Читать книгу The Mountain Fugitive - Max Brand - Страница 5

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The straight left, as all men know, is to boxing what rhythm is to poetry. It is the foundation upon which all the other beauties are based and erected; it is the chief substance which the true artist will use. Now, I had fought my way up through the ranks of valorous boys, each the making of a future tough-handed cow-puncher and bull-dogger. But in all that time I had never encountered, and I certainly had never mastered, the fine art of the straight left which starts with a forward drive of the body, and lands with a stiffened arm, the hand twisting over and landing with the fingers down, the line of wrist, shoulder, hip, and right heel being as nearly as possible in one line.

I, leaping in with eagerly flailing arms, found that straight left darting through my guard. It landed on my chin, and I felt as though I had raced in the darkness against a brick wall. My feet skidded from beneath me, and I sat down with a sickening jar.

Through rather glassy eyes I stared up to Father McGuire. He was in a strange condition. He was dancing back and forth with a little jerky, uneasy step that is never learned except on the floor of a gymnasium, with a skillful teacher guiding. His hands were raised to the correct position for renewing the encounter; his face was more flushed than ever, and a queer smile played around the corners of his mouth, while his eyes were literally filled with fire.

My second fall did not convince me any more than my first. It merely bewildered and infuriated me. It was a juggling trick that had put me down by chance, and in my strong young body I felt the existence of an infinite treasure of might. I bounded to my feet again and prepared to smash the priest to bits, no matter if I should have to hang for it.

So I closed with him, took a stinging blow that cut my cheek and knocked my head far back, and got my arms well around him. Now let sheer might tell its own story! Alas, it was like embracing a greased pig—to use an ancient and unsavory simile. The good priest slid or twisted from my embrace, and with a sudden grip, a sudden twist, he flung me over his hip and landed me on my head.

Through a partial daze I heard him shouting:

"Are you well named, boy? Are you a young lion? Are you a lion in heart? Then I am Daniel! I fear you not! But avoid me, if you wish to keep"

I whirled to my feet, a complete bulldog, now, savage for blood. I ran in through a rain of blows which stunned and cut and bruised me, but once more I came to grips with him. Once more I felt that sudden twisting of his body, which seemed to turn to iron under my touch; and suddenly I was down again. This time, in falling, the back of my head collided with the floor with a loud crash, and I was dropped into a deep well of blackness.

I recovered to find my face and breast and throat dripping with water, while out of the dim distance I heard a voice crooning:

"So, lad, and are you better now?"

The sense of where I was, what had happened, and how I had been beaten, rushed suddenly over me. I started up to my feet.

"I'll break your head, your trickster!" I yelled through swollen lips. "I'll"

"Ah, Leon,!" said the priest to me. "If you strike me now, Leon, you strike a lamb. Here am I!"

He opened his arms and presented himself patiently for the blow.

But I, struck dumb by this sudden change, and overwhelmed more than ever with the bitterest shame, broke into tears and hid my face in my hands. I found the arm of Father McGuire hooked beneath mine. He led me gently toward the house; I was too blinded by my tight-swollen eyes and my tears to see the way! I was too oppressed in spirit to resist him. The old woman met us at the back door.

She gasped at the sight of me, and I heard the priest say in his gentle voice:

"Our poor Leon, Mimsy. It is a shocking thing! We must take the very best care of him! Get a piece of raw beefsteak, Mimsy, and bring it at once to his room!"

So he took me up and made me lie down on the bed, whose covers he smoothed for me with a quick hand. Then he stretched a blanket over me and sat down by the bed.

"Ah, Leon," he said, patting my hand in his, "do not be ashamed. It is a science, lad, and nothing else. It is the science that makes the little man the equal of the big man—science of hands, science of brains. Work and patience and application will move mountains—even the mountains of a great heart and a warlike spirit, such as yours, my dear boy. Let us be friends!

"Let us be kind to one another! I did not know what was in you. But now I have seen it. There is a great lump of steel. It is not yet modeled; it is not a tool with a cutting edge or a striking face. It has neither been edged nor tempered; it has not been whetted; it has not been fitted to the hand. Give me your time and your trust and we shall do great things together. Give me your faith, Leon, and I shall make you a lion indeed!"

I heard him vaguely. My heart was too great and too thoroughly broken with shame, to heed all the meaning of his words at that moment; for I hated him then all the more, because he had beaten me down and then remained to soothe me.

Presently the good Mimsy hobbled up to the door, and the priest took from her what she brought. I was soon bandaged and padded; and the priest was sucking in his breath and making a clucking noise of commiseration and regret, as he saw how my bruises swelled and my cuts bled.

After he had finished, he begged me to rest easily and try to forgive him. Then he left me.

What I first thought of was waiting until the next midnight and then setting fire to the house in a dozen places to insure the destruction of the priest and Mimsy both—those witnesses to my humiliation. Then I determined to flee at once to my home. But I remembered how terribly my face was battered, and knew that I could not offer any suitable explanation. If it were known that the small hands of the little priest had brought me down and pommeled me, I felt that my reputation was lost forever. Last of all, I desired to die, and quit this vale of sorrows at once and forever.

The result of it all was that I saw myself condemned to remain at the priest's house—and remain very closely there—until my marks of battle had disappeared. And that might take two weeks! I decided to endure patiently and await my chance.

I saw little of Father McGuire on that day, but the next morning he roused me a little before five, as he had done before, and took me out to the chores. I submitted silently and went through with them one by one, he, all the while, giving directions in the most cheerful manner, as though there had never been anything but the best of good feeling between us.

After breakfast, for which I had acquired a good appetite, I was ushered into the library in my turn, and my books were placed before me.

It was not difficult work, at first; it required nothing but the expenditure of time and pains. I began again at the beginning, with first-grade work, which I scorned. I had to learn to write again. I had to learn to spell, again. I had to skim through simple arithmetic, in which my errors were caught up with a skillful eye. From half past eight until twelve o'clock I kept at this work.

Then we had lunch together, after which I washed and wiped the dishes, and was allowed a nap until two o'clock. After two o'clock, I had two hours and a half additional study. After that, Father McGuire sometimes came home and instructed me in certain branches of knowledge which I preferred very much to books. In other words, he unburdened himself of all the secrets which he had learned in his own youth from excellent boxing instructors.

He taught me the secrets of wrestling. For the first time I heard such terms as half-nelson, and hip lock. He fitted part of one of the sheds with athletic appliances and a padded floor where he and I struggled several days a week with the gloves or on the mat. There I battered the punching bag to gain speed; there I tussled with the sand bag to gain strength.

So the fortnight ended and my wounds from the first battle were healed.

I was equipped, by this time, with the beginning of a little furrow between my eyes—a mark of increased seriousness and an interest in life. I had stripped off five or six pounds of fat by my arduous labors. I had within me the pulse and the rioting spirit of a man in perfect physical condition.

I was now prepared to leave the priest forever. That day, accordingly, instead of going into the library to study, after breakfast, I went up to my room and gathered my belongings together. But when I had them bundled up, I paused and sat down to think things over.

The prospect of leaving Father McGuire was no longer so attractive. I spent an hour turning the thought back and forth through my mind, and I ended by going slowly down to the library. There I could not study. Noon came before I was aware, and the slender form of the priest appeared in the doorway. He came, as usual, to look at my morning's work, and when he saw that I had not touched pen to paper, I waited with a frown for an outburst.

Instead, he laid a friendly hand upon my shoulder. When I looked up hastily to him, I found that he was smiling upon me.

"I think that the time of storm and struggle is over, Leon," said he. "I think that you are prepared to like me almost half as well as I like you. Are you not?"

I have heard a great deal said of the sensitiveness of girls; but my observation leads me to conclude that boys are far more highly strung. At any rate, on this occasion, I had to look down suddenly to the paper before me, which I found obscured by a thick mist. But Father McGuire walked softly from the room without another word to me.