For a moment the absurdity of the thing drove every other thought out of Montgomery’s head.  But then there came a sudden revulsion.  A hundred pounds!—­all he wanted to complete his education was lying there ready to his hand, if only that hand were strong enough to pick it up.  He had thought bitterly that morning that there was no market for his strength, but here was one where his muscle might earn more in an hour than his brains in a year.  But a chill of doubt came over him.  “How can I fight for the coal-pits?” said he.  “I am not connected with them.”

“Eh, lad, but thou art!” cried old Purvis.  “We’ve got it down in writin’, and it’s clear enough ‘Anyone connected with the coal-pits.’  Doctor Oldacre is the coal-pit club doctor; thou art his assistant.  What more can they want?”

“Yes, that’s right enough,” said the Cantab.  “It would be a very sporting thing of you, Mr. Montgomery, if you would come to our help when we are in such a hole.  Of course, you might not like to take the hundred pounds; but I have no doubt that, in the case of your winning, we could arrange that it should take the form of a watch or piece of plate, or any other shape which might suggest itself to you.  You see, you are responsible for our having lost our champion, so we really feel that we have a claim upon you.”

“Give me a moment, gentlemen.  It is very unexpected.  I am afraid the doctor would never consent to my going—­in fact, I am sure that he would not.”

“But he need never know—­not before the fight, at any rate.  We are not bound to give the name of our man.  So long as he is within the weight limits on the day of the fight, that is all that concerns anyone.”

The adventure and the profit would either of them have attracted Montgomery.  The two combined were irresistible.  “Gentlemen,” said he, “I’ll do it!”

The three sprang from their seats.  The publican had seized his right hand, the horse-dealer his left, and the Cantab slapped him on the back.

“Good lad! good lad!” croaked the publican.  “Eh, mon, but if thou yark him, thou’ll rise in one day from being just a common doctor to the best-known mon ‘twixt here and Bradford.  Thou art a witherin’ tyke, thou art, and no mistake; and if thou beat the Master of Croxley, thou’ll find all the beer thou want for the rest of thy life waiting for thee at the ‘Four Sacks.’”

“It is the most sporting thing I ever heard of in my life,” said young Wilson.  “By George, sir, if you pull it off, you’ve got the constituency in your pocket, if you care to stand.  You know the out-house in my garden?”

“Next the road?”

“Exactly.  I turned it into a gymnasium for Ted Barton.  You’ll find all you want there:  clubs, punching ball, bars, dumb-bells, everything.  Then you’ll want a sparring partner.  Ogilvy has been acting for Barton, but we don’t think that he is class enough.  Barton bears you no grudge.  He’s a good-hearted fellow, though cross-grained with strangers.  He looked upon you as a stranger this morning, but he says he knows you now.  He is quite ready to spar with you for practice, and he will come any hour you will name.”