Greek goddess.” He tapped his forehead significantly.

Donald cursed the irrepressible youth’s sense of humour. If he could have reached the humorist at that moment he would have pitched him into the Inlet without compunction.

Janet eyed her brother with disapproval. “What are you talking about, Doug? Have you taken leave of your senses entirely?”

“I will bring forth the erring knight for you to censure,” rejoined her brother, bowing low in exaggerated deference. “Ho!” he shouted, “leave thy woodsy bower, Sir Don, the goddess awaits thee.”

Seething inwardly, Donald tried to appear dignified as he stepped to the road, but the attempt was a dismal failure. How could one approach anything like dignity when dressed in a pair of running trunks, a torn and frayed jersey, socks turned down over a pair of dirty tennis shoes, and without hat or coat? All this added to the fact that he faced a battery of two big brown eyes, possessed by a lovely girl immaculately dressed, who thought him a masher. The greatest actor in the world would fail to register dignity under such conditions. He had a confused remembrance of a jumble of words that went for a formal introduction. He felt his face hot, and knew he was blushing furiously, which did not add to his composure.

The girl looked down curiously, but not without interest, at the embarrassed young man.

Donald finally mustered courage to glance up at the face above him. The deep brown eyes regarding him held just a trace of humour. The full red lips were parted to show a flash of white, even teeth.

“It is a pleasure to meet you even under such inauspicious circumstances,” stammered Donald. He turned to glare at the grinning cause of his discomfiture. “I would suggest, Miss Rennie, that you have a doctor waiting at your home, as I intend to commit mayhem on the person of your brother as soon as you have gone.”

Janet laughed. “I will go now to give you the chance.” With a playful flick of her whip toward Douglas, she was off like an arrow.

Donald turned to his friend. “I hope that you are satisfied now that you have made an ass out of me.”

“Quite happy, old dear. I didn’t find it a hard job.”

Donald laughed. “I’ll race you to the gym.”

As the bout was to take place on Monday, this was to be the last day of training. The fans who had flocked to see Donald in his work-outs admitted that he had wonderful speed, but would be unable to stay the twenty rounds with the formidable Garrieau. The verdict of the knowing ones was that it would take more than a snappy left hand to lift the laurels from the champion who possessed the virtue of the terrible punch.

To the boxer training is a trying ordeal. The daily grind of road-work, bag-punching, rope-skipping and pulley work becomes monotonous. The nerves become frayed, and if the weight has to be materially reduced the boxer develops a bad temper and is anything but a cheerful companion.

As Donald prepared for bed that night he thought with relief that the morrow would be a day of rest. “I’ll be glad when it’s over,” he mused. His meditations were interrupted by a rapping on the door. In answer to his invitation to come in, the door opened and a small man of unprepossessing appearance entered.

The visitor was indeed a most repulsive man, of uncertain age, and with skin of a sickly yellow. One eye was sightless, which he ascribed to an accident during a football game. Those familiar with his shady past averred that it was caused by the vigorous application of an adversary’s thumb during a bar-room brawl.

“I’m Garrieau’s manager,” he said importantly.

“What do you want?” demanded Donald shortly.

“Now, see here, Kid. We’ve got a dead cinch to cop de change. It’s dis way. Youse is a amachoor widout a chance in de woild to beat de Slugger. Get me? Well, dere ain’t a bit of sense of de Slugger beatin’ you up for nuttin’, so we frames de bout. De heavy bettin’ will be on de Slugger, so we fixes it for de Slugger to take de big flop. Get me? We let’s it go ’till about de tent’ round, so’s to give de fans a run for dere money. We gets all de money dat we can beg, borrow and steal and puts it on you to win. We puts up a slam-bang fight. You can take de drop a couple of times, and den down goes de Slugger. De fans will just eat it up. De tent’ round will find you stannin’ toe to toe, den de last minute you sends home de fake sleep-punch. De boobs will t’ink it’s on de square. Den in a mont’ we gets a return fight, and we pulls off de ‘grudge stuff’ and we packs de house. Of course, we have to win den, and all our money will be placed on de Slugger. Dat means dat we cop de change twice. Get me?” His ugly lips parted in what he intended as an ingratiating smile. “You come up to de club to-morrow and we rehearses de whole t’ing. Get me?”

Donald’s face turned pale with rage. “I ‘get you,’ you damned little rat!” he rasped. Seizing the surprised Pursell by the collar, he jerked him to his feet, dragged him to the door, and threw him out with such force that he struck the wall with a thump and fell in a heap on the floor.

Pursell rose with a snarl that showed his yellow teeth. A look of bestial hate shot from the one gleaming orb. “We’ll kill you Monday, you——” The air was filled with the vilest objurgations.

Closing the door, Donald walked to the windows and opened them wide, as though to rid the room of the air his visitor had breathed. “I never dreamed there was so much rottenness in the shape of a human being,” he said disgustedly.

At the same hour, at the other side of the city, Douglas was also entertaining a visitor, but of a very different type. He had just entered his room when he heard his sister’s voice.

“May I come in a minute, Doug?” Janet came to the point quickly. “Who is this Mr. McLean who was with you to-day?”

“Oh, that was—er—Donald McLean,” he answered evasively.

“You know what I mean. Who is he? What is he? Where does he come from?”

“I’ll look him up in Bradstreet’s.”

“Do be serious, Doug.”

“Is it a serious matter, Sis?”

“I think he is interesting,” she replied hesitatingly.

“So do I. I liked him the first time I saw him,” said Douglas warmly.

“Well, you haven’t answered my questions yet,” persisted Janet.

For all his fluency of speech Douglas was for the moment nonplussed. “Let’s see—er—what was the first question?” He was sparring for time.

“Don’t quibble, Doug. Where did you meet him?”

“I met him a long time ago, through an intimate friend by the name of Pettray. McLean is his partner. Firm name McLean and Pettray.”

“What is their business?”

“Oh—er—glove business.”

There was an interval of silence. “I’m not a bad little liar,” thought Douglas. “I wonder if she’s finished.” He yawned strenuously and stretched his arms. “My! I’m sleepy,” he said.

Janet rose slowly and moved toward the door. “Are you going to ask him out some time?” she inquired.

“Sure thing!”

At the door she turned. “Will you let me know when he is coming?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Good-night, Doug.”

“Good-night, Sis.”

Douglas stood for a while staring into nothingness. “I don’t blame her,” he said aloud. “I don’t know anything about him, but I’ll bet he is a real man.”