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“Well, I do, to be sure. Oughtn’t to, though, come to look on your size.”

“Samuel Badgery’s my name. You an’ me had a hitch to wrestlin’, once, over to Tregarrick feast.”

“Why, o’ course. I mind your features now, though ’tis forty years since. We was standards there an’ met i’ the last round, an’ I got the wust o’t. Terrible hard you pitched me, to be sure: but your sweetheart was a-watchin’ ‘ee–hey?–wi’ her blue eyes.”

Samuel Badgery sat down on deck, with a leg on either side of the band-box.

“Iss: she was there, as you say. An’ she married me that day month. How do you know her eyes were blue?”

“Oh, I dunno. Young men takes notice o’ these trifles.”

“She died last week.”

“Indeed? Pore soul!”

“An’ she left you this by her will. ‘Twas hers to leave, for I gave it to her, mysel’, when that day’s wrestlin’ was over.”

He removed the lid of the band-box and pulled out two parcels wrapped in a pile of tissue-paper. After removing sheet upon sheet of this paper he held up two glittering objects in the sunshine. The one was a silver mug: the other a leather belt with an elaborate silver buckle.

William Dendle wore a puzzled and somewhat uneasy look.

“I reckon she saw how disapp’inted I was that day,” he said. After a pause he added, “Women brood over such things, I b’lieve: for years, I’m told. ‘Tis their unsearchable natur’.”

“William Dendle, I wish you’d speak truth.”

“What have I said that’s false?”

“Nuthin’: an’ you’ve said nuthin’ that’s true. I charge ‘ee to tell me the facts about that hitch of our’n.”

“You’re a hard man, Sam Badgery. I hope, though, you’ve been soft to your wife. I mind–if you must have the tale–how you played very rough that day. There was a slim young chap–Nathan Oke, his name was–that stood up to you i’ the second round. He wasn’ ha’f your match: you might ha’ pitched en flat-handed. An’ yet you must needs give en the ‘flyin’ mare.’ Your maid’s face turned lily-white as he dropped. Two of his ribs went cr-rk! and his collar-bone–you could hear it right across the ring. I looked at her–she was close beside me–an’ saw the tears come: that’s how I know the colour of her eyes. Then there was that small blacksmith–you dropped en slap on the tail of his spine. I wondered if you knew the mortal pain o’ bein’ flung that way, an’ I swore to mysel’ that if we met i’ the last round, you should taste it.

“Well, we met, as you know. When I was stripped, an’ the folks made way for me to step into the ring, I saw her face again. ‘Twas whiter than ever, an’ her eyes went over me in a kind o’ terror. I reckon it dawned on her that I might hurt you: but I didn’ pay her much heed at the time, for I lusted after the prize, an’ I got savage. You was standin’ ready for me, wi’ the sticklers about you, an’ I looked you up an’ down–a brave figure of a man. You’d longer arms than me, an’ two inches to spare in height; prettier shoulders, too, I’d never clapp’d eyes on. But I guessed myself a trifle the deeper, an’ a trifle the cleaner i’ the matter o’ loins an’ quarters: an’ I promised that I’d outlast ‘ee.

“You got the sun an’ the best hitch, an’ after a rough an’ tumble piece o’ work, we went down togither, you remember–no fair back. The second hitch was just about equal; an’ I gripped up the sackin’ round your shoulders, an’ creamed it into the back o’ your neck, an’ held you off, an’ meant to keep you off till you was weak. Ten good minnits I laboured with ‘ee by the stickler’s watch, an’ you heaved an’ levered in vain, till I heard your breath alter its pace, an’ felt the strength tricklin’ out o’ you, an’ knew ‘ee for a done man. ‘Now,’ thinks I, ‘half a minnit more, an’ you shall learn how the blacksmith felt.’ I glanced up over your shoulder for a moment at the folks i’ the ring: an’ who should my eye light on but your girl?