Quick as the eye could see, Younger propelled himself off the bar rail on his right heel and swung a slightly rounded left lead at Darky’s face. Darky slipped inside the punch but not quickly enough to avoid a stinging, glancing blow on the right ear. Younger was wide open to Darky’s right cross, a murderous punch in his heyday. Darky threw it now with all his strength. But his reflexes were too slow and Younger managed to take the blow on his upraised left wrist.
Younger closed on Darky wrestling with him until they fell to the floor locked together, Darky on top. Younger’s cronies clamoured, pulling Darky off violently. A crowd milled round separating the fighters, Kevin, Ernie, one of the barmen, Younger’s cronies and a few of those good souls who always take the thankless task of trying to stop a bar brawl.
O’Connell roared: “All out! The bar’s closed!”
The crowd, now that violence had broken out, needed no third bidding. Soon, only Darky and Younger, their closest cronies and the hotel staff remained. The biggest of the two barmen ran from Darky to Younger shouting: “Break it up, for crissake! If yer want to fight, get outside!”
“Come on, Darky,” Ernie Lyle said and Darky allowed himself to be led out. As he passed, Younger tried to drag himself clear of restraining hands.
In the street, the crowd gathered in three groups.
Darky, surrounded by half a dozen cronies stood near the corner of the street. “I’ll have him any time he likes,” he was saying, but his hands were trembling a little from the tension.
Younger stood near the side door of the hotel. His drinking companions gathered round him offering encouragement. The color had drained from Younger’s face but Darky’s relative ineffectiveness in the encounter had given him confidence. He snorted and pranced about savoring the promise of violence and bloodshed.
He was saying: “I can do him, if there’s somewhere to fight.”
The third group was the largest; those hundred or so men from the bar who determined to be onlookers and not combatants in any fighting that would ensue. These gathered on the roadside at a safe distance.
Soon small clusters of people, including women and children, began to gather at vantage points on the opposite footpath of the side street, and on the corner where it intersected with the Main Street.
“You can fight under the street light there near the dunny,” one of Younger’s cronies suggested. Falling in love with the idea, he shouted for all to hear: “They can fight under the street light. Just like the ring in the Melbourne Stadium.”
He pointed to where a street light shed its strong beams near a tree at the entrance to the back yard and lavatories of the Royal Hotel, forming a half circle of bright light on the edge of the roadway. He ran and stood in the centre of the lighted spot “Come on,” he yelled. “Ring out and give ’em a fair go!”
Ring out and give them a fair go! The traditional announcement of an Australian grudge fight. At least on this occasion the antagonists seemed evenly matched, so far as size was concerned.
Younger walked purposefully into the light and proceeded to peel off his shirt and singlet.
Ernie Lyle shrugged his shoulders helplessly.
Darky stepped across the gutter and stood in the glow at the edge of the circle of light. Some of the most involved spectators came forward and formed an uneven half circle. Others moved closer but not too close.
The man who had discovered the “stadium” apparently felt this automatically made him referee, for he stood in the centre of the light with the exaggerated ceremony of the semi-drunk. He was stockily built. He wore a hat with a wide brim, and an ill fitting dark blue suit. His coat was unbuttoned and he struck a stance with his hands on his hips, his coat flapping behind him.
“Gents!” he called out. “Ladies and gents. There’s a question of a bit of stoush and I’m here to see its fair dinkum bit of stoush. I want yer to ring out and give ’em a fair go.” Espying the publican, Danny O’Connell, hovering with his wife at the window of the hotel kitchen clearly visible in the light behind them, the referee added: “And I don’t want no one sendin’ over to Dillingley for the coppers, neither.” Signalling Darky and Younger to come closer he lowered his voice and told them: “There’ll be no kickin’; there’ll be no wrestlin’; and there’ll be no bell, no rounds, and no ten counts; the fight ends when one of you turns it up.”
With those words he stepped back and the fighters shaped up.
Younger’s skin was burned dark brown from long days in the sun. His muscles rippled and bulged where the light picked them up; muscles made strong as steel from wielding the axe. Stripped to the waist, he had the torso of a powerful athlete.
Darky had not removed his shirt or singlet. By comparison to Younger, he seemed awkward and subdued, but there was a quiet air of power about him.
Younger was the taller by a good three inches and his reach was the longer; but Darky was the heavier man, perhaps a stone heavier. Younger was twenty two years of age; Darky forty five.
Darky had moved onto the rise of the roadside near the outer fringe of the light obliging Jimmy Younger to stand on slightly lower ground. Darky took up a flat-footed stance, legs wide apart, his fists low in front of his chest. He weaved a little and moved his fists forward and back like short pistons to the roll of his body in the unorthodox Jack Dempsey manner. He was essentially a counter-puncher. He’d made his reputation as unbeatable on only a few fights. He’d never struck the first blow in his life, and now he waited for his opponent to lead.
Jimmy Younger carried his right fist under his chin, his left cocked forward in an orthodox stance. He’d hung around a gymnasium or two and had done some fighting in and out of the roped square.
Younger jogged about, feinting and weaving, while Darky waited, alert and ready to throw the counter punch.
The crowd had moved closer, in awed silence except for the scraping feet.
Younger led with his left but it was a tentative thrust and Darky weaved back outside it. Younger threw a hard left lead. Darky slipped inside it and crashed a short right hand under the heart; then he closed with Younger, claiming his arms, throwing his weight against him. Before the self-appointed referee could intervene, Darky pushed Younger clear and again waited for him to lead.
Sap his strength then go for an early knockout, Darky kept telling himself. The calm of battle had descended on him, but he knew he must win quickly or be cut to pieces in ignominious defeat.
Ruffled, Younger came in again throwing his left hand wildly. Darky ducked; the blow slewed off the top of his head; he threw a savage right uppercut sending Younger down on his heels and hands. Younger fell near the wide trunk of the elm tree near the light post. Darky crowded in leaving Younger little room to rise. Younger managed to scramble to his feet and hang on, throwing short rights to Darky’s head in the clinch. He was fighting mad, stung but rendered confident by the fact he had taken Darky’s right to the jaw and come back clear-headed and strong. As the boxers scuffled and punched at close quarters, a murmur rising to a near roar came from the crowd. They expressed excitement, awe, near horror all mixed up.
Darky pushed Younger off and again took up his stance. He was beginning to pant already. I couldn’t have landed that one square on his jaw, he tired to reassure himself. I’ll try one more, then go downstairs.
Younger came in and poked out another left lead. Darky moved his head aside evasively, but before he could throw his right fist, Younger came up with his right and their punches jumbled, neither landing cleanly.
A man’s gettin’ slow, Darky admitted to himself, as he smothered close, pinioning Younger’s arms. The referee ordered a break and again they shaped up to each other. Younger was growing more confident. Again he threw a left lead and again he nullified Darky’s counter blow and they clinched.