Supplementary Readings / Rodney Stone by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

CHAPTER X. THE MEN OF THE RING.

IT was at the end of my first week in London that my uncle gave a supper to the fancy, as was usual for gentlemen of that time if they wished to figure before the public as Corinthians and patrons of sport. He had invited not only the chief fighting-men of the day, but also those men of fashion who were most interested in the ring: Mr. Fletcher Reid, Lord Say and Sele, Sir Lothian Hume, Sir John Lade, Colonel Montgomery, Sir Thomas Apreece, the Hon. Berkeley Craven, and many more. The rumour that the Prince was to be present had already spread through the clubs, and invitations were eagerly sought after.

The Waggon and Horses was a well-known sporting house, with an old prize-fighter for landlord. And the arrangements were as primitive as the most Bohemian could wish. It was one of the many curious fashions which have now died out, that men who were blasé from luxury and high living seemed to find a fresh piquancy in life by descending to the lowest resorts, so that the night-houses and gambling-dens in Covent Garden or the Haymarket often gathered illustrious company under their smoke-blackened ceilings. It was a change for them to turn their backs upon the cooking of Weltjie and of Ude, or the chambertin of old Q., and to dine upon a porter-house steak washed down by a pint of ale from a pewter pot.

A rough crowd had assembled in the street to see the fighting-men go in, and my uncle warned me to look to my pockets as we pushed our way through it. Within was a large room with faded red curtains, a sanded floor, and walls which were covered with prints of pugilists and race-horses. Brown liquor-stained tables were dotted about in it, and round one of these half a dozen formidable-looking men were seated, while one, the roughest of all, was perched upon the table itself, swinging his legs to and fro. A tray of small glasses and pewter mugs stood beside them.

“The boys were thirsty, sir, so I brought up some ale and some liptrap,” whispered the landlord; “I thought you would have no objection, sir.”

“Quite right, Bob! How are you all? How are you, Maddox? How are you, Baldwin? Ah, Belcher, I am very glad to see you.”

The fighting-men rose and took their hats off, except the fellow on the table, who continued to swing his legs and to look my uncle very coolly in the face.

“How are you, Berks?”

“Pretty tidy. ’Ow are you?”

“Say ‘sir’ when you speak to a genelman,” said Belcher, and with a sudden tilt of the table he sent Berks flying almost into my uncle’s arms.

“See now, Jem, none o’ that!” said Berks, sulkily.

“I’ll learn you manners, Joe, which is more than ever your father did. You’re not drinkin’ black-jack in a boozin’ ken, but you are meetin’ noble, slap-up Corinthians, and it’s for you to behave as such.”

“I’ve always been reckoned a genelman-like sort of man,” said Berks, thickly, “but if so be as I’ve said or done what I ’adn’t ought to—”

“There, there, Berks, that’s all right!” cried my uncle, only too anxious to smooth things over and to prevent a quarrel at the outset of the evening. “Here are some more of our friends. How are you, Apreece? How are you, Colonel? Well, Jackson, you are looking vastly better. Good evening, Lade. I trust Lady Lade was none the worse for our pleasant drive. Ah, Mendoza, you look fit enough to throw your hat over the ropes this instant. Sir Lothian, I am glad to see you. You will find some old friends here.”

Amid the stream of Corinthians and fighting-men who were thronging into the room I had caught a glimpse of the sturdy figure and broad, good-humoured face of Champion Harrison. The sight of him was like a whiff of South Down air coming into that low-roofed, oil-smelling room, and I ran forward to shake him by the hand.

“Why, Master Rodney—or I should say Mr. Stone, I suppose—you’ve changed out of all knowledge. I can’t hardly believe that it was really you that used to come down to blow the bellows when Boy Jim and I were at the anvil. Well, you are fine, to be sure!”

“What’s the news of Friar’s Oak?” I asked eagerly.

“Your father was down to chat with me, Master Rodney, and he tells me that the war is going to break out again, and that he hopes to see you here in London before many days are past; for he is coming up to see Lord Nelson and to make inquiry about a ship. Your mother is well, and I saw her in church on Sunday.”

“And Boy Jim?”

Champion Harrison’s good-humoured face clouded over.

“He’d set his heart very much on comin’ here to-night, but there were reasons why I didn’t wish him to, and so there’s a shadow betwixt us. It’s the first that ever was, and I feel it, Master Rodney. Between ourselves, I have very good reason to wish him to stay with me, and I am sure that, with his high spirit and his ideas, he would never settle down again after once he had a taste o’ London. I left him behind me with enough work to keep him busy until I get back to him.”

A tall and beautifully proportioned man, very elegantly dressed, was strolling towards us. He stared in surprise and held out his hand to my companion.

“Why, Jack Harrison!” he cried. “This is a resurrection. Where in the world did you come from?”

“Glad to see you, Jackson,” said my companion. “You look as well and as young as ever.”

“Thank you, yes. I resigned the belt when I could get no one to fight me for it, and I took to teaching.”

“I’m doing smith’s work down Sussex way.”

“I’ve often wondered why you never had a shy at my belt. I tell you honestly, between man and man, I’m very glad you didn’t.”

“Well, it’s real good of you to say that, Jackson. I might ha’ done it, perhaps, but the old woman was against it. She’s been a good wife to me and I can’t go against her. But I feel a bit lonesome here, for these boys are since my time.”

“You could do some of them over now,” said Jackson, feeling my friend’s upper arm. “No better bit of stuff was ever seen in a twenty-four foot ring. It would be a rare treat to see you take some of these young ones on. Won’t you let me spring you on them?”

Harrison’s eyes glistened at the idea, but he shook his head.

“It won’t do, Jackson. My old woman holds my promise. That’s Belcher, ain’t it—the good lookin’ young chap with the flash coat?”

“Yes, that’s Jem. You’ve not seen him! He’s a jewel.”

“So I’ve heard. Who’s the youngster beside him? He looks a tidy chap.”

“That’s a new man from the West. Crab Wilson’s his name.”

Harrison looked at him with interest. “I’ve heard of him,” said he. “They are getting a match on for him, ain’t they?”

“Yes. Sir Lothian Hume, the thin-faced gentleman over yonder, has backed him against Sir Charles Tregellis’s man. We’re to hear about the match to-night, I understand. Jem Belcher thinks great things of Crab Wilson. There’s Belcher’s young brother, Tom. He’s looking out for a match, too. They say he’s quicker than Jem with the mufflers, but he can’t hit as hard. I was speaking of your brother, Jem.”

“The young ’un will make his way,” said Belcher, who had come across to us. “He’s more a sparrer than a fighter just at present, but when his gristle sets he’ll take on anything on the list. Bristol’s as full o’ young fightin’-men now as a bin is of bottles. We’ve got two more comin’ up—Gully and Pearce—who’ll make you London milling coves wish they was back in the west country again.”

“Here’s the Prince,” said Jackson, as a hum and bustle rose from the door.

I saw George come bustling in, with a good-humoured smile upon his comely face. My uncle welcomed him, and led some of the Corinthians up to be presented.

“We’ll have trouble, gov’nor,” said Belcher to Jackson. “Here’s Joe Berks drinkin’ gin out of a mug, and you know what a swine he is when he’s drunk.”

“You must put a stopper on ’im gov’nor,” said several of the other prize-fighters. “’E ain’t what you’d call a charmer when ’e’s sober, but there’s no standing ’im when ’e’s fresh.”

Jackson, on account of his prowess and of the tact which he possessed, had been chosen as general regulator of the whole prize-fighting body, by whom he was usually alluded to as the Commander-in-Chief. He and Belcher went across now to the table upon which Berks was still perched. The ruffian’s face was already flushed, and his eyes heavy and bloodshot.

“You must keep yourself in hand to-night, Berks,” said Jackson. “The Prince is here, and—”

“I never set eyes on ’im yet,” cried Berks, lurching off the table. “Where is ’e, gov’nor? Tell ’im Joe Berks would like to do ’isself proud by shakin’ ’im by the ’and.”

“No, you don’t, Joe,” said Jackson, laying his hand upon Berks’s chest, as he tried to push his way through the crowd. “You’ve got to keep your place, Joe, or we’ll put you where you can make all the noise you like.”

“Where’s that, gov’nor?”

“Into the street, through the window. We’re going to have a peaceful evening, as Jem Belcher and I will show you if you get up to any of your Whitechapel games.”

“No ’arm, gov’nor,” grumbled Berks. “I’m sure I’ve always ’ad the name of bein’ a very genelman-like man.”

“So I’ve always said, Joe Berks, and mind you prove yourself such. But the supper is ready for us, and there’s the Prince and Lord Sole going in. Two and two, lads, and don’t forget whose company you are in.”

The supper was laid in a large room, with Union Jacks and mottoes hung thickly upon the walls. The tables were arranged in three sides of a square, my uncle occupying the centre of the principal one, with the Prince upon his right and Lord Sele upon his left. By his wise precaution the seats had been allotted beforehand, so that the gentlemen might be scattered among the professionals and no risk run of two enemies finding themselves together, or a man who had been recently beaten falling into the company of his conqueror. For my own part, I had Champion Harrison upon one side of me and a stout, florid-faced man upon the other, who whispered to me that he was “Bill Warr, landlord of the One Tun public-house, of Jermyn Street, and one of the gamest men upon the list.”

“It’s my flesh that’s beat me, sir,” said he. “It creeps over me amazin’ fast. I should fight at thirteen-eight, and ’ere I am nearly seventeen. It’s the business that does it, what with loflin’ about behind the bar all day, and bein’ afraid to refuse a wet for fear of offendin’ a customer. It’s been the ruin of many a good fightin’-man before me.”

“You should take to my job,” said Harrison. “I’m a smith by trade, and I’ve not put on half a stone in fifteen years.”

“Some take to one thing and some to another, but the most of us try to ’ave a bar-parlour of our own. There’s Will Wood, that I beat in forty rounds in the thick of a snowstorm down Navestock way, ’e drives a ’ackney. Young Firby, the ruffian, ’e’s a waiter now. Dick ’Umphries sells coals—’e was always of a genelmanly disposition. George Ingleston is a brewer’s drayman. We all find our own cribs. But there’s one thing you are saved by livin’ in the country, and that is ’avin’ the young Corinthians and bloods about town smackin’ you eternally in the face.”

This was the last inconvenience which I should have expected a famous prize-fighter to be subjected to, but several bull-faced fellows at the other side of the table nodded their concurrence.

“You’re right, Bill,” said one of them. “There’s no one has had more trouble with them than I have. In they come of an evenin’ into my bar, with the wine in their heads. ‘Are you Tom Owen the bruiser?’ says one o’ them. ‘At your service, sir,’ says I. ‘Take that, then,’ says he, and it’s a clip on the nose, or a backhanded slap across the chops as likely as not. Then they can brag all their lives that they had hit Tom Owen.”

“D’you draw their cork in return?” asked Harrison.

“I argey it out with them. I say to them, ‘Now, gents, fightin’ is my profession, and I don’t fight for love any more than a doctor doctors for love, or a butcher gives away a loin chop. Put up a small purse, master, and I’ll do you over and proud. But don’t expect that you’re goin’ to come here and get glutted by a middle-weight champion for nothing.”

“That’s my way too, Tom,” said my burly neighbour. “If they put down a guinea on the counter—which they do if they ’ave been drinkin’ very ’eavy—I give them what I think is about a guinea’s worth and take the money.”

“But if they don’t?”

“Why, then, it’s a common assault, d’ye see, against the body of ’is Majesty’s liege, William Warr, and I ’as ’em before the beak next mornin’, and it’s a week or twenty shillin’s.”

Meanwhile the supper was in full swing—one of those solid and uncompromising meals which prevailed in the days of your grandfathers, and which may explain to some of you why you never set eyes upon that relative.

Great rounds of beef, saddles of mutton, smoking tongues, veal and ham pies, turkeys and chickens, and geese, with every variety of vegetables, and a succession of fiery cherries and heavy ales were the main staple of the feast. It was the same meal and the same cooking as their Norse or German ancestors might have sat down to fourteen centuries before, and, indeed, as I looked through the steam of the dishes at the lines of fierce and rugged faces, and the mighty shoulders which rounded themselves over the board, I could have imagined myself at one of those old-world carousals of which I had read, where the savage company gnawed the joints to the bone, and then, with murderous horseplay, hurled the remains at their prisoners. Here and there the pale, aquiline features of a sporting Corinthian recalled rather the Norman type, but in the main these stolid, heavy-jowled faces, belonging to men whose whole life was a battle, were the nearest suggestion which we have had in modern times of those fierce pirates and rovers from whose loins we have sprung.

And yet, as I looked carefully from man to man in the line which faced me, I could see that the English, although they were ten to one, had not the game entirely to themselves, but that other races had shown that they could produce fighting-men worthy to rank with the best.

There were, it is true, no finer or braver men in the room than Jackson and Jem Belcher, the one with his magnificent figure, his small waist and Herculean shoulders; the other as graceful as an old Grecian statue, with a head whose beauty many a sculptor had wished to copy, and with those long, delicate lines in shoulder and loins and limbs, which gave him the litheness and activity of a panther. Already, as I looked at him, it seemed to me that there was a shadow of tragedy upon his face, a forecast of the day then but a few months distant when a blow from a racquet ball darkened the sight of one eye for ever. Had he stopped there, with his unbeaten career behind him, then indeed the evening of his life might have been as glorious as its dawn. But his proud heart could not permit his title to be torn from him without a struggle. If even now you can read how the gallant fellow, unable with his one eye to judge his distances, fought for thirty-five minutes against his young and formidable opponent, and how, in the bitterness of defeat, he was heard only to express his sorrow for a friend who had backed him with all he possessed, and if you are not touched by the story there must be something wanting in you which should go to the making of a man.

But if there were no men at the tables who could have held their own against Jackson or Jem Belcher, there were others of a different race and type who had qualities which made them dangerous bruisers. A little way down the room I saw the black face and woolly head of Bill Richmond, in a purple-and-gold footman’s livery—destined to be the predecessor of Molineaux, Sutton, and all that line of black boxers who have shown that the muscular power and insensibility to pain which distinguish the African give him a peculiar advantage in the sports of the ring. He could boast also of the higher honour of having been the first born American to win laurels in the British ring. There also I saw the keen features of Dada Mendoza, the Jew, just retired from active work, and leaving behind him a reputation for elegance and perfect science which has, to this day, never been exceeded. The worst fault that the critics could find with him was that there was a want of power in his blows—a remark which certainly could not have been made about his neighbour, whose long face, curved nose, and dark, flashing eyes proclaimed him as a member of the same ancient race. This was the formidable Dutch Sam, who fought at nine stone six, and yet possessed such hitting powers, that his admirers, in after years, were willing to back him against the fourteen-stone Tom Cribb, if each were strapped a-straddle to a bench. Half a dozen other sallow Hebrew faces showed how energetically the Jews of Houndsditch and Whitechapel had taken to the sport of the land of their adoption, and that in this, as in more serious fields of human effort, they could hold their own with the best.

It was my neighbour Warr who very good-humouredly pointed out to me all these celebrities, the echoes of whose fame had been wafted down even to our little Sussex village.

“There’s Andrew Gamble, the Irish champion,” said he. “It was ’e that beat Noah James, the Guardsman, and was afterwards nearly killed by Jem Belcher, in the ’ollow of Wimbledon Common by Abbershaw’s gibbet. The two that are next ’im are Irish also, Jack O’Donnell and Bill Ryan. When you get a good Irishman you can’t better ’em, but they’re dreadful ’asty. That little cove with the leery face is Caleb Baldwin the Coster, ’im that they call the Pride of Westminster. ’E’s but five foot seven, and nine stone five, but ’e’s got the ’eart of a giant. ’E’s never been beat, and there ain’t a man within a stone of ’im that could beat ’im, except only Dutch Sam. There’s George Maddox, too, another o’ the same breed, and as good a man as ever pulled his coat off. The genelmanly man that eats with a fork, ’im what looks like a Corinthian, only that the bridge of ’is nose ain’t quite as it ought to be, that’s Dick ’Umphries, the same that was cock of the middle-weights until Mendoza cut his comb for ’im. You see the other with the grey ’ead and the scars on his face?”

“Why, it’s old Tom Faulkner the cricketer!” cried Harrison, following the line of Bill Warr’s stubby forefinger. “He’s the fastest bowler in the Midlands, and at his best there weren’t many boxers in England that could stand up against him.”

“You’re right there, Jack ’Arrison. ’E was one of the three who came up to fight when the best men of Birmingham challenged the best men of London. ’E’s an evergreen, is Tom. Why, he was turned five-and-fifty when he challenged and beat, after fifty minutes of it, Jack Thornhill, who was tough enough to take it out of many a youngster. It’s better to give odds in weight than in years.”

“Youth will be served,” said a crooning voice from the other side of the table. “Ay, masters, youth will be served.”

The man who had spoken was the most extraordinary of all the many curious figures in the room. He was very, very old, so old that he was past all comparison, and no one by looking at his mummy skin and fish-like eyes could give a guess at his years. A few scanty grey hairs still hung about his yellow scalp. As to his features, they were scarcely human in their disfigurement, for the deep wrinkles and pouchings of extreme age had been added to a face which had always been grotesquely ugly, and had been crushed and smashed in addition by many a blow. I had noticed this creature at the beginning of the meal, leaning his chest against the edge of the table as if its support was a welcome one, and feebly picking at the food which was placed before him. Gradually, however, as his neighbours plied him with drink, his shoulders grew squarer, his back stiffened, his eyes brightened, and he looked about him, with an air of surprise at first, as if he had no clear recollection of how he came there, and afterwards with an expression of deepening interest, as he listened, with his ear scooped up in his hand, to the conversation around him.

“That’s old Buckhorse,” whispered Champion Harrison. “He was just the same as that when I joined the ring twenty years ago. Time was when he was the terror of London.”

“’E was so,” said Bill Warr. “’E would fight like a stag, and ’e was that ’ard that ’e would let any swell knock ’im down for ’alf-a-crown. ’E ’ad no face to spoil, d’ye see, for ’e was always the ugliest man in England. But ’e’s been on the shelf now for near sixty years, and it cost ’im many a beatin’ before ’e could understand that ’is strength was slippin’ away from ’im.”

“Youth will be served, masters,” droned the old man, shaking his head miserably.

“Fill up ’is glass,” said Warr. “’Ere, Tom, give old Buckhorse a sup o’ liptrap. Warm his ’eart for ’im.”

The old man poured a glass of neat gin down his shrivelled throat, and the effect upon him was extraordinary. A light glimmered in each of his dull eyes, a tinge of colour came into his wax-like cheeks, and, opening his toothless mouth, he suddenly emitted a peculiar, bell-like, and most musical cry. A hoarse roar of laughter from all the company answered it, and flushed faces craned over each other to catch a glimpse of the veteran.

“There’s Buckhorse!” they cried. “Buckhorse is comin’ round again.”

“You can laugh if you vill, masters,” he cried, in his Lewkner Lane dialect, holding up his two thin, vein-covered hands. “It von’t be long that you’ll be able to see my crooks vich ’ave been on Figg’s conk, and on Jack Broughton’s, and on ’Arry Gray’s, and many another good fightin’ man that was millin’ for a livin’ before your fathers could eat pap.”

The company laughed again, and encouraged the old man by half-derisive and half-affectionate cries.

“Let ’em ’ave it, Buckhorse! Give it ’em straight! Tell us how the millin’ coves did it in your time.”

The old gladiator looked round him in great contempt.

“Vy, from vot I see,” he cried, in his high, broken treble, “there’s some on you that ain’t fit to flick a fly from a joint o’ meat. You’d make werry good ladies’ maids, the most of you, but you took the wrong turnin’ ven you came into the ring.”

“Give ’im a wipe over the mouth,” said a hoarse voice.

“Joe Berks,” said Jackson, “I’d save the hangman the job of breaking your neck if His Royal Highness wasn’t in the room.”

“That’s as it may be, guv’nor,” said the half-drunken ruffian, staggering to his feet. “If I’ve said anything wot isn’t genelmanlike—”

“Sit down, Berks!” cried my uncle, with such a tone of command that the fellow collapsed into his chair.

“Vy, vitch of you would look Tom Slack in the face?” piped the old fellow; “or Jack Broughton?—him vot told the old Dook of Cumberland that all he vanted vas to fight the King o’ Proosia’s guard, day by day, year in, year out, until ’e ’ad worked out the whole regiment of ’em—and the smallest of ’em six foot long. There’s not more’n a few of you could ’it a dint in a pat o’ butter, and if you gets a smack or two it’s all over vith you. Vich among you could get up again after such a vipe as the Eytalian Gondoleery cove gave to Bob Vittaker?”

“What was that, Buckhorse?” cried several voices.

“’E came over ’ere from voreign parts, and ’e was so broad ’e ’ad to come edgewise through the doors. ’E ’ad so, upon my davy! ’E was that strong that wherever ’e ’it the bone had got to go; and when ’e’d cracked a jaw or two it looked as though nothing in the country could stan’ against him. So the King ’e sent one of his genelmen down to Figg and he said to him: ‘’Ere’s a cove vot cracks a bone every time ’e lets vly, and it’ll be little credit to the Lunnon boys if they lets ’im get avay vithout a vacking.’ So Figg he ups, and he says, ‘I do not know, master, but he may break one of ’is countrymen’s jawbones vid ’is vist, but I’ll bring ’im a Cockney lad and ’e shall not be able to break ’is jawbone with a sledge ’ammer.’ I was with Figg in Slaughter’s coffee-’ouse, as then vas, ven ’e says this to the King’s genelman, and I goes so, I does!” Again he emitted the curious bell-like cry, and again the Corinthians and the fighting-men laughed and applauded him.

“His Royal Highness—that is, the Earl of Chester—would be glad to hear the end of your story, Buckhorse,” said my uncle, to whom the Prince had been whispering.

“Vell, your R’yal ’Ighness, it vas like this. Ven the day came round, all the volk came to Figg’s Amphitheatre, the same that vos in Tottenham Court, an’ Bob Vittaker ’e vos there, and the Eytalian Gondoleery cove ’e vas there, and all the purlitest, genteelest crowd that ever vos, twenty thousand of ’em, all sittin’ with their ’eads like purtaties on a barrer, banked right up round the stage, and me there to pick up Bob, d’ye see, and Jack Figg ’imself just for fair play to do vot was right by the cove from voreign parts. They vas packed all round, the folks was, but down through the middle of ’em was a passage just so as the gentry could come through to their seats, and the stage it vas of wood, as the custom then vas, and a man’s ’eight above the ’eads of the people. Vell, then, ven Bob was put up opposite this great Eytalian man I says ‘Slap ’im in the vind, Bob,’ ’cos I could see vid ’alf an eye that he vas as puffy as a cheesecake; so Bob he goes in, and as he comes the vorriner let ’im ’ave it amazin’ on the conk. I ’eard the thump of it, and I kind o’ velt somethin’ vistle past me, but ven I looked there vas the Eytalian a feelin’ of ’is muscles in the middle o’ the stage, and as to Bob, there vern’t no sign’ of ’im at all no more’n if ’e’d never been.”

His audience was riveted by the old prize-fighter’s story. “Well,” cried a dozen voices, “what then, Buckhorse: ’ad ’e swallowed ’im, or what?”

“Yell, boys, that vas vat I wondered, when sudden I seed two legs a-stickin’ up out o’ the crowd a long vay off, just like these two vingers, d’ye see, and I knewed they vas Bob’s legs, seein’ that ’e ’ad kind o’ yellow small clothes vid blue ribbons—vich blue vas ’is colour—at the knee. So they up-ended ’im, they did, an’ they made a lane for ’im an’ cheered ’im to give ’im ’eart, though ’e never lacked for that. At virst ’e vas that dazed that ’e didn’t know if ’e vas in church or in ’Orsemonger Gaol; but ven I’d bit ’is two ears ’e shook ’isself together. ‘Ve’ll try it again, Buck,’ says ’e. ‘The mark!’ says I. And ’e vinked all that vas left o’ one eye. So the Eytalian ’e lets swing again, but Bob ’e jumps inside an’ ’e lets ’im ’ave it plumb square on the meat safe as ’ard as ever the Lord would let ’im put it in.”

“Well? Well?”

“Vell, the Eytalian ’e got a touch of the gurgles, an’ ’e shut ’imself right up like a two-foot rule. Then ’e pulled ’imself straight, an’ ’e gave the most awful Glory Allelujah screech as ever you ’eard. Off ’e jumps from the stage an’ down the passage as ’ard as ’is ’oofs would carry ’im. Up jumps the ’ole crowd, and after ’im as ’ard as they could move for laughin’. They vas lyin’ in the kennel three deep all down Tottenham Court road wid their ’ands to their sides just vit to break themselves in two. Vell, ve chased ’im down ’Olburn, an’ down Fleet Street, an’ down Cheapside, an’ past the ’Change, and on all the vay to Voppin’ an’ we only catched ’im in the shippin’ office, vere ’e vas askin’ ’ow soon ’e could get a passage to voreign parts.”

There was much laughter and clapping of glasses upon the table at the conclusion of old Buckhorse’s story, and I saw the Prince of Wales hand something to the waiter, who brought it round and slipped it into the skinny hand of the veteran, who spat upon it before thrusting it into his pocket. The table had in the meanwhile been cleared, and was now studded with bottles and glasses, while long clay pipes and tobacco-boxes were handed round. My uncle never smoked, thinking that the habit might darken his teeth, but many of the Corinthians, and the Prince amongst the first of them, set the example of lighting up. All restraint had been done away with, and the prize-fighters, flushed with wine, roared across the tables to each other, or shouted their greetings to friends at the other end of the room. The amateurs, falling into the humour of their company, were hardly less noisy, and loudly debated the merits of the different men, criticizing their styles of fighting before their faces, and making bets upon the results of future matches.

In the midst of the uproar there was an imperative rap upon the table, and my uncle rose to speak. As he stood with his pale, calm face and fine figure, I had never seen him to greater advantage, for he seemed, with all his elegance, to have a quiet air of domination amongst these fierce fellows, like a huntsman walking carelessly through a springing and yapping pack. He expressed his pleasure at seeing so many good sportsmen under one roof, and acknowledged the honour which had been done both to his guests and himself by the presence there that night of the illustrious personage whom he should refer to as the Earl of Chester. He was sorry that the season prevented him from placing game upon the table, but there was so much sitting round it that it would perhaps be hardly missed (cheers and laughter). The sports of the ring had, in his opinion, tended to that contempt of pain and of danger which had contributed so much in the past to the safety of the country, and which might, if what he heard was true, be very quickly needed once more. If an enemy landed upon our shores it was then that, with our small army, we should be forced to fall back upon native valour trained into hardihood by the practice and contemplation of manly sports. In time of peace also the rules of the ring had been of service in enforcing the principles of fair play, and in turning public opinion against that use of the knife or of the boot which was so common in foreign countries. He begged, therefore, to drink “Success to the Fancy,” coupled with the name of John Jackson, who might stand as a type of all that was most admirable in British boxing.

Jackson having replied with a readiness which many a public man might have envied, my uncle rose once more.

“We are here to-night,” said he, “not only to celebrate the past glories of the prize ring, but also to arrange some sport for the future. It should be easy, now that backers and fighting men are gathered together under one roof, to come to terms with each other. I have myself set an example by making a match with Sir Lothian Hume, the terms of which will be communicated to you by that gentleman.”

Sir Lothian rose with a paper in his hand.

“The terms, your Royal Highness and gentlemen, are briefly these,” said he. “My man, Crab Wilson, of Gloucester, having never yet fought a prize battle, is prepared to meet, upon May the 18th of this year, any man of any weight who may be selected by Sir Charles Tregellis. Sir Charles Tregellis’s selection is limited to men below twenty or above thirty-five years of age, so as to exclude Belcher and the other candidates for championship honours. The stakes are two thousand pounds against a thousand, two hundred to be paid by the winner to his man; play or pay.”

It was curious to see the intense gravity of them all, fighters and backers, as they bent their brows and weighed the conditions of the match.

“I am informed,” said Sir John Lade, “that Crab Wilson’s age is twenty-three, and that, although he has never fought a regular P.R. battle, he has none the less fought within ropes for a stake on many occasions.”

“I’ve seen him half a dozen times at the least,” said Belcher.

“It is precisely for that reason, Sir John, that I am laying odds of two to one in his favour.”

“May I ask,” said the Prince, “what the exact height and weight of Wilson may be?”

“Five foot eleven and thirteen-ten, your Royal Highness.”

“Long enough and heavy enough for anything on two legs,” said Jackson, and the professionals all murmured their assent.

“Read the rules of the fight, Sir Lothian.”

“The battle to take place on Tuesday, May the 18th, at the hour of ten in the morning, at a spot to be afterwards named. The ring to be twenty foot square. Neither to fall without a knock-down blow, subject to the decision of the umpires. Three umpires to be chosen upon the ground, namely, two in ordinary and one in reference. Does that meet your wishes, Sir Charles?”

My uncle bowed.

“Have you anything to say, Wilson?”

The young pugilist, who had a curious, lanky figure, and a craggy, bony face, passed his fingers through his close-cropped hair.

“If you please, zir,” said he, with a slight west-country burr, “a twenty-voot ring is too small for a thirteen-stone man.”

There was another murmur of professional agreement.

“What would you have it, Wilson?”

“Vour-an’-twenty, Sir Lothian.”

“Have you any objection, Sir Charles?”

“Not the slightest.”

“Anything else, Wilson?”

“If you please, zir, I’d like to know whom I’m vighting with.”

“I understand that you have not publicly nominated your man, Sir Charles?”

“I do not intend to do so until the very morning of the fight. I believe I have that right within the terms of our wager.”

“Certainly, if you choose to exercise it.”

“I do so intend. And I should be vastly pleased if Mr. Berkeley Craven will consent to be stake-holder.”

That gentleman having willingly given his consent, the final formalities which led up to these humble tournaments were concluded.

And then, as these full-blooded, powerful men became heated with their wine, angry eyes began to glare across the table, and amid the grey swirls of tobacco-smoke the lamp-light gleamed upon the fierce, hawk-like Jews, and the flushed, savage Saxons. The old quarrel as to whether Jackson had or had not committed a foul by seizing Mendoza by the hair on the occasion of their battle at Hornchurch, eight years before, came to the front once more. Dutch Sam hurled a shilling down upon the table, and offered to fight the Pride of Westminster for it if he ventured to say that Mendoza had been fairly beaten. Joe Berks, who had grown noisier and more quarrelsome as the evening went on, tried to clamber across the table, with horrible blasphemies, to come to blows with an old Jew named Fighting Yussef, who had plunged into the discussion. It needed very little more to finish the supper by a general and ferocious battle, and it was only the exertions of Jackson, Belcher, Harrison, and others of the cooler and steadier men, which saved us from a riot.

And then, when at last this question was set aside, that of the rival claims to championships at different weights came on in its stead, and again angry words flew about and challenges were in the air. There was no exact limit between the light, middle, and heavyweights, and yet it would make a very great difference to the standing of a boxer whether he should be regarded as the heaviest of the light-weights, or the lightest of the heavy-weights. One claimed to be ten-stone champion, another was ready to take on anything at eleven, but would not run to twelve, which would have brought the invincible Jem Belcher down upon him. Faulkner claimed to be champion of the seniors, and even old Buckhorse’s curious call rang out above the tumult as he turned the whole company to laughter and good humour again by challenging anything over eighty and under seven stone.

But in spite of gleams of sunshine, there was thunder in the air, and Champion Harrison had just whispered in my ear that he was quite sure that we should never get through the night without trouble, and was advising me, if it got very bad, to take refuge under the table, when the landlord entered the room hurriedly and handed a note to my uncle.

He read it, and then passed it to the Prince, who returned it with raised eyebrows and a gesture of surprise. Then my uncle rose with the scrap of paper in his hand and a smile upon his lips.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “there is a stranger waiting below who desires a fight to a finish with the best men in the room.”

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