CHAPTER XVMAN TO MAN
It was a scene to be printed indelibly on the memory: The palpitant, swaying crowd, those in front pushed forward by those behind; the baseball players round the edges of the cleared space, bracing to hold the mob back almost by main strength; human beings climbing on other human beings to get a momentary glimpse of the fighters; men and boys jammed in a dense mass on the bleachers, and still more of them clinging like monkeys to the bending limbs of the tree—and every face ablaze with the primitive passion of mankind, the savage zest of battle, the barbarous joy of witnessing a sanguinary struggle between two of their specie.
But Janet saw only the fighters; not for a moment did her straining eyes waver or wander. She watched them leap and retreat, meet again, stagger, recover, sway this way and that, all the time turning round and round to the left or to the right, their arms flashing out, their battering fists giving forth sounds now sharp, now sodden,as they smashed on head or body. She saw the head of the brown-haired youth jerk backward before a blow full on the mouth; and then, as blood stained his lips, a cry—half snarl, half roar—broke from the crowd.
Hoover had drawn first blood, seeing which, an expression of malicious joy contorted his repellent face, and he seemed spurred to still fiercer efforts. He thirsted to leave the stamp of his fists indelibly recorded on that clean-cut face; to mark the youth for life would be an exquisite pleasure, lingering long in aftertaste.
Locke, however, continued to keep his head, improving such openings as he could find or make. A cut lip was of no consequence when he had not felt the blow much; but he must take care that his antagonist did not reach his jaw with a swing like that, having a bit more steam behind it. And he must husband his energy and bide his time, for this was no fight by rounds, and Hoover had set a pace which flesh and blood could not keep up protractedly. In time, he must weary and slacken, and Locke hoped to be ready to make the most of it when this faltering came.
The youth’s left-handed guard bothered Jock somewhat, causing him to fret and snarl. Twicehe pinned Locke up against the crowd, that could not make room for his free movement; but once Tom got under his arm and away, and once he met the aggressor with such a sudden storm of blows that Hoover was checked and driven back. After that both men were bleeding, the Bully having received a stiff smash on the nose.
The crowd shouted applause and instruction:
“Fine work, Lefty!”
“Keep after him, Jock! Put him out!”
“You’ve got him going! Follow him up!”
“Look out for his left, boy!”
“Soak him another in the same place—that’s the stuff!”
“Well,” said Bent King, in wonderment, “I’ll be hanged if Locke isn’t holding his own with that terrier!”
Apparently Janet did not hear him. A little color had risen into her cheeks, and her bosom was heaving against her tightly clenched hands. She was still fearful of the final result, but he with whom her throbbing heart sympathized had met his brutal enemy like a man of courage, and made it a worthy battle. She could hear Hoover breathing heavily, like one on whom the tremendous strain was beginning to tell at last, whileLocke, although his breast rose and fell rapidly, was, to all outward seeming, the fresher of the two.
Once a little, choking gasp escaped her, for the youth was sent reeling by a blow, Jock rushing forward to follow it up. Locke, however, kept his feet with the agility of a cat, avoiding that rush, and getting in a body punch that made the other man grunt.
Following this, discovering at last the drain his efforts were putting upon him, Hoover sought to take it easier, and recuperate. This quickly became apparent, and a cry arose:
“He’s stalling, Lefty! Go to him! Don’t let him get his wind back!”
Locke had no intention of permitting his antagonist to rest, and now he took the aggressive, and kept at it with persistence that wore on Hoover.
Up to this point, Mike Riley had entertained no doubt as to what the end must be, but now uncertainty seized him, followed by alarm as he beheld tokens which seemed to denote that Hoover was becoming a bit groggy.
The Bancroft manager had no wish to see his puissant slabman whipped, for that would leave him no longer the terror he had been to opposingbatsmen; and much of his success as a pitcher had doubtless come through the awe which he had inspired.
“Hey!” croaked Riley suddenly. “I guess this here’s gone ’bout fur enough.”
But, with his first movement to interfere, he was seized by more than one pair of hands, jerked back, and held.
“Guess again!” cried Larry Stark. “Hoover forced it on the boy, and now he’ll have to take his medicine.”
“That’s right! That’s right!” shouted half a hundred voices.
“You bet it’s right!” roared a big millman in the crowd. “If this Bancroft bunch tries to meddle now in a square fight, they’ll have the whole o’ Kingsbridge on top of ’em.”
Possibly a free-for-all fight might have broken out at this point, but suddenly Tom Locke’s fist fell on Hoover’s jaw with a crack like a pistol report, and the Bancroft pitcher’s legs seemed to melt beneath him.
Prone upon the trampled ground he sank in a huddled heap, while Locke, lowering his hands at his sides, stepped back and stood looking down at him. A hush came over the crowd. The fallen man made a blind, feeble effort to lift himself,turned his body partly, then slumped back, his face in the turf, and lay still.
“He’s put Jock out!” said some one in an awed and marveling voice.
With a yell, Larry Stark leaped forward and seized the victor’s hand. That yell was echoed by the mob.
“Lefty did it!”
“Oh, you, Lefty! Oh, you, Lefty!”
Locke’s face was sober and unsmiling, betraying no elation. Satisfied that it was really over, he lifted his eyes, and found himself unexpectedly gazing into the wide blue eyes of a girl who was looking down at him from a carriage round which the crowd was wedged. For a moment they stared at each other, while the cheering continued, and slowly a flush of shame mounted into Tom Locke’s cheeks. He turned away.
“Come, Bent,” said Janet in a husky voice, “can’t we get out of here now? I’m really faint. Please hurry.”