In the first case they are allowed a minute's time; and
go on again; in the latter another pair of gamesters are called on. If
good men are playing, the quickness of the returns is marvellous: you
hear the rattle like that a boy makes drawing his stick along palings,
only heavier; and the closeness of the men in action to one another
gives it a strange interest, and makes a spell at back-swording a very
noble sight.
They are all suited now with sticks, and Joe Willis and the gipsy man
have drawn the first lot. So the rest lean against the rails of the
stage, and Joe and the dark man meet in the middle, the boards having
been strewed with sawdust, Joe's white shirt and spotless drab breeches
and boots contrasting with the gipsy's coarse blue shirt and dirty green
velveteen breeches and leather gaiters. Joe is evidently turning up his
nose at the other, and half insulted at having to break his head.
The gipsy is a tough, active fellow, but not very skilful with his
weapon, so that Joe's weight and strength tell in a minute; he is too
heavy metal for him. Whack, whack, whack, come his blows, breaking down
the gipsy's guard, and threatening to reach his head every moment. There
it is at last. "Blood, blood!" shout the spectators, as a thin stream
oozes out slowly from the roots of his hair, and the umpire calls to
them to stop. The gipsy scowls at Joe under his brows in no pleasant
manner, while Master Joe swaggers about, and makes attitudes, and thinks
himself, and shows that he thinks himself, the greatest man in the
field.
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