They all sat down in their serious, business-like way.

“That’s easy done, Mr. Montgomery,” said the fat-voiced publican.  “But before sayin’ anything we had to wait and see whether, in a way of speakin’, there was any need for us to say anything at all.  Mr. Wilson thinks there is.  Mr. Fawcett, who has the same right to his opinion, bein’ also a backer and one o’ the committee, thinks the other way.”

“I thought him too light built, and I think so now,” said the horse-breaker, still tapping his prominent teeth with the metal head of his riding-whip.  “But happen he may pull through, and he’s a fine-made, buirdly young chap, so if you mean to back him, Mr. Wilson—­

“Which I do.”

“And you, Purvis?”

“I ain’t one to go back, Fawcett.”

“Well, I’ll stan’ to my share of the purse.”

“And well I knew you would,” said Purvis, “for it would be somethin’ new to find Isaac Fawcett as a spoil-sport.  Well, then, we will make up the hundred for the stake among us, and the fight stands—­always supposin’ the young man is willin’.”

“Excuse all this rot, Mr. Montgomery,” said the University man, in a genial voice.  “We’ve begun at the wrong end, I know, but we’ll soon straighten it out, and I hope that you will see your way to falling in with our views.  In the first place, you remember the man whom you knocked out this morning?  He is Barton—­the famous Ted Barton.”

“I’m sure, sir, you may well be proud to have outed him in one round,” said the publican.  “Why, it took Morris, the ten-stone-six champion, a deal more trouble than that before he put Barton to sleep.  You’ve done a fine performance, sir, and happen you’ll do a finer, if you give yourself the chance.”

“I never heard of Ted Barton, beyond seeing the name on a medicine label,” said the assistant.

“Well, you may take it from me that he’s a slaughterer,” said the horse-breaker.  “You’ve taught him a lesson that he needed, for it was always a word and a blow with him, and the word alone was worth five shillin’ in a public court.  He won’t be so ready now to shake his nief in the face of everyone he meets.  However, that’s neither here nor there.”

Montgomery looked at them in bewilderment.

“For goodness’ sake, gentlemen, tell me what it is you want me to do!” he cried.

“We want you to fight Silas Craggs, better known as the Master of Croxley.”

“But why?”

“Because Ted Barton was to have fought him next Saturday.  He was the champion of the Wilson coal-pits, and the other was the Master of the iron-folk down at the Croxley smelters.  We’d matched our man for a purse of a hundred against the Master.  But you’ve queered our man, and he can’t face such a battle with a two-inch cut at the back of his head.  There’s only one thing to be done, sir, and that is for you to take his place.  If you can lick Ted Barton you may lick the Master of Croxley, but if you don’t we’re done, for there’s no one else who is in the same street with him in this district.  It’s twenty rounds, two-ounce gloves, Queensberry rules, and a decision on points if you fight to the finish.”