Two or three more men went in. I could tell that Kenneth was in agony lest all the seats should be gone before Uncle Arthur had made up his obviously vacillating mind.
'Couldn't we just pop in, Uncle?' he said at last. 'It's only threepence for children and I've got that left. Couldn't we?'
'Oh, it's not for children,' said Uncle Arthur, but he still lingered.
'The man said it was educational, and it's only wrestling. It's not as though they're going to knock each other out,' I said.
'Wrestling's worse nor boxing,' said Uncle Arthur. 'Oh, well, all right, just for a few minutes, then.' Kenneth darted for the tent-flap, his threepence already in his hand, and Uncle Arthur and I followed. The marquee was full of noise, tobacco smoke and the smell of sweaty, beery men. There were still a number of unoccupied backless wooden benches. We sat down, Kenneth in the gangway seat, myself next to him and Uncle Arthur between me and a sleazy drunk who was singing sadly to himself and hiccupping now and then.
Instead of the usual ring, there was a stage, a small, square platform covered with coarse green matting. Some wooden steps led up to this from the auditorium. The fat man mounted these and announced in a voice gone husky from his previous open-air efforts:
'Presentin' a three-round, catch-as-catch-can exhibition contest between, on my right, Jacques Collins, on my left, Tiger-Cat Bellamy Smith. Gen'lemen will kindly stop smokin' while this important exhibition bout is in progress.'
No notice whatever was taken of this suggestion. He retired and the two wrestlers rose from the knees of their seconds, who had been kneeling on one knee and accommodating their principals on the other thigh.
The Tiger-Cat was lean and had black hair, long legs and thin, muscular arms. He was dressed in a black, long-sleeved vest and black tights. His opponent was shorter and more thick-set, with a bulging bull-neck and an eyebrow-length fringe of red hair. He wore sky-blue breeches which fastened under the knee; his chest, except for a menacing tangle of red hair, was bare to the waist. The two men advanced to the centre of the stage and danced about in a manner which was obviously only for show and hardly looked like business. Some of the audience lit such clay pipes as had gone out or any noisome cigars they had won at the fair. Others got out cheap cigarettes abstracted from battered packets, and we all settled down to enjoy the fun.
There was one more announcement before the exhibition bout really got under way.
'You are advised, gen'lemen sportsmen,' bellowed the fat man, advancing to the top of the steps again, 'to study the contest closely so as to pick up pointers as to FORM. The gen'lemen sportsmen contestants for our prize-money of five pounds will be matched against the loser of this exhibition contest. The loser, not the winner, gen'lemen sportsmen. Thank you.'
He then retreated to the centre of the stage and the contestants went back to their corners, but not to the knees of their seconds, for these had retired. Somebody rang a bell, the fat man (who was going to referee the bout) skipped out of the way and the wrestlers, bending forward from the waist, held their hands and arms at the ready as they began to circle round one another, looking for a hold.
The contest enthralled me, although Uncle Arthur muttered that it was rigged and that the winner knew he was booked to win and the loser knew he was to lose, and both knew exactly when the dénouement would come and the lambs (if any) among the audience be enticed to the slaughter. Tor there won't be no five-pound given, you can bet your bottom dollar,' said our cynical but knowledgeable uncle.
The contestants circled, feinted, rolled together on the matting, grunted, clutched and appeared to do everything short of strangling one another. The audience shouted and stamped and the affair went three rounds, but even by the end of the second round the thin fellow appeared to be getting the worst of it. At the beginning of the fourth round it was all over, and in the most sensational manner. The bulkier man suddenly, thrillingly and theatrically caught up his opponent bodily and literally flung him into the auditorium, where, true to his tiger-cat title, he landed miraculously on his feet in the clear space between the front of the stage and the first row of the backless benches. He climbed back on to the stage, shook his head as his opponent came forward and slouched off into the wings.
The victor bowed to the sporadic applause and the fat impresario came to the front of the stage again.
'See 'ow easy, gen'lemen sportsmen! Who's for winnin' five pounds? Don't all roll up at once. Come on, now. Who's goin' to try his luck? We'll just give the Cat time to get his breath back, and then...' Before he had time to finish, a thickset young countryman, propelled by the willing hands of his friends, was thrust, stumbling and protesting, to the foot of the wooden steps. The fat man stretched out a welcoming hand. 'Good for you, sir,' he said, as the youth was pulled and pushed up on to the stage.
There were preliminaries. The lad was taken behind the scenes and re-appeared, looking sheepish, stripped to his shirt, trousers and socks. Then the Tiger-Cat came on and they shook hands.
'Go it, Breezer!' shouted those in the audience who knew the unwilling challenger.
'Go it, Tiger-Cat!' yelled Kenneth, springing to his feet and leaping into the gangway.
'Interducin' Breezer Ben Trucket,' bellowed the fat man. 'Challengin' Tiger-Cat Bellamy Smith for the MAGNIFICENT purse of five jimmy o' goblins! Place your bets, gen'lemen sportsmen. Who'll have half-a-dollar on the Breezer?'
'Dollar and an'arf on the Cat,' shouted a voice from the back. The fat man smiled indulgently, shook his head, thanked the audience for their kind appreciation and gave a signal. A bell rang and the contest was on.
'Uncle Arthur,' I remember saying, 'has the Tiger-Cat changed his suit? He looks all shiny.'
'Greased all over,' Uncle Arthur replied. 'It's an old trick. That lad won't ever get a grip of him.'
The drunk, who had managed to get up, must have overheard this. Having risen to his feet, he wobbled uncertainly, supported himself by holding on to the shoulders of a small man in the row in front, gave a terrific belch and shouted out:
'He'sh oiled! The Cat'sh oiled! Drown that (hic!) Cat. He'sh oiled!'
'You're oiled!' called out someone near the front, turning round.
'Siddown, yer fool!' shouted others.
'Gen'lemen, please!' yelled the fat man, advancing once again to the front of the stage. 'Keep your seats, gen'lemen, please! Kindly keep your SEATS!'
At this critical moment the Tiger-Cat elected to become tactless. He abandoned the dodging and feinting with which he had been lulling the audience into a hope that Breezer Ben, the pride of whatever Oxfordshire village he came from, might actually win the five-pound prize, lifted him into the air, flung him down and appeared to jump on him. Ben forgot his manhood and gave a boyish squeal of agony. At this, his friends, who numbered at least half a dozen, most of them more than half-drunk, rushed the platform, knocking the fat man down.
The rest of the audience reacted according to their various natures. Some yelled, 'Siddown!' Others stamped on the ground and whistled through their fingers. One or two made for the exit. A tall, dark woman in the front row darted up the steps on to the platform and flung herself into the fray on behalf of the Tiger-Cat, who looked (grease or no grease) as though he was going to take a dreadful bashing from Ben's infuriated friends. The seconds rushed in and what Kipling would have called 'a melee of a sumptuous kind' ensued, with the dark woman in the thick of it.