CHAPTER XX.

Prize-fight among the N’YAARKERS—­A great many formalities, and little blood spilt—­A futile attempt to recover A watch—­defeat of the law and order party.

One of the train-loads from Richmond was almost wholly made up of our old acquaintances—­the N’Yaarkers.  The number of these had swelled to four hundred or five hundred—­all leagued together in the fellowship of crime.

We did not manifest any keen desire for intimate social relations with them, and they did not seem to hunger for our society, so they moved across the creek to the unoccupied South Side, and established their camp there, at a considerable distance from us.

One afternoon a number of us went across to their camp, to witness a fight according to the rules of the Prize Ring, which was to come off between two professional pugilists.  These were a couple of bounty-jumpers who had some little reputation in New York sporting circles, under the names of the “Staleybridge Chicken” and the “Haarlem Infant.”

On the way from Richmond a cast-iron skillet, or spider, had been stolen by the crowd from the Rebels.  It was a small affair, holding a half gallon, and worth to-day about fifty cents.  In Andersonville its worth was literally above rubies.  Two men belonging to different messes each claimed the ownership of the utensil, on the ground of being most active in securing it.  Their claims were strenuously supported by their respective messes, at the heads of which were the aforesaid Infant and Chicken.  A great deal of strong talk, and several indecisive knock-downs resulted in an agreement to settle the matter by wager of battle between the Infant and Chicken.

When we arrived a twenty-four foot ring had been prepared by drawing a deep mark in the sand.  In diagonally opposite corners of these the seconds were kneeling on one knee and supporting their principals on the other by their sides they had little vessels of water, and bundles of rags to answer for sponges.  Another corner was occupied by the umpire, a foul-mouthed, loud-tongued Tombs shyster, named Pete Bradley.  A long-bodied, short-legged hoodlum, nick-named “Heenan,” armed with a club, acted as ring keeper, and “belted” back, remorselessly, any of the spectators who crowded over the line.  Did he see a foot obtruding itself so much as an inch over the mark in the sand—­and the pressure from the crowd behind was so great that it was difficult for the front fellows to keep off the line—­his heavy club and a blasting curse would fall upon the offender simultaneously.

Every effort was made to have all things conform as nearly as possible to the recognized practices of the “London Prize Ring.”

At Bradley’s call of “Time!” the principals would rise from their seconds’ knees, advance briskly to the scratch across the center of the ring, and spar away sharply for a little time, until one got in a blow that sent the other to the ground, where he would lie until his second picked him up, carried him back, washed his face off, and gave him a drink.  He then rested until the next call of time.