the fight between Tim Crawley and Burke, and the rain was coming down cats and dogs."
Mr. Fogo lifted his hand.
"Let me tell the story, 'Dumpling.' Yes, 'twas in 1830 at East Barnet, and 'the Deaf 'Un,' as Burke was called, had Master Tim's shutters up in thirty-three rounds. Then, afore I'd pulled up the stakes, if that saucy chap, Tommy Roundhead, the trainer, didn't come on me with a lot of his bunkum. I was on the losing side that day and not in the best temper; but I let him go a bit and then gave him some straight talk; and 'Dumpling' here will tell you that as a man of forty my tongue was as ready as my pen. Anyhow, I touched Roundhead on the raw and lashed him into such a proper passion that nothing would do but to settle it there and then in the old style. Tommy put down his five shillings and I covered it, though nobody knew 'twas the last two half-crowns I had in my fob at the time. But I was itching to have a slap at the beggar, and into the Ring I went and shouted for Roundhead. Raining, mind you, all the time--raining rivers, you might say. Well, up hops Roundhead, stripped to the buff and as thin as a dead frog; and when the people saw him in his skin and counted his ribs, they laughed fit to wake the churchyard. But thin though Tommy was, I knew right well that I was thinner. However, I cared nothing for that, and was just getting out of my togs, when some reporters and other chaps, having a respect for me as a poet and a man in a thousand, came between and wouldn't hear of it.
"'What about my five bob?' I said. 'D---- your five bob, "Frosty,"' they said. 'Here's ten.' And so, without 'by your leave,' they thrust me back into my clothes and dragged the arm out of my 'upper Benjamin' in doing it. 'Twas just the world's respect for me as a maker of verses, you might say, that kept me out of the Ring that day. So I soon had the true blue stakes up and went off with 'em; and the ropes and staples and beetle, and all the rest of it."
A warlike atmosphere seemed to waken in the peaceful bar of 'The Corner House.' The youths imagined themselves engaged in terrific trials of strength; their elders pictured the joy of playing spectators' parts. Mr. Fogo told story after story, and it seemed with few exceptions that the heroes of the ring, tricky though they might be in battle, were men of simple probity and honourable spirit. His great hero was 'Bendigo,' William Thompson of Nottingham, a Champion of England.
"And 'Bendy's' going strong yet," said Mr. Fogo. "After his last fight with Paddock, about ten year ago now--a bad fight too--'Bendy' won on a foul; after that he got converted, as they say, and took to preaching. He's at it yet and does pretty well, I believe."
"'Bendy' with a white choker! What a wonder!" declared Mr. Shillabeer.
"Yes--he met a noble lord last time he was in London," continued Mr. Fogo. "And his lordship recognised him for all his pulpit toggery. 'Good Gad!' says his lordship, ''tis "Bendy"! And what's your little game now, my bold hero?' 'Not a little game at all, my lord,' says 'Bendigo'--always ready with a word he was. 'I'm fighting Satan, and I'm going to beat him. Behold, my lord, the victory shall be mine,' he says in his best preaching voice. 'I hope so, "Bendy,"' answers his lordship; 'but pray have a care that you fight Beelzebub fairer than you did Ben Gaunt, or I may change my side!' Not that 'Bendigo' ever fought unfair; but he had to be clever with a giant like Gaunt; and he had to go down--else he'd have stood no chance at all with such a heavy man."
"One of three at a birth 'Bendy' was," concluded the 'Dumpling.' "I never knew one of triplets to do any good in the world before."
At this juncture in the conversation Bartley Crocker entered the bar. He had not heard of the celebrity, but soon, despite his own cares, found himself as interested as the others. The talk of battle inflamed him and, to the delight of the guests assembled, a thing most of them frankly desired actually happened within the hour.
David scowled into Bartley's eyes presently, and the younger, who was quite willing to pick a quarrel with this man of all men, walked across the bar and stood close to him.
"Is there any reason why you should pull your face crooked at sight of me, David Bowden?" he asked.
Something of the truth between these two was known. Therefore all kept silence.
"'Twas scorn of you made me do it. A chap who could kiss a girl, without asking if he might, be a coward."
"Bah! that's the matter--eh? Because I kissed your sister!"
"Yes; and if you think 'twas a decent man's act, it only shows you're not decent. Shame on you--low-minded chap that you are!"
"Not decent, because I kissed a pretty girl? D'you mean that?"
"Yes, I do."
"Did Rhoda tell you?"
"Yes, she did--when I axed her what ailed her."
"Well, hear this. You're a narrow-minded, canting fool; and if women understood you better, you wouldn't have won Madge Stanbury."
"Don't you name her, or I'll knock your two eyes into one!"
"Do it!" answered Bartley; "and if that'll help you to start, so much the better."
As he spoke and with infinite quickness he raised his hand and pulled David's nose. A second later they were in the sawdust together.
The huge Shillabeer pulled them apart, like a man separates a pair of terriers. Then Simon Snell, Ernest Maunder and Timothy Mattacott held Bartley, while, single-handed, the 'Dumpling' restrained young Bowden. Immense excitement marked the moment. Only Mr. Fogo puffed his long clay and showed no emotion. A senseless babel choked the air, and then Shillabeer's heavy voice shouted down the rest and he made himself heard.
"I won't have it!" he said. "I'm ashamed that you grown-up chaps can sink to temper like this and disgrace yourselves and me and the company. Strangers present too! If you want to fight, then fight in a decent and gentlemanly way--not like two dogs over a bone."
"I do want to fight," said Bartley. "I want nothing better in this world than to give that man the damnedest hiding ever a man had."
"And I'm the same," said Bowden. He was now quite calm again. "I'm sorry I forgot myself in your bar, Mr. Shillabeer, but no man can say I hadn't enough to make me. I'll not talk big nor threaten, nor say what I'll do to him, but I'll fight him for all he's worth--to-morrow if he likes."
"Now you're talking sense," declared the innkeeper. "A fair fight no man can object to, and if it's known in the proper quarters and not in the wrong ones, there ought to be a little money moving for both of you. How do they stand for a match, Fogo? Come forward, David, and let 'Frosty-face' have a look at you."
"Let 'em shake hands first," said Mr. Fogo.
"I'll do so," declared Bowden, "on the understanding that we're to fight this side of Christmas."
"The sooner the better," retorted Crocker. Then they shook hands and Mr. Fogo's glittering eyes inspected them.
"Weight as near as can be," he said. "At least, I judge it without seeing your barrels. This man's the younger, I suppose."
He pointed to Bartley.
"I'm twenty-five," said Mr. Crocker.
"Ay; and stand six feet--?"
"Five feet eleven and a half."
"Weight eleven stone?"
"A bit less."
Mr. Fogo nodded.
"You've got the reach, t'other chap's got the powder."
Then he examined David.
"Age?" he said.
"Twenty-eight."
"Height?"
"Five foot nine."
"Weight?"
"Eleven two, or thereabout."
"Do either of you know anything of the art?"
"I don't," said Bartley.
"No more don't I," added Bowden.
Fogo looked them up and down carefully.
"There's no reason on the surface