What an ugly look there was about that fellow Notter’s eyes... Sort of bestial... Perhaps he had been a professional!...
These were the thoughts that coursed through Simmons’s head throughout the picnic feast, to which all were soon summoned by the jangling of a string of cowbells. He couldn’t eat, and he hated the others for eating. How utterly heartless they seemed, laughing and talking and munching their sandwiches and pickles and cake! Didn’t they realize the seriousness of a fistic contest between two trained men? Didn’t they know that a full swing on the jaw, scientifically delivered, was very apt to prove fatal?
After the feast the program of amusements began. There was a potato race and a bag race and other games and contests peculiar to the country. Simmons stood aside, leaning against a tree, trying to remain unnoticed. He felt faint, as though if he didn’t lean against something he would be unable to stand. Really, he didn’t feel well.
He was telling himself fiercely that he was no coward. It wasn’t that. He just thought it was silly, and anyway he shouldn’t be expected to fight an ex-champion. Probably Mr. Notter knew just how to land a blow so as to knock a man out.
Suddenly he heard Peter Boley’s stentorian tones calling out:
“This way, entries for the greased pig contest! This way, entries for the greased pig contest!”
Simmons felt an immense lump rise in his throat. The greased pig contest! According to the program of the Entertainment Committee, the boxing match was to follow that. The hour had come!
He heard his name pronounced from behind. He turned and saw Harry Vawter, the druggist.
“Come on, Jonas, you’d better get ready while they’re running down the pig. Here’s your stuff. Peter told me to help you. We’ve got the ring all fixed, buckets and towels and sponges and everything. Slim Pearl’s putting down the sawdust now.”
Simmons got himself clear of the tree. Over toward the middle of the grove he saw the ring on a raised platform, surrounded by a crowd of the curious, not to be pulled away even by anything so exciting as a greased pig contest. And people were standing around, looking at him.
“Where’s Mr. Notter?” he asked in a hoarse voice.
“He’s gone over to the shanty to get ready,” replied Vawter. “Come on, here’s your stuff. You can dress over in the tent.”
“All right; but I’m going down to the creek first.”
“You’ll have to hurry.”
“I’ll be back in a minute. Go on over to the tent and wait for me. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Simmons had been seized by panic. Was the ghastly thing really going to happen? He must have a minute to think.
He walked down toward the little river. The path there was almost deserted, since the greased pig contest was on the other side of the grove. He reached the bank and stood looking down at the clear, rippling water. Vawter had said he would have to hurry — the time had actually come — in twenty minutes now, maybe fifteen, he would be standing in that roped-off ring, with that brutal Notter facing him, waiting for a chance to land a fatal blow—
He looked around. There was nobody in sight. He sneaked slowly down the bank of the creek, away from the grove. He began to walk faster, glancing back over his shoulder. Still there was nobody in sight.
He broke into a run.
He ran with short, jerky steps, on his tiptoes, almost noiselessly, and every minute he ran faster. Soon he left the bank of the creek, for that was dangerous — some of the picnickers might be rowing and see him — and broke into the woods to the left. Then he left caution behind and went forward in great, broad leaps, like a startled jackrabbit. He stumbled over logs and was scratched in the face by low-hanging branches, but he paid no attention to these things. He dashed blindly on.
At length, figuring that he had left the grove and the roped ring at least a mile behind, he came to a halt in the midst of a tiny clearing surrounded by trees and shrubbery. He glanced warily in every direction, and for a full minute he stood perfectly still, listening intently. The only sound was the cry of blackbirds from above the woods. Exhausted, panting, he sank down on the grass and stretched himself out to rest and think.
He had ran away. All right, he said to himself fiercely, what of it? What was anybody going to do about it? Of course he had ran away. Who wouldn’t? If everybody was so anxious to see a fight, why didn’t they fight themselves? They’d laugh at him, would they? Well, they wouldn’t laugh very long. He’d leave Holtville, that’s what he’d do. He’d never liked the town very well, anyhow.
One thing, he’d like to hear anybody say he was a coward. He’d just like to hear ’em. He’d smash their face, that’s what he’d do. In fact, if he was back there right now he’d walk up to Mr. Notter and smash his face. That was different from letting ’em rope you in a ring. That’s what he should have done in the first place.
The day Peter Boley came and told him that Bill Ogilvy’s new clerk had said he’d box him at the Annual Picnic he should have gone right down to Bill Ogilvy’s store and walked up to Mr. Notter and said to him, “So you want to fight me, do you?” and smashed him in the face. That would have been—
At this point the course of Simmons’s thoughts was abruptly halted. He heard a noise somewhere to the right — no, the left. A sound of something moving.
Instantly he was on the alert. He rose cautiously to his hands and knees and crawled across the grass to the shrubbery. Noiselessly pulling a branch aside, he looked through—
And found himself face to face with Mr. Notter!
Simmons stopped short, squatting there on his hands and knees, gazing into Mr. Notter’s eyes not three feet away. Mr. Notter, too, appeared to be startled out of speech. He had forced his way half through the shrubbery, when the apparition of Simmons burst suddenly upon him, and now he stood there, surrounded by the leaves and branches, with a stupid, amazed stare in his usually keen eyes, like a steer that has just been felled with an ax.
For several seconds the two men gazed at each other, silent and motionless. Suddenly a new look flashed into the eyes of each; a look of comprehension, of mutual understanding.
“Hello,” said Jone Simmons weakly.
Mr. Notter nodded. Then he removed his eyes from the other’s face to glance hastily behind him, as though he contemplated retreat. But appearing to think better of it, he moved forward instead, pushed his way through the tangled shrubbery and stood within the clearing. Simultaneously Simmons backed in again and rose to his feet.
“Hello,” said Mr. Notter then, as though he had just remembered that he had not returned the other’s greeting.
Simmons nodded. There was a silence. Suddenly a grin appeared on Mr. Notter’s face. He looked about him for a nice grassy spot, selected one near the trunk of a tree at the edge of the clearing and deliberately sat down on it, stretching his legs out comfortably and leaning against the tree.
“Very nice here,” he observed pleasantly.
Simmons felt that he didn’t want to sit down. He thought that he would feel silly if he sat down, and he tried to think of something else to do. No go. He couldn’t very well stand there like a man ready to run.
So he sat down, somewhat abruptly, a little distance away. He was trying to decide whether he ought to reply to Mr. Notter’s observations. After all, there was no reason why he shouldn’t.
“Nice and shady,” he declared, plucking a blade of grass and placing it between his teeth.
All at once a great burst of laughter came from Mr. Notter. He kicked up his heels and roared. He rocked to and fro, shaking all over, reveling in mirth, waking the forest.