Free The Sugar Islands by Alec Waugh Page B

away from him, was the tall, elegant figure, lined and stoutened a little now by middle age, butgraceful enough still with its haughty manner and brocaded clothes, round which so many of his thoughts had centred. His father, and two yards away from him!
    And stepping over the ropes, he tossed the coppers into the ring.
    From behind him there was a murmur of surprise. Then a laugh. It was for this that the peasantry had waited.
    The boxer, his hands upon his hips, laughed too.
    â€˜So this is what I get, this,’ he cried. ‘No, I’m sorry, but I really can’t. You take back those five sous of yours. You’ll go down so easily that you’ll discourage the others. I’d rather you went out of the ring; I really would.’
    It was the strategy that he invariably adopted. He would madden his opponents by his jibes till they would rush hot-blooded at him, to be the victims of his science. But his taunts went so near the truth this time that they might well have been accepted literally.
    Roger, tall, well-built and straight though he might be, looked weak and puny beside this rough-hewn giant. A fact that he himself knew well enough as he stood there in the ring, with the peasants tittering behind and the burly boxer straddling in front. He had not the slightest doubt that within three minutes he would be stretched senseless on the ground. He knew that he did not stand a chance.
    â€˜All the same, I’ll make a show of it,’ he thought. ‘I’ll show them that I’m worth something.’
    His father’s eyes emboldened him.
    With an angry haste he tore off his jerkin and flung it on the ground.
    â€˜Now,’ he said, and swung a right hook at his opponent’s jaw.
    A second later he was floundering on his hands and knees upon the grass, with the giant in assumed good nature laughing uproariously above him.
    Roger had not realized that so heavy a man could be so quick upon his feet. His opponent stepped back quickly. The swing had missed by a full foot. Its impetus had half swung him off his feet. While he was off his balance, the boxer had pushed him lightly but shrewdly on the shoulder.
    â€˜Come now, come now,’ the boxer laughed, ‘that isn’t theway to fight. Don’t you think you’d better take that offer of mine, pick up those coins and run back with them to Mammy? You still can, you know. I don’t want to rob a baby.’
    His mind a mist, Roger stumbled to his feet. To be hurt, to be struck senseless, for that he had been prepared; but to be pushed over, to be laughed at, for that he had not bargained. I’ll show him,’ he thought. I’ll show him.’
    This time he was ready for his opponent’s speed. He knew that Victor, with his love of the crowd’s laughter, would try to repeat his effect. Once again Roger swung at his opponent’s jaw. Once again the boxer stepped back to dodge; but this time the swing had been no more than a feint. And as Victor stepped back, Roger came forward and crashed his left fist into the toothless, noseless face. It was a hard blow; hard enough to bark his knuckles. But it did not make Victor stop. It merely wiped from that brutal face the look of assumed geniality. Victor had not meant to be hit; he had not expected to be hit. He had planned to play with this raw stripling; to amuse the crowd at his expense; to make an exhibition of his own skill. It was his self-esteem that that blow had hurt. The thin lips set tighter over the toothless gums. A hard light came into the narrow eyes. ‘So that’s it, is it?’ he muttered. ‘Well, we’ll see.’
    He swayed forward, low-bent, his fists moving before his eyes. He half hit with his left, then with his right; then with unforeseen swiftness his left fist landed on the bridge of Roger’s nose. It was a stinging blow that brought the tears involuntarily into Roger’s eyes. Roger groped forward with his left. As he