“Then I’ll tell you.  It’s seven to one against your man.”

“What?”

“Seven to one, gov’nor, no less.”

“You’re talking nonsense, Warr!  How could the betting change from three to two to seven to one?”

“Ive been to Tom Owen’s, and I’ve been to the ’Ole in the Wall, and I’ve been to the Waggon and ’Orses, and you can get seven to one in any of them.  There’s tons of money being laid against your man.  It’s a ’orse to a ‘en in every sportin’ ‘ouse and boozin’ ken from ’ere to Stepney.”

For a moment the expression upon my uncle’s face made me realize that this match was really a serious matter to him.  Then he shrugged his shoulders with an incredulous smile.

“All the worse for the fools who give the odds,” said he.  “My man is all right.  You saw him yesterday, nephew?”

“He was all right yesterday, sir.”

“If anything had gone wrong I should have heard.”

“But perhaps,” said Warr, “it ’as not gone wrong with ’im yet.”

“What d’you mean?”

“I’ll tell you what I mean, sir.  You remember Berks?  You know that ’e ain’t to be overmuch depended on at any time, and that ’e ’ad a grudge against your man ’cause ’e laid ’im out in the coach-’ouse.  Well, last night about ten o’clock in ’e comes into my bar, and the three bloodiest rogues in London at ’is ’eels.  There was Red Ike, ’im that was warned off the ring ’cause ’e fought a cross with Bittoon; and there was Fightin’ Yussef, who would sell ’is mother for a seven-shillin’-bit; the third was Chris McCarthy, who is a fogle-snatcher by trade, with a pitch outside the ’Aymarket Theatre.  You don’t often see four such beauties together, and all with as much as they could carry, save only Chris, who is too leary a cove to drink when there’s somethin’ goin’ forward.  For my part, I showed ’em into the parlour, not ’cos they was worthy of it, but ‘cos I knew right well they would start bashin’ some of my customers, and maybe get my license into trouble if I left ’em in the bar.  I served ’em with drink, and stayed with ’em just to see that they didn’t lay their ’ands on the stuffed parroquet and the pictures.

“Well, gov’nor, to cut it short, they began to talk about the fight, and they all laughed at the idea that young Jim ’Arrison could win it—­all except Chris, and e’ kept a-nudging and a-twitchin’ at the others until Joe Berks nearly gave him a wipe across the face for ‘is trouble.  I saw somethin’ was in the wind, and it wasn’t very ’ard to guess what it was—­especially when Red Ike was ready to put up a fiver that Jim ’Arrison would never fight at all.  So I up to get another bottle of liptrap, and I slipped round to the shutter that we pass the liquor through from the private bar into the parlour.  I drew it an inch open, and I might ’ave been at the table with them, I could ’ear every word that clearly.