“Gibby and Prattle?” Race chuckled. “This is such an amateur fight, I doubt the bruisers are worried about two men well past their prime taking the shine off their accomplishments. The boxers probably came so they could have a good laugh.”
“Tell me, did Sir Randolph ever come up with a fighting name for himself?”
Race grinned. “I think you cured him from wanting another name when you suggested he should be called a bird that looked like a lark.”
Suddenly from a distance, Race heard the sound of bugles trumpeting, and everyone who was seated rose and looked behind them. Even as tall as Race was, there were so many people he couldn’t see what was going on.
Morgan stood on his chair, looked around, and then glanced down at Race and Blake with a rueful grin and said, “I don’t believe this. It is Gibby’s coach, being pulled by six white horses. It’s decorated with red and white ribbons. There’s a bugler sitting with the driver. They are both dressed in white.”
Race looked at Susannah and shook his head. “I should have known Gibby would have to make a grand entrance. He is all about getting attention.”
The crowd started clapping and cheering as the people parted to allow Gibby’s coach to come in close to the ring. When it stopped not far from them, the footman jumped down and opened the door. Gibby stepped out, dressed in a buff-colored satin jacket with gold buttons down the front and epaulets on his shoulders.
Loud cheers and chanting of his name erupted to the point it was deafening. Gibby waved and smiled at the huge gathering. His trainer, Danger Jim, and two other bruisers stepped out of the carriage behind Gibby and flanked him as he walked to the rope, ducked under it, and entered the prize ring.
Race had no idea where Prattle came from, but all of a sudden he entered the ring from the other side, with only one lone man standing beside him. The short, thick man was wearing a simple black shirt, breeches, and stockings. There was such trepidation in Prattle’s expression, he looked like a hen staring at a fox.
Gibby taunted Prattle with a wave and a smile, and the crowd roared its approval once again. Gibby then made a production of taking off his jacket and handing it to one of the men standing beside him. Most pugilists fought bare-chested, but Gibby wore a collarless, buff-colored shirt, breeches, and stockings. He looked much thinner than Prattle, and more fit and muscular than Race would have thought possible, given his age.
Race shook his head and chuckled to himself. Under any other circumstances, Sir Randolph Gibson would never appear before anyone half dressed. Even seeing it with his own eyes, Race had trouble believing Gibby was going through with this fight.
A middle-aged man dressed in a collarless white shirt and black breeches stepped into the ring, and within seconds the crowd quieted down. The referee called Gibby and Prattle to the center and talked to them for less than a minute before blowing a whistle and stepping aside.
Race tensed. He hoped Prattle kept to his part of the bargain as the two men lifted their bare knuckles into the air and began to circle each other. Race had tried to make it clear to Prattle this had to be a real fight, but he didn’t want Gibby hurt. Gibby would know if Prattle just gave up and didn’t try to win.
Gibby, the taller of the two men by at least a head, wasted no time advancing on Prattle, delivering several jabs to his head and a couple of punches to his stomach. From what Race could see, only one fist had actually made contact with Prattle’s midsection. The crowd roared its approval of Gibby’s aggressiveness with his rapid punches and dancing feet. Even though Prattle was stocky, he was quick on his feet, and he was bobbing and weaving to avoid Gibby’s fast fists.
It was clear neither man really knew the art of boxing for sport, or about timing and judgment of throwing their punches to insure accuracy, but both men were giving it a valiant effort. Suddenly one of Gibby’s bare, tight-knuckled fists made contact with Prattle’s chin, snapping his head back, by what seemed to be an accident to Race. The expression on Prattle’s face instantly changed from fear to anger. Race moved to the edge of his seat, and so did every one else on the row chairs.
Suddenly, Prattle was the one advancing on Gibby, but the old man didn’t seem bothered by it. He was quick on his feet, and by sidestepping and dancing around, he was able to avoid all of Prattle’s jabs, but at the same time he wasn’t able to land any of his own, either. Race’s hands clenched into fists, and he flinched as one of Prattle’s fists landed against Gibby’s forehead. Race wanted to stop the fight before Gibby got hurt but knew he couldn’t.
It seemed like hours instead of mere minutes before the whistle blew, and the two amateur bruisers went to their corners for a moment of rest and water.
When the whistle blew again, Gibby and Prattle moved back to scratch and once again started circling each other, occasionally throwing a long punch or a short jab in the other’s direction, sometimes making contact and sometimes missing completely. The crowd started yelling for blood, and that sent a chill up Race’s spine.
In the blink of an eye, Prattle unleashed a powerful left hook to the liver, and the blow staggered Gibby. Prattle took advantage of Gibby’s weakness and went at him again, with another quick left-right combination, which sent Gibby slumping to the ground.
Race and everyone else in the dignitary seats jumped to their feet. The crowd yelled for Gibby to get up.
The referee quickly held Prattle at bay with his arm. Race felt Susannah’s comforting hand touch his, and he briefly squeezed her fingertips.
Gibby scrambled to his feet and shook his head as if to clear his vision and then started his fancy footwork again. The whistle blew before he and Prattle could resume the fight, and they each retreated to their corners again.
“Shouldn’t we stop this madness?” Morgan asked in an angry voice as they retook their seats and the crowd quieted down. “Haven’t we let this go on long enough now?”
“No,” Race said reluctantly. “This is Gibby’s wish. Not ours. We have to let him fight it out.”
“Much as I hate it,” Blake said, “I agree with Race. We can’t intervene.”
“But that man looks like a bull, and Gib looks like a plucked ostrich. I’m afraid the man’s going to kill him.”
“It’s still Gibby’s fight,” Blake said.
Race remained quiet and satisfied that he hadn’t told his cousins about his talk with Prattle. From the way the fight was going, it didn’t look like the man was going to keep his end of their bargain, anyway.
The whistle blew and the boxers returned to the center of the ring and started their wary dance. Prattle was sweating profusely and sucking short, shallow breaths, appearing completely winded. After only a few jabs, Race could see the bigger man was giving out fast. Gibby hadn’t let his knockdown dampen his spirit or aggressiveness. He advanced on Prattle again, looking as composed and unruffled as he had when he exited his coach. Race had to hand it to the old man. He had grit. And he had certainly found his bottom where his courage was stored.
The two men circled each other and soon started throwing short jabs and long punches, neither of them very good at hitting their mark. It wasn’t long before the whistle blew, and they retreated to their corners for rest, for water, and for a pep talk from the men waiting for them ringside.
