The doctor’s sermon would have had more effect if the assistant had not once or twice had occasion to test his highest, and come upon it at unexpectedly humble elevations.  It is always so particularly easy to “compound for sins we’re most inclined to by damning those we have no mind to.”  In any case, Montgomery felt that of all the men concerned in such a fight—­promoters, backers, spectators—­it is the actual fighter who holds the strongest and most honourable position.  His conscience gave him no concern upon the subject.  Endurance and courage are virtues, not vices, and brutality is, at least, better than effeminacy.

There was a little tobacco-shop at the corner of the street, where Montgomery got his bird’s-eye and also his local information, for the shopman was a garrulous soul, who knew everything about the affairs of the district.  The assistant strolled down there after tea and asked, in a casual way, whether the tobacconist had ever heard of the Master of Croxley.

“Heard of him!  Heard of him!” the little man could hardly articulate in his astonishment.  “Why, sir, he’s the first mon o’ the district, an’ his name’s as well known in the West Riding as the winner o’ t’ Derby.  But Lor,’ sir,”—­here he stopped and rummaged among a heap of papers.  “They are makin’ a fuss about him on account o’ his fight wi’ Ted Barton, and so the Croxley Herald has his life an’ record, an’ here it is, an’ thou canst read it for thysel’”

The sheet of the paper which he held up was a lake of print around an islet of illustration.  The latter was a coarse wood-cut of a pugilist’s head and neck set in a cross-barred jersey.  It was a sinister but powerful face, the face of a debauched hero, clean-shaven, strongly eye-browed, keen-eyed, with huge, aggressive jaw, and an animal dewlap beneath it.  The long, obstinate cheeks ran flush up to the narrow, sinister eyes.  The mighty neck came down square from the ears and curved outwards into shoulders, which had lost nothing at the hands of the local artist.  Above was written “Silas Craggs,” and beneath, “The Master of Croxley.”

“Thou’ll find all about him there, sir,” said the tobacconist.  “He’s a witherin’ tyke, he is, and we’re proud to have him in the county.  If he hadn’t broke his leg he’d have been champion of England.”

“Broke his leg, has he?”

“Yes, and it set badly.  They ca’ him owd K, behind his back, for that is how his two legs look.  But his arms—­well, if they was both stropped to a bench, as the sayin’ is, I wonder where the champion of England would be then.”

“I’ll take this with me,” said Montgomery; and putting the paper into his pocket he returned home.

It was not a cheering record which he read there.  The whole history of the Croxley Master was given in full, his many victories, his few defeats.

   Born in 1857 (said the provincial biographer), Silas Craggs, better
   known in sporting circles as the Master of Croxley, is now in his
   fortieth year.