by Lewis Hockley.
Originally published in The Magnet Library (The Amalgamated Press, Ltd.) vol.1 #13 (09 May 1908).
A Visit to Wonderland.
Robert Lomax returned to Leigh-on-Sea. Frank Dennis bent his staps towards Wonderland, as he had told his chum he should do. Sleeping McDonald was going to fight there that night, and Dennis had a queer fancy to see him in the ring. If he had any other reason for wishing to go, he did not mention it to Lomax.
There is scarcely any need to say what is Wonderland, that Mecca of the London professional boxer, which is situated in the Whitechapel Road, and where, week after week throughout the months, are presented the modern likenesses of those fistic encounters which nearly a hundred years ago delighted prince and peasant, and gained for Englishmen a notoriety for the effective use of their fists which has never left them.
There was a big crowd outside the doors when Dennis arrived on the scene. The gate at Wonderland is always a profitable one, and that night there promised to be a bigger demand for seats than usual, attributable, no doubt, to the important contest between McDonald and the South African champion.
The crowd was rough, but good-tempered, and though Dennis was spotted at once, and made the subject of more than one remark, nothing further happened.
He paid his shilling, and entered. A shilling secured a fairly good seat, though not too close to the ring. This, however, was in agreement with Dennis's views. He did not wish to be very near to the roped enclosure.
To those unacquainted with Wonderland—from the inside—a visit when an important boxing match in on the carpet is something more than interesting. It is a liberal education in itself, and, far more than anything else, brings home to one tho extent of the love of boxing which exists in this part of the great Metropolis. It does more to prove how keen and whole-hearted is the devotion given to the game of fisticuffs than acres of printing.
The East-Ender is a sportsman, and though he may like his amusement a trifle highly-coloured, he is very thoroughly in earnest. Besides, he knows the game he pays to see. He is no armchair critic full of beautiful theories, and his interest is the reverse of academic.
Of those who fill the great hall the large majority have a very practical knowledge of the game, acquired by experience—the knowledge that comes of performance instead of watching.
They are boxers themselves, and they are critical of those lads who step into the ring for their patrons' delectation, and to demonstrate to the benefit of their own pockets that they are acquainted with the science and strategies of fist-play.
They know a good man when they see him, and don't hesitate to say so, even though he suffers defeat. Nor do they, on the other hand, fail to express their disapprobation of conduct which strikes then as being open to censure. They are generous, but they are also just; and they are delightfully independent in their beliefs and opinions.
That there are scapegraces, gentlemen who live by their wits, and are not above earning a livelihood at the expense of their fellows, taking with the strong hand—or, rather, the light fingers—that which they require, is not to be denied. No one who is gifted with wisdom would go to the hall with his pockets full of gold, or with much jewellery ostentatiously displayed—that is, if he wished to return home without his stock of worldly possessions having suffered a decrease. But even these gentry who are unable to distinguish between "mine and thine" recognise certain limitations. Of this Frank Dennis was quickly made aware.
As he travelled with the crowd—it couldn't be said he walked, for the press was so great, one had to go forward wily-nilly—from the pay-desk to the interior he suddenly felt a hand insinuating itself into his left-hand trousers-pocket.
There wasn't much there in the way of cash, for Dennis wasn't quite a fool, and had been to Wonderland before; but that was no reason for permitting the theft of it. He shoved down his own hand, and got grip of the intruder's wrist. To stop was impossible; he had to go on, and he held his tongue. There was no sense or good in crying aloud what was taking place.
But he turned his head a few inches. Half a dozen pairs of eyes met his. WHich belonged to the owner of the hand he could not say. He meant to act directly the hall should be reached, and he was able to move.
Before, however, this could be done the hand was suddenly wrenched from between his fingers, and by the time, half a dozen paces further along, the crowd was able to widen out and disperse to capture seats, and he turned round in a moderately clear space to see if he might locate the would-be thief, he found it an impossibility. There was nothing he could do.
"Lost anyfink, guv'nor?"
A young fellow, sallow and clean-shaven, had noticed the expression of Dennis's face, and stopped beside him.
"Think not," Frank answered. "But it wasn't the chap's fault he didn't get anything."
"Ah"—Dennis's interrogator looked at him meaningfully—"I wouldn't do that if I was you, even if I saw him," he remarked.
"Do what?"
By way of reply, the young fellow pointed at Frank's fist, which had involuntarily clenched.
"Better not," he said.
"But—"
"Say, guv'nor, yer leave it to me"—this is a confidential voice, almost a whisper, and the speaker stepped nearer the young detective. "Don't yer make no fuss, even if th' boys do do a bit o' pinchin'; an' they won't do that if yer've got, say, a bob as yer'd like to 'and over to me. If yer like, we'll look after yer."
"Who will."
Dennis was more than a little amused by this quiet suggestion of the payment of a sort of blackmail.
"Me an' my mates."
"If I give you a shilling—" Frank began slowly.
"We'll see as yer don't lose nuffin'," the young rascal interrupted coolly. "If yer do, tell me, an' I'll git it back—see?"
"And if I don't?"
"Well; yer—"
Perhaps he was being victimised; and, if not, the idea of paying for protection was not very agreeable. But still, Frank, smiling faintly, laid a shilling in the grimy hand of the young fellow. He took it eagerly, but he was a shrewd, keen-witted youth, and he could see by the expression in Dennis's humerous eyes that the payment was not dictated by fear.
"Yer'll be all right now, guv'nor!" he said cheerfully, and disappeared.
"Sort of insurance premium," murmured Frank, as he turned away to secure a seat.
What sort of interest the investment of that shilling was to bring him he could not then know. Had he been gifted with second sight, he would have known it to be a very good one.
In spite of the delay the foregoing incident had caused, Dennis contrived to secure a good position, one from which he could see the ring, but was little likely to be noticed by any occupant thereof.
For the next half-hour he amused himself with watching and listening to the crowd—hardly as quiet and undemonstrative as would have been found in a West End place of entertainment. Everybody seemed to be acquainted with everybody else, and bits of personal information, as well as items of general interest, were shouted from one part to another with consistent frequency and a great deal of vigour.
But when the M.C. entered the ring and the first pair of boxers was announced, a more reasonable state of things ensued. The spectators made a strong effort to be quiet; indeed, those who were most insistent upon the quietude of others were before long those who made the most noise.
The officials took their places, the timekeeper gave the signal, and the fun commenced.
There were many bouts, most of them well contested, and all of them shorter than the arrangements stipulated. Your East-Ender likes a fight to be a fight. He isn't "gone" on sparring, and a "knock-out" is to him the best of all terminations; and that night he got more than satisfaction.
Whatever it was the boxers got in the shape of pecuniary reward for their victories, it could not be denied they earned it. It probably wasn't much, though no doubt it seemed to them quite a large sum to be earned in so short a space of time; but they certainly earned it.
As for the losers—well, any man not up to the trade would have considered that their share of the collection thoughtfully made amongst the spectators for their benefit was a poor consolation for the hammering received.
Dennis put a shilling into the receptacle the first time the collection touched him, and he became a marked man. The pugilist who gathered it in looked at him somewhat as does a churchwarden at the man who puts a sovereign in the collection-plate.
Coppers were the rule, and Frank's neighbours eyed him with something approaching awe. The eyes of one or two suddenly sparkled as if agreeable thoughts had come into their heads, some whispering took place, and expressive nods and winks telegraphed information to those whom a whisper couldn't reach.
At nine o'clock the big event was announced amid some excitement, and Dennis saw his visitor of the morning—now in the buff so far as his waist, and black pants and red socks lower down—enter the ring.
Out of his clothes he looked even a tougher customer than he did in them. His limbs were short, thick-muscled, and powerful; his body long and round. He looked capable of lasting a week against such an opponent as was the South African boxer, who was of the greyhound type, quick, and nervous-looking.
The first round began, and the spectators left off shouting advice and encouragement to their favourite in order to use their eyes. McDonald appeared a trifle worried. Someone asked him if he had pawned his grin, a remark which seemed to show the Southwark champion usually took these little matters cheerfully.
His opponent was anxious, but meant business.
Something was wrong with McDonald, and the crowd noticed it, and resented it. They didn't like seeing their favourite getting the worst of an encounter. They begged him to "buck up," implored him not to go to sleep, and most of them were very glad indeed when "Time!" was called.
McDonald had had all the worst of the round. The other man was decidedly the quicker, hit more often, if lightly, and ran up points fast. McDonald seemed preoccupied, boxed without life, and missed the opportunities for those terrible right-hand swings which had floored all previous opponents. Towards the end of the second minute he was sent down in his own corner, and got up looking as if he didn't like it.
Rounds two and three were much the same. A hard drive drew blood from his nose, and for a few seconds he appeared to wake up; but the effort died away, and the spectators fairly howled with annoyance.
Ten rounds the contest was scheduled for, and when it had gone half it's length it was "all Lombard Street to a china orange" that the foreigner would be the winner. But there were those—and the number was many—who believed that the Englishman was only lying low. However many points his opponent scored, they would be of no use to him, for soon McDonald would set about his man and finish the business by putting him to sleep with one of his terrible right-handers.
But these folk couldn't but admit that McDonald didn't shape that way, that he was boxing very differently from usual, and that, so far, that triumphant grin which he usually wore when he was biding his time and getting ready to cut short his opponent's career hadn't made its appearance.
In the seventh round McDonald received a clip on the chin that staggered him. Half an inch to the left, and he would have gone down and out. That was what the spectators thought, and their observations addressed to the Southwark champion became more and more pointed.
Why didn't he go in and knock Buckle—that was the South African's name—into the middle of next week? Was he afraid? Had he a white feather about him, or was it a "cross"—a faked match?
His seconds talked to him forcibly and impressively, but he did not give them much attention.
"Hold yer tongue!" he growled at last; but his eyes were wandering around the building with that queer, apprehensive glance of one who fears to see something or somebody the while such recognition is hoped and prayed against. Like the spectators, the seconds could make nothing of him. He seemed different from what he had ever been before.
By the end of the ninth round Buckle began to think the game was in his hands, as indeed it was. He gave up his tactics of long leads and tricky footwork, and went in to hit.
The spectators had the mortification of seeing their favourite make a perfect chopping-block of. All of them shouted; some went so far even as to hoot the champion.
The contest ended with McDonald in one corner of the ring, taking punishment enough to have disabled two ordinary men. There was scarcely need for the referee to give his decision. The veriest novice must have known it beforehand, so obvious was it which was the better man.
Nevertheless, the naming of Buckle as the winner was the signal for such a demonstration as was extraordinary even for Wonderland. Men had lost money over McDonald's licking, and they didn't forget it.
Frank Dennis, having seen the defeated man leave the ring, had extricated himself from the crush of shouting spectators around him, and hurriedly left the building.