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- Author: Arthur Conan Doyle
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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 knockdown 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 stakeholder.”
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 lamplight 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 heavyweights. 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.”
The curt announcement was followed by a moment of silent surprise, and then by a general shout of laughter. There might be argument as to who was champion at each weight; but there could be no question that all the champions of all the weights were seated round the tables. An audacious challenge which embraced them one and all, without regard to size or age, could hardly be regarded otherwise than as a joke—but it was a joke which might be a dear one for the joker.
“Is this genuine?” asked my uncle.
“Yes, Sir Charles,” answered the landlord; “the man is waiting below.”
“It’s a kid!” cried several of the fighting-men. “Some cove is a gammonin’ us.”
“Don’t you believe it,” answered the landlord. “He’s a real slap-up Corinthian, by his dress; and he means what he says, or else I ain’t no judge of a man.”
My uncle whispered for a few moments with the Prince of Wales. “Well, gentlemen,” said he, at last, “the night is still young, and if any of you should wish to show the company a little of your skill, you could not ask a better opportunity.”
“What weight is he, Bill?” asked Jem Belcher.
“He’s close on six foot, and I should put him well into the thirteen stones when he’s buffed.”
“Heavy metal!” cried Jackson. “Who takes him on?”
They all wanted to, from nine-stone Dutch Sam upwards. The air was filled with their hoarse shouts and their arguments why each should be the chosen one. To fight when they were flushed with wine and ripe for mischief—above all, to fight before so select a company with the Prince at the ringside, was a chance which did not often come in their way. Only Jackson, Belcher, Mendoza, and one or two others of the senior and more famous men remained silent, thinking it beneath their dignity that they should condescend to so irregular a bye-battle.
“Well, you can’t all fight him,” remarked Jackson, when the babel had died away. “It’s for the chairman to choose.”
“Perhaps your Royal Highness has a preference,” said my uncle.
“By Jove, I’d take him on myself if my position was different,” said the Prince, whose face was growing redder and his eyes more glazed. “You’ve seen me with the mufflers, Jackson! You know my form!”
“I’ve seen your Royal Highness, and I have felt your Royal Highness,” said the courtly Jackson.
“Perhaps Jem Belcher would give us an exhibition,” said my uncle.
Belcher smiled and shook his handsome head.
“There’s my brother Tom here has never been blooded in London yet, sir. He might make a fairer match of it.”
“Give him over to me!” roared Joe Berks. “I’ve been waitin’ for a turn all evenin’, an’ I’ll fight any man that tries to take my place. ‘E’s my meat, my masters. Leave ‘im to me if you want to see ‘ow a calf’s ‘ead should be dressed. If you put Tom Belcher before me I’ll fight Tom Belcher, an’ for that matter I’ll fight Jem Belcher, or Bill Belcher, or any other Belcher that ever came out of Bristol.”
It was clear that Berks had got to the stage when he must fight some one. His heavy face was gorged and the veins stood out on his low forehead, while his fierce grey eyes looked viciously from man to man in quest of a quarrel. His great red hands were bunched into huge, gnarled fists, and he shook one of them menacingly as his drunken gaze swept round the tables.
“I think you’ll agree with me, gentlemen, that Joe Berks would be all the better for some fresh air and exercise,” said my uncle. “With the concurrence of His Royal Highness and of the company, I shall select him as our champion on this occasion.”
“You do me proud,” cried the fellow, staggering to his feet and pulling at his coat. “If I don’t glut him within the five minutes, may I never see Shropshire again.”
“Wait a bit, Berks,” cried several of the amateurs. “Where’s it going to be held?”
“Where you like, masters. I’ll fight him in a sawpit, or on the outside of a coach if it please you. Put us toe to toe, and leave the rest with me.”
“They can’t fight here with all this litter,” said my uncle. “Where shall it be?”
“‘Pon my soul, Tregellis,” cried the Prince, “I think our unknown friend might have a word to say upon that matter. He’ll be vastly illused if you don’t let him have his own choice of conditions.”
“You are right, sir. We must have him up.”
“That’s easy enough,” said the landlord, “for here he comes through the doorway.”
I glanced round and had a side view of a tall and well-dressed young man in a long, brown travelling coat and a black felt hat. The next instant he had turned and I had clutched with both my hands on to Champion Harrison’s arm.
“Harrison!” I gasped. “It’s Boy Jim!”
And yet somehow the possibility and even the probability of it had occurred to me from the beginning, and I believe that it had to Harrison also, for I had noticed that his face grew grave and troubled from the very moment that there was talk of the stranger below. Now, the instant that the buzz of surprise and admiration caused by Jim’s face and figure had died away, Harrison was on his feet, gesticulating in his excitement.
“It’s my nephew Jim, gentlemen,”
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