Читать книгу THE COLLECTED WORKS OF GEORGE BERNARD SHAW - George Bernard Shaw - Страница 9

There was at this time in the city of Melbourne, in Australia, a wooden building, above the door of which was a board inscribed “GYMNASIUM AND SCHOOL OF ARMS.” In the long, narrow entry hung a framed manuscript which set forth that Ned Skene, ex-champion of England and the colonies, was to be heard of within daily by gentlemen desirous of becoming proficient in the art of self-defence. Also the terms on which Mrs. Skene, assisted by a competent staff of professors, would give lessons in dancing, deportment, and calisthenics.

One evening a man sat smoking on a common wooden chair outside the door of this establishment. On the ground beside him were some tin tacks and a hammer, with which he had just nailed to the doorpost a card on which was written in a woman’s handwriting: “WANTED A MALE ATTENDANT WHO CAN KEEP ACCOUNTS. INQUIRE WITHIN.” The smoker was a powerful man, with a thick neck that swelled out beneath his broad, flat ear-lobes. He had small eyes, and large teeth, over which his lips were slightly parted in a goodhumored but cunning smile. His hair was black and close-cut; his skin indurated; and the bridge of his nose smashed level with his face. The tip, however, was uninjured. It was squab and glossy, and, by giving the whole feature an air of being on the point of expanding to its original shape, produced a snubbed expression which relieved the otherwise formidable aspect of the man, and recommended him as probably a modest and affable fellow when sober and unprovoked. He seemed about fifty years of age, and was clad in a straw hat and a suit of white linen.

He had just finished his pipe when a youth stopped to read the card on the doorpost. This youth was attired in a coarse sailor’s jersey and a pair of gray tweed trousers, which he had considerably outgrown.

“Looking for a job?” inquired the ex-champion of England and the colonies.

The youth blushed and replied, “Yes. I should like to get something to do.”

Mr. Skene stared at him with stern curiosity. His piofessional pursuits had familiarized him with the manners and speech of English gentlemen, and he immediately recognized the shabby sailor lad as one of that class.

“Perhaps you’re a scholar,” said the prizefighter, after a moment’s reflection.

“I have been at school; but I didn’t learn much there,” replied the youth. “I think I could bookkeep by double entry,” he added, glancing at the card.

“Double entry! What’s that?”

“It’s the way merchants’ books are kept. It is called so because everything is entered twice over.”

“Ah!” said Skene, unfavorably impressed by the system; “once is enough for me. What’s your weight?”

“I don’t know,” said the lad, with a grin.

“Not know your own weight!” exclaimed Skene. “That ain’t the way to get on in life.”

“I haven’t been weighed since I was in England,” said the other, beginning to get the better of his shyness. “I was eight stone four then; so you see I am only a light-weight.”

“And what do you know about light-weights? Perhaps, being so well educated, you know how to fight. Eh?”

“I don’t think I could fight you,” said the youth, with another grin.

Skene chuckled; and the stranger, with boyish communicativeness, gave him an account of a real fight (meaning, apparently, one between professional pugilists) which he had seen in England. He went on to describe how he had himself knocked down a master with one blow when running away from school. Skene received this sceptically, and cross-examined the narrator as to the manner and effect of the blow, with the result of convincing himself that the story was true. At the end of a quarter of an hour the lad had commended himself so favorably by his conversation that the champion took him into the gymnasium, weighed him, measured him, and finally handed him a pair of boxing gloves and invited him to show what he was made of. The youth, though impressed by the prizefighter’s attitude with a hopeless sense of the impossibility of reaching him, rushed boldly at him several times, knocking his face on each occasion against Skene’s left fist, which seemed to be ubiquitous, and to have the property of imparting the consistency of iron to padded leather. At last the novice directed a frantic assault at the champion’s nose, rising on his toes in his excitement as he did so. Skene struck up the blow with his right arm, and the impetuous youth spun and stumbled away until he fell supine in a corner, rapping his head smartly on the floor at the same time. He rose with unabated cheerfulness and offered to continue the combat; but Skene declined any further exercise just then, and, much pleased with his novice’s game, promised to give him a scientific education and make a man of him.

The champion now sent for his wife, whom he revered as a preeminently sensible and well-mannered woman. The newcomer could see in her only a ridiculous dancing-mistress; but he treated her with great deference, and thereby improved the favorable opinion which Skene had already formed of him. He related to her how, after running away from school, he had made his way to Liverpool, gone to the docks, and contrived to hide himself on board a ship bound for Australia. Also how he had suffered severely from hunger and thirst before he discovered himself; and how, notwithstanding his unpopular position as stowaway, he had been fairly treated as soon as he had shown that he was willing to work. And in proof that he was still willing, and had profited by his maritime experience, he offered to sweep the floor of the gymnasium then and there. This proposal convinced the Skenes, who had listened to his story like children listening to a fairy tale, that he was not too much of a gentleman to do rough work, and it was presently arranged that he should thenceforth board and lodge with them, have five shillings a week for pocket-money, and be man-of-all-work, servant, gymnasium-attendant, clerk, and apprentice to the ex-champion of England and the colonies.

He soon found his bargain no easy one. The gymnasium was open from nine in the morning until eleven at night, and the athletic gentlemen who came there not only ordered him about without ceremony, but varied the monotony of being set at naught by the invincible Skene by practising what he taught them on the person of his apprentice, whom they pounded with great relish, and threw backwards, forwards, and over their shoulders as though he had been but a senseless effigy, provided for that purpose. Meanwhile the champion looked on and laughed, being too lazy to redeem his promise of teaching the novice to defend himself. The latter, however, watched the lessons which he saw daily given to others, and, before the end of a month, he so completely turned the tables on the amateur pugilists of Melbourne that Skene one day took occasion to remark that he was growing uncommon clever, but that gentlemen liked to be played easy with, and that he should be careful not to knock them about too much. Besides these bodily exertions, he had to keep account of gloves and foils sold and bought, and of the fees due both to Mr. and Mrs. Skene. This was the most irksome part of his duty; for he wrote a large, schoolboy hand, and was not quick at figures. When he at last began to assist his master in giving lessons the accounts had fallen into arrear, and Mrs. Skene had to resume her former care of them; a circumstance which gratified her husband, who regarded it as a fresh triumph of her superior intelligence. Then a Chinaman was engaged to do the more menial work of the establishment. “Skene’s novice,” as he was now generally called, was elevated to the rank of assistant professor to the champion, and became a person of some consequence in the gymnasium.

He had been there more than nine months, and had developed from an active youth into an athletic young man of eighteen, when an important conversation took place between him and his principal. It was evening, and the only persons in the gymnasium were Ned Skene, who sat smoking at his ease with his coat off, and the novice, who had just come downstairs from his bedroom, where he had been preparing for a visit to the theatre.

“Well, my gentleman,” said Skene, mockingly; “you’re a fancy man, you are. Gloves too! They’re too small for you. Don’t you get hittin’ nobody with them on, or you’ll mebbe sprain your wrist.”

“Not much fear of that,” said the novice, looking at his watch, and, finding that he had some minutes to spare, sitting down opposite Skene.

“No,” assented the champion. “When you rise to be a regular professional you won’t care to spar with nobody without you’re well paid for it.”

“I may say I am in the profession already. You don’t call me an amateur, do you?”

“Oh, no,” said Skene, soothingly; “not so bad as that. But mind you, my boy, I don’t call no man a fighting-man what ain’t been in the ring. You’re a sparrer, and a clever, pretty sparrer; but sparring ain’t the real thing. Some day, please God, we’ll make up a little match for you, and show what you can do without the gloves.”

“I would just as soon have the gloves off as on,” said the novice, a little sulkily.

“That’s because you have a heart as big as a lion,” said Skene, patting him on the shoulder. But the novice, who was accustomed to hear his master pay the same compliment to his patrons whenever they were seized with fits of boasting (which usually happened when they got beaten), looked obdurate and said nothing.

“Sam Ducket, of Milltown, was here to-day while you was out giving Captain Noble his lesson,” continued Skene, watching his apprentice’s face cunningly. “Now Sam is a real fighting-man, if you like.”

“I don’t think much of him. He’s a liar, for one thing.”

“That’s a failing of the profession. I don’t mind telling YOU so,” said Skene, mournfully. Now the novice had found out this for himself, already. He never, for instance, believed the accounts which his master gave of the accidents and conspiracies which had led to his being defeated three times in the ring. However, as Skene had won fifteen battles, his next remark was undeniable. “Men fight none the worse for being liars. Sam Ducket bet Ebony Muley in twenty minutes.”

“Yes,” said the novice, scornfully; “and what is Ebony Muley? A wretched old nigger nearly sixty years old, who is drunk seven days in the week, and would sell a fight for a glass of brandy! Ducket ought to have knocked him out of time in seventy seconds. Ducket has no science.”

“Not a bit,” said Ned. “But he has lots of game.”

“Pshaw! Come, now, Ned; you know as well as I do that that is one of the stalest commonplaces going. If a fellow knows how to box, they always say he has science but no pluck. If he doesn’t know his right hand from his left, they say that he isn’t clever but that he is full of game.”

Skene looked with secret wonder at his pupil, whose powers of observation and expression sometimes seemed to him almost to rival those of Mrs. Skene. “Sam was saying something like that to-day,” he remarked. “He says you’re only a sparrer, and that you’d fall down with fright if you was put into a twenty-four-foot ring.”

The novice flushed. “I wish I had been here when Sum Ducket said that.”

“Why, what could you ha’ done to him?” said Skene, his small eyes twinkling.

“I’d have punched his head; that’s what I could and would have done to him.”

“Why, man, he’d eat you.”

“He might. And he might eat you too, Ned, if he had salt enough with you. He talks big because he knows I have no money; and he pretends he won’t strip for less than fifty pounds a side.”

“No money!” cried Skene. “I know them as’ll make up fifty pound before twelve tomorrow for any man as I will answer for. There’d be a start for a young man! Why, my fust fight was for five shillings in Tott’nam Fields; and proud I was when I won it. I don’t want to set you on to fight a crack like Sam Ducket anyway against your inclinations; but don’t go for to say that money isn’t to be had. Let Ned Skene pint to a young man and say, ‘That’s the young man as Ned backs,’ and others will come for’ard — ay, crowds of ‘em.”

The novice hesitated. “Do you think I ought to, Ned?” he said.

“That ain’t for me to say,” said Skene, doggedly. “I know what I would ha’ said at your age. But perhaps you’re right to be cautious. I tell you the truth, I wouldn’t care to see you whipped by the like of Sam Ducket.”

“Will you train me if I challenge him?”

“Will I train you!” echoed Skene, rising with enthusiasm. “Ay will I train you, and put my money on you, too; and you shall knock fireworks out of him, my boy, as sure as my name’s Ned Skene.”

“Then,” cried the novice, reddening with excitement, “I’ll fight him. And if I lick him you will have to hand over your belt as champion of the colonies to me.”

“So I will,” said Skene, affectionately. “Don’t out late; and don’t for your life touch a drop of liquor. You must go into training tomorrow.”

This was Cashel Byron’s first professional engagement.