FullReads

“Capital,” said Montgomery.

“That’s the good feelin’ I like,” wheezed the fat butcher. “Good lads, both of them!–prime lads!–hard meat an’ good bone. There’s no ill-feelin’.”

“If he downs me, Gawd bless him!” said the Master,

“An’ if we down him, Gawd help him!” interrupted the woman.

“Haud thy tongue, wench!” said the Master, impatiently. “Who art thou to put in thy word? Happen I might draw my hand across thy face.”

The woman did not take the threat amiss. “Wilt have enough for thy hand to do, Jock,” said she. “Get quit o’ this gradely man afore thou turn on me.”

The lovers’ quarrel was interrupted by the entrance of a newcomer, a gentleman with a fur-collared overcoat and a very shiny top-hat– a top-hat of a degree of glossiness which is seldom seen five miles from Hyde Park. This hat he wore at the extreme back of his head, so that the lower surface of the brim made a kind of frame for his high, bald forehead, his, keen eyes, his rugged and yet kindly face. He bustled in with the quiet air of possession with which the ring master enters the circus.

“It’s Mr. Stapleton, the referee from London,” said Wilson.

“How do you do, Mr. Stapleton? I was introduced to you at the big fight at the Corinthian Club in Piccadilly.”

“Ah! I dare say,” said the other, shaking hands. “Fact is, I’m introduced to so many that I can’t undertake to carry their names. Wilson, is it? Well, Mr. Wilson, glad to see you. Couldn’t get a fly at the station, and that’s why I’m late.”

“I’m sure, sir,” said Armitage, “we should be proud that anyone so well known in the boxing world should come down to our little exhibition.”

“Not at all. Not at all. Anything in the interests of boxin’. All ready? Men weighed?”

“Weighing now, sir.”

“Ah! Just as well that I should see it done. Seen you before, Craggs. Saw you fight your second battle against Willox. You had beaten him once, but he came back on you. What does the indicator say–163lbs.– two off for the kit–161lbs. Now, my lad, you jump. My goodness, what colours are you wearing?”

“The Anonymi Cricket Club.”

“What right have you to wear them? I belong to the club myself.”

“So do I.”

“You an amateur?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you are fighting for a money prize?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose you know what you are doing? You realise that you’re a professional pug from this onwards, and that if ever you fight again–“

“I’ll never fight again.”

“Happen you won’t,” said the woman, and the Master turned a terrible eye upon her.

“Well, I suppose you know your own business best. Up you jump. One hundred and fifty-one, minus two, 149–12lbs. difference, but youth and condition on the other scale. Well, the sooner we get to work the better, for I wish to catch the seven o’clock express at Hellifield. Twenty three-minute rounds, with one-minute intervals, and Queensberry rules. Those are the conditions, are they not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good, then–we may go across.”

The two combatants had overcoats thrown over their shoulders, and the whole party, backers, fighters, seconds, and the referee filed out of the room. A police inspector was waiting for them in the road. He had a note-book in his hand–that terrible weapon which awes even the London cabman.

“I must take your names, gentlemen, in case it should be necessary to proceed for breach of peace.”

“You don’t mean to stop the fight?” cried Armitage, in a passion of indignation. “I’m Mr. Armitage, of Croxley, and this is Mr. Wilson, and we’ll be responsible that all is fair and as it should be.”

“I’ll take the names in case it should be necessary to proceed,” said the inspector, impassively.

“But you know me well.”

“If you was a dook or even a judge it would be all’ the same,” said the inspector. “It’s the law, and there’s an end. I’ll not take upon myself to stop the fight, seeing that gloves are to be used, but I’ll take the names of all concerned. Silas Craggs, Robert Montgomery, Edward Barton, James Stapleton, of London. Who seconds Silas Craggs?”