The Green Flag and Other Stories of War and Sport - The Croxley Master - II

Arthur Conan Doyle (0:26)

CHAPTER II.

Work was struck at one o'clock at the coal pits and the ironworks, and the fight was arranged for three. From the Croxley furnaces, from Wilson's coal pits, from the Heartseas mine, from the Dodd mills, from the Leverworth smelters the workmen came trooping, each with his fox terrier or his lurcher in his heels. Warped with labor and twisted by toil, bent double by week-long work in the cramped coal galleries, or half-blinded with years spent in front of white-hot fluid metal, these men still gilded their harsh and hopeless lives by their devotion to sport. It was their one relief, the only thing which could distract their minds from sordid surroundings and give them an interest beyond the blackened circle which enclosed them. Literature, art, science, all these things were beyond their horizon. But the race, the football match, the cricket, the fight, these were things which they could understand, which they could speculate upon in advance and comment upon afterwards. Sometimes brutal, sometimes grotesque, the love of sport is still one of the great agencies which make for the happiness of our people. It lies very deeply in the springs of our nature, and when it has been educated out, a higher, more refined nature may be left, but it will not be of that robust British type which has left its mark so deeply on the world. Every one of these rattled workers, slouching with his dog at his heels to see something of the fight, was a true unit of his race.

It was a squally-may day, with bright sun-bursts and driving showers. Montgomery worked all morning in the surgery, getting his medicine made up.

The weather seems so very unsettled, Mr. Montgomery, remarked the doctor, that I am inclined to think that you had better postpone your little country excursion until a later date.

I am afraid that I must go to-day, sir.

I have just had an intimation that Mrs. Potter, at the other side of Angleton, wishes to see me. It is probable that I shall be there all day. It will be extremely inconvenient to leave the house empty so long.

I am very sorry, sir, but I must go, said the assistant doggedly.

The doctor saw that it would be useless to argue, and departed in the worst of bad tempers upon mission. Montgomery felt easier now that he was gone. He went up to his room and packed his running shoes, his fighting drawers, and his cricket sash into a handbag. When he came down, Mr. Wilson was waiting for him in the surgery.

I hear the doctor is gone. Yes, he is likely to be away all day.

I don't see that it matters much. It's bound to come to his ears by tonight. Yes, it's serious with me, Mr. Wilson. If I win, it's all right. I don't mind telling you that the hundred pounds will make all the difference to me. But if I lose, I shall lose my situation, for, as you say, I can't keep it secret. Never mind. We'll see you through among us. I only wonder the doctor has not heard, for it's all over the country that you are to fight the Croxley champion. We've had Armitage up about it already. He's the master's backer, you know. He wasn't sure that you were eligible. The master said he wanted you whether you were eligible or not. Armitage has money on, and would have made trouble if he could. But I showed him that you came within the conditions of the challenge, and he agreed that it was all right. They think they have a soft thing on. Well, I can only do my best, said Montgomery.

They had lunched together. A silent and rather nervous repast. For Montgomery's mind was full of what was before him, and Wilson had himself more money at stake than he cared to lose.

Wilson's carriage and a pair were at the door, the horses with blue and white rosettes at their ears, which were the colors of the Wilson coal pits, well known on many a football field. At the avenue gate a crowd of some hundred pit men and their wives gave a cheer as the carriage passed. To the assistant it all seemed dreamlike and extraordinary, the strangest experience of his life, but with a thrill of human action and interest in it which made it passionately absorbing. He lay back in the open carriage and saw the fluttering handkerchiefs from the doors and windows of the miners' cottages. Wilson had penned a blue and white rosette upon his coat, and everybody knew him as their champion. Good luck, sir, good luck to thee, they shouted from the roadside. He felt that it was like some unromantic knight writing down distorted lists, but there was something of chivalry in it all the same. He fought for others as well as for himself. He might fail from want of skill or strength, but deep in his somber soul he vowed that it should never be for want of heart.