RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
Ladbroke (Lionel Day) Black (1877-1940) was an English writer and journalist who also wrote under the pseudonym Paul Urquhart. His life and career are summarised in the following entry in Steve Holland's Bear Alley blog:
Black, born in Burley-in-Wharfdale, Yorkshire, on 21 June 1877, was educated in Ireland and at Cambridge where he earned a B.A. He became assistant editor of The Phoenix in 1897 before moving to London in 1899 where he joined The Morning Herald as assistant editor in 1900. He later became assistant editor of the Echo in 1901, joint editor of Today, 1904-05, and special writer on the Weekly Dispatch, 1905-11. After a forgettable first novel, "A Muddied Oaf" (1902), co-written with Francis Rutter, Black collaborated on the collection "The Mantle of the Emperor" (1906) with Robert Lynd, later literary editor of the News Chronicle. He then produced a series of novels in collaboration with [Thomas] Meech under the name Paul Urquhart, beginning with "The Eagles" (1906). Black also wrote for various magazines and newspapers, sometimes using the pen-name Lionel Day. His books ranged from romances to Sexton Blake detective yarns. His recreations included sports (boxing and rugby), reading and long walks. He lived in Wendover, Bucks, for many years and was Chairman of the Mid-Bucks Liberal Party in 1922-24. He died on 27 July 1940, aged 63, survived by his wife (Margaret, née Ambrose), two sons and two daughters."
SECOND-LIEUT. Molineux and Second-Lieut. Dalrymple walked out of the C.O.'s quarters, leaving the C.O. himself fingering his grey moustache and smiling complacently.
Tact, firmness, and knowledge of men—that was all that was required to settle these little difficulties, the C.O. told himself. He was a great believer—good, honest soul—in the mailed fist in the velvet glove. Tact, by gad! There had been an atmosphere in the mess—nothing more than that. Unquestionably the two subs, Molineux and Dalrymple, were at loggerheads.
Such things were not permissible. They bred friction, difficulties—they were subversive of discipline—and so he had had the two subs up before him.
"Mind you, I'm not asking you what it's all about," he said to them. "That doesn't interest me. You've got to remember that you're soldiers—that the army is the only thing that counts. You will shake hands—and we'll have no more of it, if you please."
And so they had shaken hands with military precision—almost as if they were doing it by "numbers"—and had gone out side by side into the dull December morning, leaving the "old man" quite confident that another little difficulty had been satisfactorily settled.
As if the light in Dolly Westaway's eye, the dimple in Dolly Westaway's cheek, the divine curve of Dolly Westaway's neck, the trim neatness of Dolly Westaway's ankles—all that made up the delicate charm and immense attractiveness of Dolly Westaway—could be swept away by word of command!
"You understand, of course, Dalrymple, that all the old man's guff won't make any difference to my determination? You've got to leave her alone or there'll be trouble."
Molineux, six foot one in his stockinged feet, stood towering over the slight figure of his companion. His face was angry and glowering.
"I've told you before, Molineux, that I don't recognise your right—" Dalrymple began quietly.
But the other out him short.
"It doesn't matter two penn'orth of pins to me what you recognise! I just want to warn you that if I find you hanging about the Westaway's house any more I'll make you answer for it."
Dalrymple's refined, delicately chiselled face flushed, and his dreamy blue eyes lit up with the light of passion.
"Confound you! Do you think you're going to play the bully with me? If you want to fight I'll fight you."
Molineux laughed scornfully.
"You? Why, you wouldn't be worth fighting. I don't know how the deuce they ever let you into the army!"
The flush died out of Dalrymple's cheeks and in its place came a curious pallor.
"If you're not too much of a braggart to fight, I'll fight you when and where and how you please, and if you want this question of Doll—of Miss Westaway—settled between us, I'll agree to abide by the result."
His companion looked at him in astonishment. Somehow he had never expected Dalrymple to show so much spirit,
"It's all very well to make suggestions of that kind," he sneered, "but we aren't allowed to use swords or pistols, and to fight me with your fists—well, you know you might as well save me the trouble!."
Dalrymple stood very stiff and erect.
"I've offered to fight you. I'll fight you with my fists if that's the only way. Of course, if you wish to back out of it—"
A fury of rage leapt into Molineux's eyes. "If you will have it," he said, "it's your funeral. Don't say I didn't warn you. I'll leave you to fix the time and the place, and it'll serve you jolly well right."
The situation was of course melodramatic and absurd. That two young men of twenty, holding His Majesty's commission, should be so devoid of all sense of humour as to propose solemnly to meet in a duel was ridiculous. But then Dolly Westaway, engaged at that very moment in distributing Christmas coal tickets in the village adjacent to the big training camp, was enough to destroy any one's sense of humour.
All the same, as Dalrymple made his way to his own quarters, and, shutting the door of his hut, sat down on the edge of his bed, he felt some uneasy qualms succeed to the hot fit of a few minutes before. He felt somehow that he had been trapped into this fight—and, of course, there was no backing out of it now. Practically, he realized, he had surrendered all right to Dolly Westaway.
For of course the fight could have but one conclusion. Molineux weighed over thirteen stone, and had the strength of a house, and, moreover, was noted, for his athletic prowess. And he—well, he hardly turned the scale at eleven stone, and, although his pale face and almost effeminate features were very deceptive, masking as they did a wiry frame and an unquenchable spirit, he was quite ignorant of the art of boxing. Sitting there on the bed he faced the problem. At least he must make a fight of it. He must lose Dolly with honour, and there were obvious preparations to be made. Presently he rose and called his batman. A broad-shouldered man, with a curiously flat, bony face appeared.
"Jackson," said Dalrymple, "I want to get some lessons in boxing. Do you know of any place round here?"
The man's sullen face cleared as if by magic. "Yes, sir—Professor Morgan. He's started a school at East Camp. Couldn't better him as an instructor, sir." The promptness of the reply excited the officer's curiosity.
"How do you come to know all about Professor Morgan?" he enquired.
"Trained me as an amateur, sir, when I was a lad and got me my first fight as a professional. He's old now, but he can teach a lot still."
Dalrymple's interest increased. He had had no idea up to that moment that his batman had been a "pug." It was altogether a bit of luck.
"How long would it take for a man who's never had the gloves on to learn enough to keep his own end up, Jackson?"
"It would depend, sir. There's some men who could learn nothing; others that have got the real stuff in them, you can get them to make a show in a few week. If you was meaning yourself, sir, I could give you a few wrinkles."
For a few seconds Dalrymple was almost imagined to accept his suggestion. Then he remembered their relative positions in the service. It would hardly do to put on the gloves with his batman. It might prove what the C.O. had called "subversive of discipline."
"That'll do, Jackson," he said, rising in his most official manner. "I don't require you any more."
BEFORE Molineux and Dalrymple had been called up before the C.O. the Platoon had suspected that something was wrong, and when Dalrymple innocently enquired of Pte. Jackson, as an expert on the subject, how long it would take a man to learn to hold his own end up with the gloves, and when subsequently Jackson took a letter from his master over to the quarters of Second-Lieut. Molyneux and waited for an answer, it was inevitable that the truth should leak out.
Jackson mentioned his suspicions in strict confidence to Pte. Moriarty, who acted as servant to Second-Lieut. Molineux, and Moriarty, conceiving it the duty of every good servant to be thoroughly conversant with all the private affairs of master, boldly and unblushingly purloined the letter that Second-Lieut. Dalrymple had written to Second-Lieut. Molineux. He read it to Jackson that same evening behind the cookhouse.
Sir—
That you may have no excuse for backing out of the arrangement we made this morning, I am writing to say that I shall be pleased to meet you in three weeks' time from now—December 24. The place and the hour can be settled by mutual agreement later. It is of course, understood that in the interval neither of us tries to take advantage of the other; with this object I am willing to pass my word not it call at Miss Westaway's house. I shall be glad to receive from you a letter expressing your consent to these terms.
Yours faithfully,
Arthur Dalrymple.
"Isn't it a pity now," said Moriarty when he had finished, "that a fine chance of a fight should be spoilt for want of the two men being anything like equal?"
"What do you mean?" said Jackson, his manner at once becoming hostile.
"Mean!" exclaimed Moriarty. "Sure, you don't need me to tell you—you that have been in the business! What chance has the Baby got against Molly?"
"Don't you make no blooming error, Pat," retorted Jackson. "The kid's all right, and he's got the pluck in him, and he's going to be trained by the right man."
"You're just talking," said the Irishman contemptuously."I'll get you a thick 'un that the kid will give Molly a dose of hush-a-bye in three weeks from now—so there!"
"It's like robbing you, but I'll take you,"' retorted Moriarty quickly. And so, while Dalrymple and Molineux were sleeping that night in their quarters, believing that their forthcoming duel was known only to themselves, its details were being discussed in every hut in the battalion.
The news spread from the platoon to the company, and from the company to the other companies. The sergeants' mess heard it and discussed it gravely. The only persons among the rank and file who were not admitted to the secret were the military police, because on principle one never did tell the redcaps anything. Jackson, lured on by a sense of partisanship, incurred responsibilities which hardly a year's pay would liquidate.
The result, of course, was inevitable. Jackson was known to be an old pugilist: his opinion was valuable; he was backing that opinion, and therefore those who, on the face of it, would have been willing to stake their lives that Second-Lieut. Molineux would eat up the Baby, either hedged or staked their money on this prospect of Dalrymple pulling it off.
By the time the Last Post was sounded, about two-thirds of the battalion had backed Molineux, and the remaining third were financial supporters of Dalrymple.
The consciousness of his liabilities lay heavy upon Jackson's soul the following morning.
Dalrymple looked so much like his nickname of "Baby" when, on bringing in his six o'clock cup of tea, he found him asleep. And on the subsequent parade, even those men who had followed his loudly expressed opinion, openly wavered in their support.
It was this feeling of uneasiness that sent Jackson at midday to the disused barn in the East Camp, where Professor Morgan had set up his boxing academy for officers.
"Morning, Professor!" said Jackson. "I want to have a word with you."
The professor was resting, and was, therefore, clad in a frock coat and a grey billycock hat. He smiled pleasantly at the sight of Jackson, and held out his big, broken-knuckled hand to him.
"How are you, Jackson? What's the trouble?"
"It's about my officer. He's coming round here to get you to give him a few lessons. I want you to put him through it proper. Teach him everything you know for old times' sake. I'm interested in him. You see, it's this way "
And straightway he began to recite the story that the two officers so fondly believed was known only to themselves.
"You see, I've got a matter of £12 on this, Professor, and I look like losing it unless you can make something of him."
"What are the weights, Jackson?" the Professor enquired.
"My man runs only about eleven; the other goes about thirteen!"
The professor whistled. "Giving a bit away, isn't he? Has he ever had the mittens on before?"
Jackson shook his head. The professor stared at him for some moments in sombre silence.
"A nice sort of particular mug you are, Jackson, aren't you? What's got you? What are you chucking your money about like this for? Didn't know you had so much of the stuff!"
Jackson coloured violently. "Never you mind about that, Professor. You get on with it. And I'll give you a tip. Put him up against something stiff. I've seen that lad on parade, and the more he's up against the more determined he gets."
THERE was that in the heart of Second-Lieut. Dalrymple—not only, mind you, the flame that the dark eyes of Dolly Westaway had lit there—which sent him to Professor Morgan, and the study of the noble art, with an enthusiasm, that the professor had rarely seen surpassed.
Every evening Jackson visited the professor, and received a report as to his pupil's progress. They were not altogether favourable.
"He's all right with the punchball, Jackson, and he's got a punch somewhere—I'll take my oath on that—but I can't get it out. There ain't enough what you call ginger in him."
This was the statement at the end of the first fortnight, and Jackson, with the thought of all the money he had invested, was sorely troubled.
"I see the other chap to-day," the professor went on, shaking his head and screwing up his face, "and it ain't no go, Jackson. We were up on the hills selecting a ground—8 o'clock on the morning of the twenty-fourth it's going to come off—and it'll be too much for him I'm afraid. I can't work blooming miracles, you know—not in three weeks' time. And he wants ginger. I'm too old for him, and I can't stir him up."
The private groaned in spirit.
"Look here. professor." he said, after a long pause, "shove me up against him. You needn't say who I am—or you can give me some fancy name."
It was as the result of this conversation that the professor spoke to his pupil the following morning.
"You want somebody else to spar with, Mr. Dalrymple," he said, "and I think I've found the very man for you. Blackwall's his name—won some big fights in his time. I want you to come in this evening at six and let me see how you frame with him.
Accordingly that evening Dalrymple obediently presented himself at the academy, and, having changed and had his gloves adjusted, entered the ring. For some moments there was no sign of his sparring partner, and then a curtain that divided the old barn separated and a curious figure appeared. It was that of a man stripped to the waist, and dressed in shorts so small and so tight as to be indistinguishable from bathing drawers.
He came at a quick trot across the floor his long arms swinging by his side, ducked his bullet head and broad shoulders under the ropes, and dropped unto his chair without a word.
"This is my friend, Mr. Blackwall," said the professor.
Dalrymple stared at him, aghast. It was his servant Jackson—he knew it was Jackson, though Jackson avoided his eye, and stared resolutely up at the beams of the roof. And ought he to spar with his servant? Wasn't it subversive of—?
"Time!" called the professor, and before Dalrymple could decide this nice point of military etiquette he found that he had touched gloves with has opponent and had turned and faced his corner.
Up to that moment Dalrymple had only done "light work" with the professor, but this was a very different proposition. Even while he was still debating that nice point of military discipline, he was jabbed viciously on the mouth, and a right swing sent him back against the ropes, his head singing.
That settled the etiquette question for Second-Lieut. Dalrymple. One couldn't take that sort of thing from a private—the thing was preposterous! Dalrymple rushed in to make an example— only unfortunately Jackson wasn't there, and when he did find him—in quite another part of the ring—a nicely timed, right-handed hook sent him off his feet. He rose very angry, but perfectly calm and collected. As Jackson had said, when Second-Lieut. Dalrymple was up against anything, he showed at his best.
And now for the first time since he had put on the gloves, he brought judgment and caution into play.
"Much better!" said the professor, when the first round was over. In the second round his opponent contented himself with blackening his eye, and in the third round he hit him only so often as was necessary to keep him fully extended.
"That'll do," said the professor at last, and immediately Jackson ducked under the ropes and disappeared.
When Dalrymple got back to the camp Jackson was in his quarters imperturbably brushing his clothes for mess. Jackson's face was a blank. He might have been as innocent as a babe unborn of that slight discoloration in the corner of Dalrymple's right eye.
The following evening and for every evening in succession during that week, the officer and his servant met as perfect strangers in the professor's ring.
And Dalrymple benefited by the experience. He learnt lots of things—before all how to infuse your boxing with that "ginger," the lack of which the professor had deplored.
On the evening of the 23rd they went six rounds, and Dalrymple at the call of "Time!" had the satisfaction of feeling that he had acquitted himself very creditably. The professor was enthusiastic.
"Stand away from him tomorrow, and worry him, and when you get an opening go all out for it," he said, as his parting advice.
"The weight is against you, and the reach is against you, but you've got a sporting chance if you take my advice."
TO a man No. 3 Platoon had refused their Christmas leave. In the ballot they had won it fairly and squarely, and their officers, who suffered from their self-denial, were outraged. In vain they sought for a clue to the mystery. The sergeants didn't know, and when the men themselves were pressed to explain, Moriarty, on their behalf, gave a completely unsatisfactory answer.
"Sure, sir, we're all so fond of the army, none of us would be leaving it for a day!"
It was an obvious lie, but in order to allow some of the officers to go away, discipline was relaxed. There was no parade on the morning of the 24th, and other privileges were announced.
But though the men of No. 3 Platoon might have been reasonably expected to lie a little longer in bed, by six o'clock all their quarters were empty.
Headed by Jackson, they were all trooping up to the hills. On the summit was a plateau, covered thickly with furze bushes, save in one part where there was an open space of short-cropped grass. Arrived at this, point Jackson addressed his companions.
"Now. my lads, this here's the place where the fight's coming off. If you lie under them furze bushes you'll be able to see everything. But, mind you, if there's one of you so much as shows his head, you'll have to answer to me for it. If Baby and Molly knew we were there, they'd call it off, and we don't want a pretty fight like this spoilt."
It was still dark, and the stars were shining, and up there on the hills there were two or three degrees of frost. But in spite of this No. 3 Platoon settled itself comfortably and cheerfully under the furze bushes.
At a quarter to eight, when the sun had just begun to rise, the scouts who had been put out came in with the announcement that the combatants were approaching.
"Out with your pipe," shouted Jackson, "and don't one of you dare to breathe!"
Silence settled down upon the hill.
Presently footsteps were heard approaching, and from two different points Dalrymple and Molineux appeared. Accompanying the former was the Professor in a sweater and flannel trousers, with his grey bowler hat fixed firmly on the back of his head.
"Morning, sir!" he said cheerfully to Molineux. "Just the weather for this meeting! I'll have the posts and ropes fixed in a moment."
While the two officers stood apart the Professor began to set up the ring. The previous day he had dug the holes for the posts, and in ten minutes he had everything properly fixed. He had thought of everything, from towels and a little gravel to counteract the slipperiness of the turf, to two buckets which, turned upside down, were to take the place of chairs.
"Everything's ready, gentlemen," he said at last.
Unfortunately at that moment there was an unexpected interruption. Along the little path among the furze bushes appeared the figure of a man in a big, old-fashioned tail-coat, from the pockets of which protruded the heads of two or three rabbits. At the sight of the ring and the two officers he stood staring with his mouth open.
"Now, then, what do you want, stupid?" bawled the Professor. "Clear-out of it!"
"You ain't bought the hill, have you?" the man said, after a moment's pause. "And what are you doing with them things?"
The Professor walked: up to him and, putting his hand upon his shoulder, swung him round.
"Right about turn!" he said. "You hop it!"
Before the man could recover from his surprise he was propelled some yards down the path. Then he began to resist.
"You take your hands off me!" he said. For answer the Professor swung him ruthlessly into a neighbouring furze bush. The man disappeared in a tangle of bracken and undergrowth. The Professor waited for him to get up—and then he leant forward suddenly and peered into the undergrowth. A smile for a moment played about his iron mouth, and then with a sniff he turned back to the ring. He knew there was no fear of interruption.
"That's all right, gentlemen. This little meeting won't be broken up. And now, if you please, we'd better get to business. The fight, I understand, is to go to a finish. I needn't tell you gentlemen the rules. If you get to your corners I'll give you the time."
Both men had stripped and were standing trying to keep themselves warm by beating their arms on their chests. At the Professor's order they went to their corners, and having had their gloves adjusted, waited there while the Professor, watch in hand, stood in the centre of the ring.
Dalrymple was conscious more than he ever had been before of the inequality of the contest. In his shorts and zephyr, Molineux looked an even more tremendous man than he did in uniform. His broad chest, his long, knotted arms, and his perfect composure—he was. even smiling—emphasized the smallness of the other's chances. And Dalrymple was aware of a certain sinking feeling in the region of his stomach.
He was glad when time was called, and he rose from his bucket to meet his rival. Having touched gloves, the two men faced one another. At the same moment from the surrounding furze bushes fifty heads were raised, but neither or the two men saw them. They were too busily occupied.
For the first thirty seconds the fight went all one way. Dalrymple had completely forgotten everything that he had been told, and now that his rival was in front of him he rushed in with a kind of berserker fury—to erase from his face that smile of mingled contempt and amusement. And he paid for lit. Right and left those long arms swung out, hitting him mercilessly, driving him round the ring, knocking the breath out of-his body, and making his brain dizzy. It wasn't a fight at all—it was simply a massacre.
And then Dalrymple remembered. Of a sudden he began to use his feet. Instead of trying to close with his opponent he dodged him, ducking under his long arms and keeping away from him. He attempted little fighting, but worked simply for time. At the end of the third minute Molineux went to his corner, badly blown and rather puzzled.
In the second and the third rounds Dalrymple continued his tactics. If he gave nothing he took nothing, and the call of time found Molineux more blown and more puzzled. The smile of confidence had vanished from his lips. But still the thing seemed an impossibility—that so small and so light a man could possibly have any chance against the giant to whom he was opposed. The fourth round opened differently.
Molineux waited to be attacked. He was tired of chasing the other round the ring, and Dalrymple, trying to sting him once more into movement, received a straight left on the mouth that sent him full length on the grass. He was up before the call of three, with the blood pouring from his lips, to find Molineux with the old look of triumph and confidence in his eyes, waiting for him.
To Molineux it seemed that he had now got the measure of his opponent. He rushed in; Dalrymple gave way. It was impossible to stand before that superior weight and strength. He backed up against the ropes. It seemed as if the end had come. And then there flashed into Dalrymple's mind one of those simple tricks that Jackson had played upon him. Instead of covering himself he lay back against the ropes, letting his arms droop as if he were too weary to hold his gloves up any longer.
Out swung Molineux's right, straight for the point—but the exhausted figure lying on tine ropes was suddenly galvanized into life. Slipping neatly under the other's right, he ran in. Before Molineux could back away, his rival's left shot up straight under the jaw. And even as he stumbled a right hooked him below the car. He reeled back and fell and lay there on the grass, his arms outstretched.
"—eight—nine—ten! I declare Mr. Dalrymple the winner!"
DALRYMPLE leant back against the ropes gasping. He was quite unconscious of the violent rustling in the furze bushes around him. He saw only the big figure of his rival lying there on the grass.
He saw him presently stir, and then with a groan pull himself clumsily to his feet.
"I say, Molineux, I do hope—" he began, running forward. Molineux, with a dazed, angry scowl, made a gesture as if to sweep him aside.
"All right!" be said. "You've been lucky and won. But a lot of good it may do you! You think you're going to make the running with DoIIy Westaway—but you aren't—she's engaged to be married."
He broke into a laugh. "Dolly Westaway's going to be married this morning."
Dalrymple replied quietly, "I knew that four days ago. We hadn't anything to fight about, but I thought we ought to go through with it. Won't you shake hands, old chap?"
Molineux grew very red, hesitated a moment, and then held out his band. "You're a sportsman, Dalrymple. I—well, I've got what I deserved!"
"Gentlemen," said the Professor, "honour is satisfied. Nothing, I am sure, could be more satisfactorily settled."
Ten minutes later the two officers walked side by side down the hill. They talked and laughed together like friends who had never exchanged an ill word. At the bottom they paused and looked round.
Outlined against the skyline stood a group of khaki-clad figures. In the middle, clearly discernible, was the figure of Jackson going from one comrade to another with his hand held out, collecting the proceeds of his bets.
Second-Lieut. Dalrymple looked at Second-Lieut. Molineux."
"How the devil did they find out?" said Molineux. Dalrymple did not reply immediately but walked on for a few yards.
"I'll tell you what, old chap," he said presently. "I shall have to find a new servant. I'm going to sack Jackson after this."