Odd Craft, Complete

“I’d sooner ‘ave it knocked off now,” ses Bill; “I don’t like waiting for things.”

“Thursday arternoon,” ses Ginger, very firm; “there’s one or two gentlemen want to see a bit o’ my work afore backing me, and we can combine bisness with pleasure.”

He walked off with Miss Tucker, leaving Bill Lumm standing on the pavement scratching his ‘ead and staring arter ‘im as though ‘e didn’t quite know wot to make of it. Bill stood there for pretty near five minutes, and then arter asking Sam and Peter, who ‘ad been standing by listening, whether they wanted anything for themselves, walked off to ask ‘is pals wot they knew about the Sydney Puncher.

Ginger Dick was so quiet and satisfied about the fight that old Sam and Peter couldn’t make ‘im out at all. He wouldn’t even practise punching at a bolster that Peter rigged up for ‘im, and when ‘e got a message from Bill Lumm naming a quiet place on the Lea Marshes he agreed to it as comfortable as possible.

“Well, I must say, Ginger, that I like your pluck,” ses Peter Russet.

“I always ‘ave said that for Ginger; ‘e’s got pluck,” ses Sam.

Ginger coughed and tried to smile at ‘em in a superior sort o’ way. “I thought you’d got more sense,” he ses, at last. “You don’t think I’m going, do you?”

“Wot?” ses old Sam, in a shocked voice.

“You’re never going to back out of it, Ginger?” ses Peter.

“I am,” ses Ginger. “If you think I’m going to be smashed up by a prize-fighter just to show my pluck you’re mistook.”

“You must go, Ginger,” ses old Sam, very severe. “It’s too late to back out of it now. Think of the gal. Think of ‘er feelings.”

“For the sake of your good name,” ses Peter.

“I should never speak to you agin, Ginger,” ses old Sam, pursing up ‘is lips.

“Nor me neither,” ses Peter Russet.

“To think of our Ginger being called a coward,” ses old Sam, with a shudder, “and afore a gal, too.”

“The loveliest gal in Wapping,” ses Peter.

“Look ‘ere,” ses Ginger, “you can shut up, both of you. I’m not going, and that’s the long and short of it. I don’t mind an ordinary man, but I draw the line at prize-fighters.”

Old Sam sat down on the edge of ‘is bed and looked the picture of despair. “You must go, Ginger,” he ses, “for my sake.”

“Your sake?” ses Ginger, staring.

“I’ve got money on it,” ses Sam, “so’s Peter. If you don’t turn up all bets’ll be off.”

“Good job for you, too,” ses Ginger. “If I did turn up you’d lose it, to a dead certainty.”

Old Sam coughed and looked at Peter, and Peter ‘e coughed and looked at Sam.

“You don’t understand, Ginger,” said Sam, in a soft voice; “it ain’t often a chap gets the chance o’ making a bit o’ money these ‘ard times.”

“So we’ve put all our money on Bill Lumm,” ses Peter. “It’s the safest and easiest way o’ making money I ever ‘eard of. You see, we know you’re not a prize-fighter and the others don’t.”

Pore Ginger looked at ‘em, and then ‘e called ‘em all the names he could lay ‘is tongue to, but, with the idea o’ the money they was going make, they didn’t mind a bit. They let him ‘ave ‘is say, and that night they brought ‘ome two other sailormen wot ‘ad bet agin Ginger to share their room, and, though they ‘ad bet agin ‘im, they was so fond of ‘im that it was evident that they wasn’t going to leave ‘im till the fight was over.

Ginger gave up then, and at twelve o’clock next day they started off to find the place. Mr. Webson, the landlord of the Jolly Pilots, a short, fat man o’ fifty, wot ‘ad spoke to Ginger once or twice, went with ‘em, and all the way to the station he kept saying wot a jolly spot it was for that sort o’ thing. Perfickly private; nice soft green grass to be knocked down on, and larks up in the air singing away as if they’d never leave off.

They took the train to Homerton, and, being a slack time o’ the day, the porters was surprised to see wot a lot o’ people was travelling by it. So was Ginger. There was the landlords of ‘arf the public-’ouses in Wapping, all smoking big cigars; two dock policemen in plain clothes, wot ‘ad got the arternoon off—one with a raging toothache and the other with a baby wot wasn’t expected to last the day out. They was as full o’ fun as kittens, and the landlord o’ the Jolly Pilots pointed out to Ginger wot reasonable ‘uman beings policemen was at ‘art. Besides them there was quite a lot o’ sailormen, even skippers and mates, nearly all of ‘em smoking big cigars, too, and looking at Ginger out of the corner of one eye and at the Wapping Basher out of the corner of the other.

“Hit ‘ard and hit straight,” ses the landlord to Ginger in a low voice, as they got out of the train and walked up the road. “‘Ow are you feeling?”

“I’ve got a cold coming on,” ses pore Ginger, looking at the Basher, who was on in front, “and a splitting ‘eadache, and a sharp pain all down my left leg. I don’t think–”

“Well, it’s a good job it’s no worse,” ses the land-lord; “all you’ve got to do is to hit ‘ard. If you win it’s a ‘undered pounds in my pocket, and I’ll stand you a fiver of it. D’ye understand?”

They turned down some little streets, several of ‘em going diff’rent ways, and arter crossing the River Lea got on to the marshes, and, as the landlord said, the place might ha’ been made for it.

A little chap from Mile End was the referee, and Bill Lumm, ‘aving peeled, stood looking on while Ginger took ‘is things off and slowly and carefully folded ‘em up. Then they stepped toward each other, Bill taking longer steps than Ginger, and shook ‘ands; immediately arter which Bill knocked Ginger head over ‘eels.

“Time!” was called, and the landlord o’ the Jolly Pilots, who was nursing Ginger on ‘is knee, said that it was nothing at all, and that bleeding at the nose was a sign of ‘ealth. But as it happened Ginger was that mad ‘e didn’t want any encouragement, he on’y wanted to kill Bill Lumm.

He got two or three taps in the next round which made his ‘ead ring, and then he got ‘ome on the mark and follered it up by a left-’anded punch on Bill’s jaw that surprised ‘em both—Bill because he didn’t think Ginger could hit so ‘ard, and Ginger because ‘e didn’t think that prize-fighters ‘ad any feelings.

They clinched and fell that round, and the land-lord patted Ginger on the back and said that if he ever ‘ad a son he ‘oped he’d grow up like ‘im.

Ginger was surprised at the way ‘e was getting on, and so was old Sam and Peter Russet, and when Ginger knocked Bill down in the sixth round Sam went as pale as death. Ginger was getting marked all over, but he stuck, to ‘is man, and the two dock policemen, wot ‘ad put their money on Bill Lumm, began to talk of their dooty, and say as ‘ow the fight ought to be stopped.

At the tenth round Bill couldn’t see out of ‘is eyes, and kept wasting ‘is strength on the empty air, and once on the referee. Ginger watched ‘is opportunity, and at last, with a terrific smash on the point o’ Bill’s jaw, knocked ‘im down and then looked round for the landlord’s knee.

Bill made a game try to get up when “Time!” was called, but couldn’t; and the referee, who was ‘olding a ‘andkerchief to ‘is nose, gave the fight to Ginger.

It was the proudest moment o’ Ginger Dick’s life. He sat there like a king, smiling ‘orribly, and Sam’s voice as he paid ‘is losings sounded to ‘im like music, in spite o’ the words the old man see fit to use. It was so ‘ard to get Peter Russet’s money that it a’most looked as though there was going to be another prize-fight, but ‘e paid up at last and went off, arter fust telling Ginger part of wot he thought of ‘im.

There was a lot o’ quarrelling, but the bets was all settled at last, and the landlord o’ the Jolly Pilots, who was in ‘igh feather with the money he’d won, gave Ginger the five pounds he’d promised and took him ‘ome in a cab.

“You done well, my lad,” he ses. “No, don’t smile. It looks as though your ‘ead’s coming off.”

“I ‘ope you’ll tell Miss Tucker ‘ow I fought,” ses Ginger.

“I will, my lad,” ses the landlord; “but you’d better not see ‘er for some time, for both your sakes.”

“I was thinking of ‘aving a day or two in bed,” ses Ginger.

“Best thing you can do,” ses the landlord; “and mind, don’t you ever fight Bill Lumm agin. Keep out of ‘is way.”

“Why? I beat ‘im once, an’ I can beat ‘im agin,” ses Ginger, offended.

“Beat ‘im?” ses the landlord. He took ‘is cigar out of ‘is mouth as though ‘e was going to speak, and then put it back agin and looked out of the window.

“Yes, beat ‘im,” ses Ginger’. “You was there and saw it.”

“He lost the fight a-purpose,” ses the landlord, whispering. “Miss Tucker found out that you wasn’t a prize-fighter—leastways, I did for ‘er—and she told Bill that, if ‘e loved ‘er so much that he’d ‘ave ‘is sinful pride took down by letting you beat ‘im, she’d think diff’rent of ‘im. Why, ‘e could ‘ave settled you in a minute if he’d liked. He was on’y playing with you.”

Ginger stared at ‘im as if ‘e couldn’t believe ‘is eyes. “Playing?” he ses, feeling ‘is face very gently with the tips of his fingers.