." No man knew better than the great
and terrible Crouch what real fighting meant, and what heavy blows
might be given even with such apparently harmless weapons as stuffed
and padded gloves. He pretended, and only pretended, to comply with his
patron's request. Geoffrey rewarded him for his polite forbearance by
knocking him down. The great and terrible rose with unruffled composure.
"Well hit, Sir!" he said. "Try it with the other hand now." Geoffrey's
temper was not under similar control. Invoking everlasting destruction
on the frequently-blackened eyes of Crouch, he threatened instant
withdrawal of his patronage and support unless the polite pugilist
hit, then and there, as hard as he could. The hero of a hundred fights
quailed at the dreadful prospect. "I've got a family to support,"
remarked Crouch. "If you _will_ have it, Sir--there it is!" The fall of
Geoffrey followed, and shook the house. He was on his legs again in an
instant--not satisfied even yet. "None of your body-hitting!" he roared.
"Stick to my head. Thunder and lightning! explosion and blood! Knock it
out of me! Stick to the head!" Obedient Crouch stuck to the head.
The two gave and took blows which would have stunned--possibly have
killed--any civilized member of the community. Now on one side of
his patron's iron skull, and now on the other, the hammering of the
prize-fighter's gloves fell, thump upon thump, horrible to hear--until
even Geoffrey himself had had enough of it. "Thank you, Crouch," he
said, speaking civilly to the man for the first time. "That will do. I
feel nice and clear again." He shook his head two or three times, he was
rubbed down like a horse by the professional runner; he drank a mighty
draught of malt liquor; he recovered his good-humor as if by magic.
"Want the pen and ink, Sir?" inquired his pedestrian host. "Not I!"
answered Geoffrey. "The muddle's out of me now. Pen and ink be hanged!
I shall look up some of our fellows, and go to the play." He left the
public house in the happiest condition of mental calm. Inspired by the
stimulant application of Crouch's gloves, his torpid cunning had been
shaken up into excellent working order at last. Write to Anne? Who but a
fool would write to such a woman as that until he was forced to it? Wait
and see what the chances of the next eight-and-forty hours might bring
forth, and then write to her, or desert her, as the event might decide.
It lay in a nut-shell, if you could only see it.