They were pronounced to be both the right sort of noblemen for the country.  Lord Brailstone’s blue coach rattled through an eastern gate to the corner of the thirty-acre meadow, where Lord Fleetwood had drawn up, a toss from the ring.  The meeting of the blue and scarlet coaches drew forth Old England’s thunders; and when the costly treasures contained in them popped out heads, the moment was delirious.  Kit Ines came after his head on a bound.  Ben Todds was ostentatiously deliberate:  his party said he was no dancing-master.  He stepped out, grave as a barge emerging from a lock, though alive to the hurrahs of supporters and punctilious in returning the formal portion of his rival’s too roguish nod.  Their look was sharp into the eyes, just an instant.

Brailstone and Fleetwood jumped to the grass and met, talking and laughing, precise upon points of business, otherwise cordial:  plenipotentiaries of great powers, whom they have set in motion and bind to the ceremonial opening steps, according to the rules of civilized warfare.  They had a short colloquy with newspaper reporters;—­ an absolutely fair, square, upright fight of Britons was to be chronicled.  Captain Abrane, a tower in the crowd, registered bets whenever he could.  Curricles, gigs, carts, pony-traps, boys on ponies, a swarm on legs, flowed to the central point and huddled there.

Was either champion born in Kent?  An audacious boy proclaimed Kit Ines a man of Kent.  Why, of course he was! and that was why the Earl of Fleetwood backed our cocky Kitty, and means to land him on the top of his profession.  Ben Todds was shuffled aside; as one of their Londoners, destitute of county savour.

All very well, but have a spy at Benny Todds.  Who looks the square man?  And hear what that big gentleman of the other lord’s party says.  A gentleman of his height and weight has a right to his opinion.  He ’s dead against Kit Ines:  it’s fists, not feet, he says, ’ll do it to-day; stamina, he says.  Benny has got the stamina.

Todds’ possession of the stamina, and the grand voice of Captain Abrane, and the Father Christmas, roast-beef-of-Old England face of the umpire declared to be on the side of Lord Brailstone’s colour blue, darkened the star of Kit Ines till a characteristic piece of behaviour was espied.  He dashed his cap into the ring and followed it, with the lightest of vaults across the ropes.  There he was, the first in the ring:  and that stands for promise of first blow, first blood, first flat knock-down, and last to cry for quarter.  His pair of seconds were soon after him.  Fleetwood mounted his box.

‘Is it to fight?’ said Carinthia.

‘To see which is the master.’

‘They fight to see?’

’Generally until one or the other can’t see.  You are not obliged to see it; you can be driven away if you wish.’

‘I will be here, if you are here.’

‘You choose it.’