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_ 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 blase 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." _
Read next: CHAPTER XI - THE FIGHT IN THE COACH-HOUSE
Read previous: CHAPTER IX - WATIER'S
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