Hughes Thomas
Tom Brown at Rugby
CHAPTER V
THE FIGHT
"Surgebat Macnevisius
Et mox jactabat ultro,
Pugnabo tuâ gratiâ
Feroci hoc Mactwoltro." —
Etonian.
FIGHTING IN GENERAL
There is a certain sort of fellow – we who are used to studying boys all know him well enough – of whom you can predicate590 with almost positive certainty, after he has been a month at school, that he is sure to have a fight, and with almost equal certainty that he will have but one. Tom Brown was one of these; and as it is our well-weighed intention to give a full, true, and correct account of Tom's only single combat with a schoolfellow in the manner of our old friend Bell's Life,591 let those young persons whose stomachs are not strong, or who think a good set-to with the weapons which God has given us all, an uncivilized, unchristian, or ungentlemanly affair, just skip this chapter at once, for it won't be to their taste.
It was not at all usual in those days for two School-house boys to have a fight. Of course there were exceptions, when some cross-grained, hard-headed fellow came up who would never be happy unless he was quarrelling with his nearest neighbors, or when there was some class dispute between the fifth form and the fags, for instance, which required blood-letting; and a champion was picked out on each side tacitly,592 who settled the matter by a good hearty mill.593 But, for the most part, the constant use of those surest keepers of the peace, the boxing gloves, kept the School-house boys from fighting one another. Two or three nights in every week the gloves were brought out, either in the hall or fifth form room; and every boy who was ever likely to fight at all knew all his neighbors' prowess perfectly well, and could tell to a nicety what chance he would have in a stand-up fight with any other boy in the house. But, of course, no such experience could be gotten as regarded boys in other houses; and as most of the other houses were more or less jealous of the School-house, collisions were frequent.
After all, what would life be without fighting, I should like to know? From the cradle to the grave, fighting, rightly understood, is the business, the real, highest, honestest business of every son of man. Every one who is worth his salt has his enemies, who must be beaten, be they evil thoughts and habits in himself or spiritual wickedness in high places, or Russians, or Border-ruffians, or Bill, Tom, or Harry, who will not let him live his life in quiet till he has thrashed them.
It is no good for Quakers, or any other body of men, to uplift their voices against fighting. Human nature is too strong for them, and they don't follow their own precepts. Every soul of them is doing his own piece of fighting, somehow and somewhere. The world might be a better world without fighting, for anything I know, but it wouldn't be our world; and therefore I am dead against crying peace when there is no peace, and isn't meant to be. I am as sorry as any man to see folks fighting the wrong people and the wrong things, but I'd a deal sooner see them doing that, than that they should have no fight in them. So having recorded, and being about to record, my hero's fights of all sorts, with all sorts of enemies, I shall now proceed to give an account of his passage-at-arms with the only one of his school-fellows whom he ever had to encounter in this manner.
HOW THE FIGHT AROSE
It was drawing toward the close of Arthur's first half-year, and the May evenings were lengthening out. Locking-up was not till eight o'clock, and everybody was beginning to talk about what he would do in the holidays. The shell, in which form all our dramatis personæ594 now are, were reading amongst other things the last book of Homer's "Iliad,"595 and had worked through it as far as the speeches of the women over Hector's596 body. It is a whole school-day, and four or five of the School-house boys (amongst whom are Arthur, Tom, and East) are preparing third lesson together. They have finished the regulation forty lines, and are for the most part getting very tired, notwithstanding the exquisite pathos of Helen's597 lamentation. And now several long four-syllable words come together, and the boy with the dictionary strikes work.
"I am not going to look out any more words," says he; "we've done the quantity. Ten to one we sha'n't get so far. Let's go out into the close."
"Come along, boys," cries East, always ready to leave "the grind," as he called it; "our old coach598 is laid up, you know, and we shall have one of the new masters, who's sure to go slow and let us down easy."
So an adjournment to the close was carried nem con.,599 little Arthur not daring to uplift his voice; but, being deeply interested in what they were reading, stayed quietly behind, and learned on for his own pleasure.
As East had said, the regular master of the form was unwell, and they were to be heard by one of the new masters, quite a young man, who had only just left the university. Certainly it would be hard lines, if, by dawdling as much as possible in coming in and taking their places, entering into long-winded explanations of what was the usual course of the regular master of the form, and others of the stock contrivances of boys for wasting time in school, they could not spin out the lesson so that he should not work them through more than the forty lines; as to which quantity there was a perpetual fight going on between the master and his form, the latter insisting, and enforcing by passive resistance, that it was the prescribed quantity of Homer for a shell lesson,600 the former that there was no fixed quantity, but that they must always be ready to go on to fifty or sixty lines if there were time within the hour. However, notwithstanding all their efforts, the new master got on horribly quick; he seemed to have the bad taste to be really interested in the lesson, and to be trying to work them up into something like appreciation of it, giving them good spirited English words, instead of the wretched bald stuff into which they rendered poor old Homer, and construing over each piece himself to them, after each boy, to show them how it should be done.
Now the clock strikes the three-quarters; there is only a quarter of an hour more, but the forty lines are all but done. So the boys, one after another, who are called up, stick more and more, and make balder and even more bald work of it. The poor young master is pretty near beat by this time, and feels ready to knock his head against the wall, or his fingers against somebody else's head. So he gives up altogether the lower and middle parts of the form, and looks around in despair at the boys on the top bench, to see if there is one out of whom he can strike a spark or two, and who will be too chivalrous601 to murder the most beautiful utterances of the most beautiful woman of the old world. His eye rests on Arthur, and he calls him up to finish construing Helen's speech. Whereupon all the other boys draw long breaths, and begin to stare about and take it easy. They are all safe; Arthur is at the head of the form, and sure to be able to construe, and that will tide on safely till the hour strikes.
Arthur proceeds to read out the passage in Greek before construing it, as the custom is. Tom, who isn't paying much attention, is suddenly caught by the falter in his voice as he reads the two lines: —
[Greek: "alla su ton g' epeessi paraiphamenos katerukes, sê t' aganophrosunê kai sois aganois epeessin."]602
He looks up at Arthur. "Why, bless us," thinks he, "what can be the matter with the young un? He's never going to get floored! He's sure to have learnt to the end!" Next moment he is reassured by the spirited tone in which Arthur begins construing, and betakes himself to drawing dogs' heads in his note-book, while the master, evidently enjoying the change, turns his back on the middle bench, and stands before Arthur, beating a sort of time with his hand and foot, and saying: "Yes, yes," "Very well," as Arthur goes on.
But as he nears the fatal two lines, Tom catches that falter, and again looks up. He sees that there is something the matter: Arthur can hardly get on at all. What can it be?
Suddenly at this point Arthur breaks down altogether, and fairly bursts out crying, and dashes the cuff of his jacket across his eyes, blushing up to the roots of his hair, and feeling as if he should like to go down suddenly through the floor. The whole form are taken aback; most of them stare stupidly at him, while those who are gifted with presence of mind find their places, and look steadily at their books, in hopes of not catching the master's eye, and getting called up in Arthur's place.
The master looked puzzled for a moment, and then seeing, as the fact is, that the boy is really affected to tears by the most touching thing in Homer, perhaps in all profane603 poetry put together, steps up to him and lays his hand kindly on his shoulder, saying: "Never mind, my little man, you've construed very well. Stop a minute, there's no hurry."
Now, as luck would have it, there sat next above Tom on that day, in the middle bench of the form, a big boy, by name Williams, generally supposed to be the cock of the shell, therefore of all the schools below the fifths. The small boys, who are great speculators on the prowess of their elders, used to hold forth to one another about Williams's great strength, and to discuss whether East or Brown would take a licking from him. He was called Slogger604 Williams, from the force with which it was supposed he could hit. In the main, he was a rough, good-natured fellow enough, but very much alive to his own dignity. He reckoned himself the king of the form, and kept up his position with the strong hand, especially in the matter of forcing boys not to construe more than the legitimate forty lines. He had already grunted and grumbled to himself, when Arthur went on reading beyond the forty lines. But now that he had broken down just in the middle of all the long words, the Slogger's wrath was fairly aroused.
"Sneaking little brute," muttered he, regardless of prudence, "clapping on the water-works just in the hardest place; see if I don't punch his head after fourth lesson."
"Whose?" said Tom, to whom the remark seemed addressed.
"Why, that little sneak Arthur's," replied Williams.
"No, you sha'n't," said Tom.
"Hullo!" exclaimed Williams, looking at Tom with great surprise for a moment, and then giving him a sudden dig in the ribs with his elbow, which sent Tom's book flying on to the floor, and called the attention of the master, who turned suddenly round, and seeing the state of things, said: —
"Williams, go down three places, and then go on."
The Slogger found his legs very slowly, and proceeded to go below Tom and two other boys with great disgust, and then, turning round and facing the master, said: "I haven't learnt any more, sir; our lesson is only forty lines."
"Is that so?" said the master, appealing generally to the top bench. No answer.
"Who is the head boy of the form?" said he, waxing wroth.
"Arthur, sir," answered three or four boys, indicating our friend.
"Oh, your name's Arthur. Well, now, what is the length of your regular lesson?"
Arthur hesitated a moment, and then said: "We call it only forty lines, sir."
"How do you mean, you call it?"
"Well, sir, Mr. Graham says we aren't to stop there, when there's time to construe more."
"I understand," said the master. "Williams, go down three more places, and write me out the lesson in Greek and English. And now, Arthur, finish construing."
"Oh, would I be in Arthur's shoes after fourth lesson?" said the little boys to one another: but Arthur finished Helen's speech without any further catastrophe, and the clock struck four, which ended third lesson.
Another hour was occupied in preparing and saying fourth lesson, during which Williams was bottling up his wrath; and when five struck, and the lessons for the day were over, he prepared to take summary605 vengeance on the innocent cause of his misfortune.
THE CHALLENGE
Tom was detained in school a few minutes after the rest, and on coming out into the quadrangle, the first thing he saw was a small ring of boys, applauding Williams, who was holding Arthur by the collar.
"There, you young sneak," said he, giving Arthur a cuff on the head with his other hand, "what made you say that – "
"Hullo!" said Tom, shouldering into the crowd, "you drop that, Williams; you sha'n't touch him."
"Who'll stop me?" said the Slogger, raising his hand again.
"I," said Tom; and suiting the action to the word, he struck the arm which held Arthur's arm so sharply that the Slogger dropped it with a start, and turned the full current of his wrath on Tom.
"Will you fight?"
"Yes, of course."
"Huzzah! there is going to be a fight between Slogger Williams and Tom Brown."
The news ran like wildfire about, and many boys who were on their way to tea at their several houses turned back, and sought the back of the chapel, where the fights came off.
"Just run and tell East to come and back me," said Tom, to a small School-house boy, who was off like a rocket to Harrowell's, just stopping for a moment to poke his head into the School-house hall, where the lower boys were already at tea, and singing out: "Fight! Tom Brown and Slogger Williams."
Up start half the boys at once, leaving bread, eggs, butter, sprats606, and all the rest to take care of themselves. The greater part of the remainder follow in a minute, after swallowing their tea, carrying their food in their hands to consume as they go. Three or four only remain, who steal the butter of the more impetuous, and make to themselves an unctuous607 feast.
In another minute East and Martin tear through the quadrangle, carrying a sponge, and arrive at the scene of action just as the combatants are beginning to strip.
Tom felt he had got his work cut out608 for him, as he stripped off his jacket, waistcoat, and braces. East tied his handkerchief round his waist, and rolled up his shirt-sleeves for him. "Now, old boy, don't you open your mouth to say a word, or try to help yourself a bit – we'll do all that; you keep all your breath and strength for the Slogger." Martin meanwhile folded the clothes, and put them under the chapel rails; and now Tom, with East to handle him, and Martin to give him a knee,609 steps out on the turf, and is ready for all that may come; and here is the Slogger too, all stripped, and thirsting for the fray.
EARLY ROUNDS
It doesn't look a fair match at first glance; Williams is nearly two inches taller, and probably a long year older than his opponent, and he is very strongly made about the arms and shoulders – "peels well," as the little knot of big fifth-form boys, the amateurs,610 say; who stand outside the ring of little boys, looking complacently on, but taking no active part in the proceedings. But down below he is not so good by any means; no spring from the loins, and feeblish, not to say shipwrecky about the knees. Tom, on the contrary, though not half so strong in the arms, is good all over, straight, hard, and springy, from neck to ankle, better perhaps in his legs than anywhere. Besides, you can see by the clear white of his eye, and fresh bright look of his skin, that he is in tip-top training, able to do all he knows; while the Slogger looks rather sodden,611 as if he didn't take much exercise and ate too much tuck.612 The time-keeper is chosen, a large ring made, and the two stand up opposite one another for a moment, giving us time just to make our little observations.
"If Tom'll only condescend to fight with his head and heels," as East murmurs to Martin, "we shall do."
But seemingly he won't, for there he goes in, making play613 with both hands. Hard all,614 is the word; the two stand to one another like men; rally follows rally in quick succession, each fighting as if he thought to finish the whole thing out of hand. "Can't last at this rate," say the knowing ones, while the partisans615 of each make the air ring with their shouts and counter-shouts of encouragement, approval and defiance.
"Take it easy, take it easy – keep away, let him come after you," implores East, as he wipes Tom's face after the first round with a wet sponge, while he sits back on Martin's knee, supported by the Madman's long arms, which tremble a little from excitement.
"Time's up," calls the time-keeper.
"There he goes again, hang it all!" growled East, as his man is at it again as hard as ever. A very severe round follows, in which Tom gets out and out the worst of it, and is at last hit clean off his legs, and deposited on the grass by a right-hander from the Slogger.
Loud shouts rise from the boys of Slogger's house and the School-house are silent and vicious, ready to pick quarrels anywhere.
"Two to one in half-crowns on the big un," says Rattle, one of the amateurs, a tall fellow, in thunder-and-lightning616 waistcoat, and puffy, good-natured face.
"Done!" says Groove, another amateur of quieter look, taking out his note-book to enter it, for our friend Rattle sometimes forgets these little things.
HEAD FIGHTING
Meantime East is freshening up Tom with the sponges for next round, and has set two other boys to rub his hands.
"Tom, old boy," whispers he, "this may be fun for you, but it's death to me. He'll hit all the fight out of you in another five minutes, and then I shall go and drown myself in the Island ditch. Feint617 him – use your legs! draw him about! he'll lose his wind then in no time, and you can go into him. Hit at his body too; take care of his frontispiece618 by and by."
Tom felt the wisdom of the counsel, and saw already that he couldn't go in and finish the Slogger off at mere hammer and tongs, so changed his tactics completely in the third round. He now fights cautiously, getting away from and parrying619 the Slogger's lunging hits,620 instead of trying to counter,621 and leading his enemy a dance all round the ring after him. "He's funking – go in, Williams;" "Catch him up;" "Finish him off," screamed the small boys of the Slogger party.
"Just what we want," thinks East, chuckling to himself, as he sees Williams, excited by these shouts and thinking the game in his own hands, blowing himself in his exertions to get close quarters again, while Tom is keeping away with perfect ease.
They quarter622 over the ground again and again, Tom always on the defensive.
The Slogger pulls up at last for a moment, fairly blown.623
"Now, then, Tom," sings out East, dancing with delight. Tom goes in in a twinkling, and hits two heavy body-blows, and gets away again before the Slogger can catch his wind; which when he does he rushes with blind fury at Tom, and being skilfully parried and avoided, overreaches himself and falls on his face, amidst terrific cheers from the School-house boys.
"Double your two to one?" says Groove to Rattle, note-book in hand.
"Stop a bit," says that hero, looking uncomfortably at Williams, who is puffing away on his second's knee, winded624 enough, but little the worse in any other way.
STEADY ALL
After another round the Slogger too seems to see that he can't go in and win right off, and has met his match or thereabouts. So he too begins to use his head,625 and tries to make Tom lose his patience, and come in before his time. And so the fight sways on, now one, and now the other getting a trifling pull.626
Tom's face begins to look very one-sided, – there are little queer bumps on his forehead, and his mouth is bleeding; but East keeps the wet sponge going so scientifically that he comes up looking as fresh and bright as ever. Williams is only slightly marked in the face, but by the nervous movement of his elbows you can see that Tom's body-blows are telling. In fact, half the vice of the Slogger's hitting is neutralized, for he daren't lunge out freely for fear of exposing his sides. It is too interesting by this time for much shouting, and the whole ring is very quiet.
"All right, Tommy," whispers East; "hold on's the horse that's to win. We've got the last. Keep your head,627 old boy."
But where is Arthur all this time? Words cannot paint the poor little fellow's distress. He couldn't muster courage to come up to the ring, but wandered up and down from the great fives' court to the corner of the chapel rails – now trying to make up his mind to throw himself between them, and try to stop them; then thinking of running in and telling his friend Mary, who he knew would instantly report to the Doctor. The stories he had heard of men being killed in prize fights rose up horribly before him.
Once only, when the shouts of "Well done, Brown!" "Huzzah for the School-house!" rose higher than ever, he ventured up to the ring, thinking the victory was won. Catching sight of Tom's face in the state I have described, all fear of consequences vanishing out of his mind, he rushed straight off to the matron's room, beseeching her to get the fight stopped, or he should die.
