Cashel Byron's Profession

Meanwhile Cashel had followed Paradise to the ropes.

"Now he has him," chuckled Skene. "My boy's got him agin the ropes;

and he means to keep him there. Let him rush now, if he can. See

what it is to have a good judgment."

Mellish shook his head again despondently. The remaining minutes of

the round were unhappy ones for Paradise. He struck viciously at his

opponent's ribs; but Cashel stepped back just out of his reach, and

then returned with extraordinary swiftness and dealt him blows from

which, with the ropes behind him, he had no room to retreat, and

which he was too slow to stop or avoid. His attempts to reach his

enemy's face were greatly to the disadvantage of his own; for

Cashel's blows were never so tremendous as when he turned his head

deftly out of harm's way, and met his advancing foe with a counter

hit. He showed no chivalry and no mercy, and revelled in the

hardness of his hitting; his gloves either resounding on Paradise's

face or seeming to go almost through his body. There was little

semblance to a contest: to Lydia there was nothing discernible but a

cruel assault by an irresistible athlete on a helpless victim. The

better sort among the spectators were disgusted by the sight; for,

as Paradise bled profusely, and as his blood besmeared the gloves

and the gloves besmeared the heads and bodies of both combatants,

they were soon stained with it from their waists upward. The

managers held a whispered consultation as to whether the sparring

exhibition had not better be stopped; but they decided to let it

proceed on seeing the African king, who had watched the whole

entertainment up to the present without displaying the least

interest, now raise his hands and clap them with delight.

"Billy don't look half pleased with hisself," observed Mellish, as

the two boxers sat down. "He looks just like he did when he spiked

Shepstone."

"What does spiking mean?" said Lydia.

"Treading on a man's foot with spiked boots," replied Lord

Worthington. "Don't be alarmed; they have no spikes in their shoes

to-day. It is not my fault that they do such things, Miss Carew.

Really, you make me feel quite criminal when you look at me in that

way."

Time was now called; and the pugilists, who had, by dint of

sponging, been made somewhat cleaner, rose with mechanical

promptitude at the sound, Cashel had hardly advanced two steps when,

though his adversary seemed far out of his reach, he struck him on

the forehead with such force as to stagger him, and then jumped back

laughing. Paradise rushed forward; but Cashel eluded him, and fled

round the ring, looking back derisively over his shoulder. Paradise

now dropped all pretence of good-humor. With an expression of

reckless ferocity, he dashed at Cashel; endured a startling blow

without flinching, and engaged him at close quarters. For a moment

the falling of their blows reminded Lydia of the rush of raindrops

against a pane in a sudden gust of wind. The next moment Cashel was

away; and Paradise, whose blood was again flowing, was trying to

repeat his manoeuvre, to be met this time by a blow that brought him

upon one knee. He had scarcely risen when Cashel sprang at him;

dealt him four blows with dazzling rapidity; drove him once more

against the ropes; but this time, instead of keeping him there, ran

away in the manner of a child at play. Paradise, with foam as well

as blood at his lips, uttered a howl, and tore off his gloves. There

was a shout of protest from the audience; and Cashel, warned by it,

tried to get off his gloves in turn. But Paradise was upon him

before he could accomplish this, and the two men laid hold of one

another amid a great clamor, Lord Worthington and others rising and

excitedly shouting, "Against the rules! No wrestling!" followed by a

roar of indignation as Paradise was seen to seize Cashel's shoulder

in his teeth as they struggled for the throw. Lydia, for the first

time in her life, screamed. Then she saw Cashel, his face fully as

fierce as Paradise's, get his arm about his neck; lift him as a

coal-heaver lifts a sack, and fling him over his back, heels over

head, to the ground, where he instantly dropped on him with his

utmost weight and impetus. The two were at once separated by a crowd

of managers, umpires, policemen, and others who had rushed towards

the ring when Paradise had taken off his gloves. A distracting

wrangle followed. Skene had climbed over the palisade, and was

hurling oaths, threats, and epithets at Paradise, who, unable to

stand without assistance, was trying to lift his leaden eyelids and

realize what had happened to him. A dozen others were trying to bring

him to his senses, remonstrating with him on his conduct, or trying to

pacify Skene. Cashel, on the other side, raged at the managers, who

were reminding him that the rules of glove-fighting did not allow

wrestling and throwing.