Black Ajax Read Free

An' Blenkinsop, whut owns him, they say he keep him caged up, in a cage with iron bars, an' shackled to boot! Say he cain't let him loose 'mong other nigras, even, for fear he tear 'em up in his rage! He ain't human, they sayin'!”“My dear Richard, none of them is human. Vocal animals, as the Romans said.”
    His hand shakes as he fills his glass and soaks my table linen. “My boy Tom, he nevah bin beat! Why, he licked Matheson's nigra, that'd beat ten men, beat him senseless in twenny-two minutes, yessir! Matheson's nigra a real champeen, they say! Twenny-two minutes, an' cudn't git up to ma Tom!”
    “Then why such anxiety?”
    He licks his lips and drums his great fingers. “Black Ghost killed Matheson's buck two weeks back. Bust his neck in his two hands like 'twas kindlin'. Fight didn't last three minutes.”
    I assure him that form is not to be judged by such comparisons, and for a moment his fears subside. To revive them, I inquire what odds are being laid on this monster, and the stem of his glass is snapped between his fingers. His mouth works and his voice is hoarse.
    “Five to one on th' Ghost,” says he. “That's whut had me plungin'. Nevuh was sech odds! Ah cudn't resist, Lucie, Ah tell yuh!” His face is glistening as he turns it to me, red and staring. “Ah backed ma Tom to th' hilt!”
    This becomes interesting. I inquire of figures, and he brims another glass and gulps: “Fifty-fi' thousand dollahs!”
    I wonder, not at the prodigious sum, but at the folly of wagering it on an insensate piece of black flesh against a fighter of formidable repute whom, it seems, he has never even seen. I remind him of his confidence, so freely expressed but a moment ago, and he groans.
    “'Spose he lose! 'Spose he cain't whup the Ghost! The bastard kilt four men a'ready! 'Spose he kill ma Tom!”
    “Why, then, my Richard, your enchanting Mollybird will be inconsolable, and you, dear cousin, will have lost an indifferent slave and fifty-five thousand dollars. What then? Your fortune, to say nothing of your acres at Ampleforth, are sufficient to bear such a trifling loss, surely.”
    “Triflin'!” bawls he, starting up. “Triflin'! Damn yuh, Ah ain't
got
it!” And another priceless piece of Murano workmanship is reduced to shards. “Ah ain't
got
hardly fifty-fi' thousand
cents
! Ah's ploughed, don't ye unde'stan', yuh frawg-eatin' fool!” My gratification at this unexpected news is such that I overlook the disgraceful term of abuse.“Yuh think Ah'd wager a fortune Ah ain't got if Ah wasn't desp'rate?” To complete my disgust, he begins to weep, slumped in his chair, this pitiful article of Saxon blubber. “I tell yuh, Ah's owin' all aroun', the bank, an' the Jew lenders, an' Amplefo'th bin plastered to hellangone fo' yeahs, an' that dam' Gwend'line” – his wife, an impossible, gaudy female of ludicrous pretensions and no pedigree – “spendin' like Ah had a private mint – an' Ah's burned to the socket , Lucie! Ah's so far up Tick River Ah cain't be seen, hardly!” He sinks his mutton head in his hands. “Tom's
gotta
win – he gotta win, or Ah's turned up fo'ever! Oh, Lucie, you ma friend, ma own cousin, whut Ah goin' to do?”
    A delightful spectacle, which I view with satisfaction, noting
en passant
that whereas most men in drink are given to optimism, my Richard in his maudlin state finds himself visited by spectres apparently forgotten in his sober moments. That his terrors are well-founded I do not doubt: the man is a fool, and a wastrel fool, I know, given to reckless gambling, and extravagance in which his ridiculous Gwendoline, with her absurd notions of position, will have borne more than her share. I am astonished only that in a few years he should have dissipated a splendid fortune and one of the finest estates in Virginia, and wonder if his misfortunes have reduced him to the point where he will apply to me for assistance. But no, even in his abject state he does not forget the