“It was a joke is all, damm it!”
The doctor glared at him. “Louis Cohen, sir, you are unconscionable!” The crowd was getting ugly, having come this far on their one day off work all week, and having done without the other diversions Kimberley was capable of furnishing. And not to see their fight? Dr. Mathews pulled the whistle from Cohen’s hand and dropped it into his pocket. He then blew his own whistle repeatedly until he had attention. “Gentlemen!”
“Bastard ought to be horse-whipped, if you ask me,” someone said in a loud voice into the quieting noise.
“Well, nobody asked you!” Cohen snapped. He was regaining his courage since it was apparent the crowd was too drunk to really get out of hand. “It was a bloody joke, I tell you! I thought both of them would stop fighting and I thought that would be funny!” He looked up at the Nest and the angry faces there. “Look, if you want to call off any bets I made…”
“What!” someone cried. The voice was scandalized. “Did you pull a dirty stunt like that because your fighter was losing?”
“Who was losing! Oh, for God’s sake! No, I didn’t do it because of anything except it was a bloody joke! Anyone I have bets with can call them off or leave them stand, whatever they want! Good God! Nobody has a sense of humor anymore!”
Someone in a slouch hat pulled low over his face and with ill-fitting clothes was trying to fight his way closer to the ring. Harry, his face white with shock, was starting to step through the ropes to help Barney back to his stool, but Rudd shoved him away. There was enough confusion going on at the moment without having people, even seconds, crowding into the ring. Rudd bent over Barney. Barney had come to one knee, dazed, and was shaking his head to clear it. Rudd frowned. “Are you all right, Isaacs?”
Armando was also standing over the shaken Barney, looking both confused and terribly repentant.
“Senhor! Eu sinto muito! Mas eu sabia que no era o silvo, estava olhando o médico!”
The circus owner was leaning over the ropes, translating at the top of his voice to be heard. “He says it was an accident. He knew it wasn’t the whistle because he was watching the doctor!” The owner understood enough of Englishmen to know that in their present mood the blame could just as easily be put upon Armando as upon the bôbo who had blown the whistle, and in that mood the crowd could easily take it into their minds to go back to Kimberley and destroy his circus. Barney waved the translation away as being unimportant. He was sure the big Angolan had not hit him on purpose; had their roles been reversed he might also have automatically struck his opponent if he saw that Mathews was not blowing his whistle. He raised his voice to be heard by the owner.
“Tell him it doesn’t matter. I’m not blaming him.” He shook his aching head and put a hand to it. “Also tell him he’s got a punch like a steamroller.”
The circus owner burst into rapid Portuguese, translating Barney’s message. Armando beamed, proud of the compliment. He would have liked to return it, because the small man deserved it, but he didn’t want to ask his boss to translate. Barney came to his feet, looking at Rudd.
“Let’s get on with it.”
Rudd frowned. “Are you sure you’re able?”
“Never felt better in me life,” Barney said, and walked back to his corner, knowing he was moving more slowly than before. He sat on his stool while the circus owner conferred with his fighter. Armando paused in the discussion every now and then to glance apologetically across the ring at Barney, but in the end he shrugged and nodded to his boss as he sat down on his stool. Barney could almost read the big man’s mind. He doesn’t want to bust me into little pieces, Barney thought, but unfortunately he has to to keep his job and keep on eating. Which merely means I’ll have to make it fast if I hope to make it at all. The blow he had taken had been as powerful a punch as he had ever taken in any fight in his life, and he knew it would take its toll quickly if the fight went on very long.
Harry had heard the discussion in the ring. He looked at Barney as if he were crazy.
“Look, we can call the whole thing off — cancel the bets and be back where we were. Maybe you had a chance before — you were quick — but you’re not steady on your feet! He can kill you! Drop it and cancel the bets! Nobody is going to argue about that!”
“I’ll argue about it.” Barney looked at Harry. “Harry,” he said earnestly, “do you remember what I said a few days ago? I meant it! We leave here with the brass! We walk away rich!”
“If we walk away,” Harry said direly. “Your ears’ll be ringing from that whack you took for the next week.”
“Maybe,” Barney said laconically. “But I’ll have the money!”
Rudd had been conferring with Dr. Mathews at ringside; now Mathews climbed into the ring and blew his whistle with all his strength. This time the crowd quietened quickly, although there were still some loud mutterings and baleful glances in Lou Cohen’s direction.
“Gentlemen!” Mathews said in a loud voice. “The fight will continue. At the sound of the whistle, we shall be coming out for the third round. That is all.” He climbed from the ring, studied his watch a few seconds, and then gave a loud blast on his whistle. The fight was on again.
Barney came out of his corner, hesitated a moment as a brief wave of dizziness caused him to stumble slightly, and then came on. Armando was awaiting him in the middle of the ring, a look of sympathy on his large features. He looked almost Neanderthal, his long arms held before him loosely in a pawing position. Barney decided there was no time to waste. He stepped in quickly while Armando was still raising his fists, and sank his glove almost to the wrist in the soft belly of the giant Angolan. Barney stepped back, but this time Armando was in no positon to counter quickly. That blow hurt the big man, Barney said to himself with the little satisfaction he could feel, and watched the pain cross the other man’s face. Armando’s large gloved hands had dropped to protect that vulnerable spot of his, and Barney now came in to settle the matter with a few swift and powerful blows to the unprotected chin. But Armando automatically brought up one loglike arm to block the blow and at the same time swept the other arm about, catching Barney on the side of the head where he had been struck before. Barney found himself on his knees while he could hear Rudd beginning to count over him. The crowd was screaming wildly; Harry, white-faced, was leaning through the ropes, yelling something, and Barney could only assume his brother was imploring him to either quit or get to his feet. There seemed to be someone in a slouch hat beside Harry with his hands over his face. Bloody fool shouldn’t come to fights if he can’t take them, Barney thought with one small portion of his mind, while the rest of his mind commanded him to come to his feet at the count of eight. Rudd wiped the mud from the gloves and stepped away.
Armando now moved in, anxious to finish this very unpleasant fight, one he knew he would never be proud of. Actually, Armando was proud of no fight he had been in, all of which he had won. Armando had never liked to fight particularly, and it always seemed to him quite unfair to put his great size, weight, and strength against a smaller man and then to claim any form of victory from the obvious results. And that was especially true of this bout with the tough little opponent Armando had come to respect. Until the blow he had struck by accident — almost an unfair one — Armando knew in his heart he had actually been losing the fight. The poor man must need the five pounds desperately! Still, Armando needed his job with the circus if he wanted to continue eating, and while he felt sorry for the little man he was fighting, he also felt the best thing to do would be to end it as quickly as possible.